S Rozan - Absent Friends

“McCaffery thought it was the only way-the State story-that Sally would take the money.”

“Where did the money come from?”

Phil grinned. “Well, Marian, that's the big question everyone's asking, isn't it?”

“Tell me!”

“Tell you.” Unbelievable. Hadn't she heard what he'd said? What he'd admitted to? That he'd closed his eyes and taken money, passed it on to a client who became his lover, told himself for eighteen years that it wasn't his business where it came from? Wasn't that bad enough for her? “Marian, I could say that's privileged information and there's no way in hell I'd tell you. But you want the truth? I didn't know then, and I don't know now.”

Whether or not she believed that, she didn't say. After a stony look: “Did you ask Jimmy?”

“I did.” Phil found himself nodding, mockingly.

She waited, and he said nothing, mostly to see how long she'd give it. About twenty seconds, it turned out, and then she couldn't stand it. Tossing each word at him like she was throwing rocks: “What did he say?”

He took a moment. Then: “I asked him where a firefighter was getting that kind of money. He said he was borrowing against his life insurance policy.”

“You believed that?”

“What's the difference?”

“The difference?” She spat that out so shrilly, heads turned. Seven weeks ago this bar had been a downtown hot spot for the achingly hip. Marian, Phil thought, had probably turned up her serious-minded nose at it, though just as probably she'd been the center of gravity, a magnet for the sideways glances of the insecure, every time she'd strode in. Phil, never seeing the point of an eight-dollar microbrew, had come here only twice, both times to meet with an ambitious young ADA whose pretensions made him easy to manipulate. Now the place was an echoing hangar, half full if you were flexible about defining half and full. Before, you couldn't hear yourself talk. Now you could, and so could everyone else.

Marian's voice dropped to a hiss: “You didn't ask Jimmy what he was doing?”

Not bothering to lower his own voice, Phil said, “What he was doing was supporting his dead friend's wife and child.” A few people nearby exchanged glances. Enjoy yourselves, Phil thought.

“Well, the lie certainly worked for you, didn't it, Phil?” Marian sizzled on. “You got to be the brilliant lawyer, comforting the widow.”

“Go to hell, Marian.”

“If it was Jimmy, why didn't he just give her the money directly?”

“She wouldn't have taken it.”

“From Jimmy? I think she would.”

“He thought not. I agreed.”

“So you made the decision for her?”

“McCaffery did. I just agreed.”

Phil's new beer arrived. Marian sat back in her chair, sipped at the pink concoction, and imprisoned Phil with her eyes as the waitress came and went, taking with her the glass Phil waved away.

“This is all a lie,” she pronounced. “You didn't get that money from Jimmy. That's just a convenient story now that Jimmy's dead.”

“Believe what you want. It doesn't make a difference.”

“Yes, it does!” She leaned forward, shortening the physical distance between them as though she hoped that would bring them closer in understanding. He recognized the gesture. The earnest vulnerability with which she offered it was uniquely Marian; still, it was as carefully strategic as any shrug or raised eyebrow in his own courtroom repertoire. He wondered how many times a day she used it.

He lifted his new beer and searched the room, hoping for a pretty girl, a celebrity, a ray of light from a transporter beam. But though he was not looking at her, Marian just went on. “Phil.” Okay, he thought, I get it, we're really serious now, you're speaking my name. He used hers whenever they talked because he had a feeling it made her cringe; she rarely let his pass her lips. “Phil, right now, New York really needs Jimmy McCaffery.”

In amazement he turned back to face her. He almost spoke. Then he took a long pull of his beer, swallowing his words with it.

“New York needs heroes now, Phil.” A desperate tone clung to her voice like the smell of smoke on clothing. “Jimmy's an important one. He's become a symbol-no one's choice, but it's real. People need to believe in Jimmy. What Randall's implying in the paper, and now what you're saying-can't you see it? You're destroying something bigger than we are.”

“Oh, for God's sake, Marian, put a cork in it. New York needs McCaffery? You need McCaffery. You need him to stay a bright and shining hero or you're fucked, aren't you? You and the Fund. Listen, Randall's jammed me up as bad as you, worse maybe, but the truth is what it is.” He leaned forward, too. What the hell, a move's a move. “Marian, that money came from McCaffery. Every month for eighteen years. And-wait, listen-and you're the only person I've ever told.”

She frowned. Her hands hovered just off the table, fingers curved as though she were holding something breakable. Or strangling something. Finally: “You didn't tell Randall?”

“Why the hell would I?”

“Then why is he saying it?”

“He's not.”

“Between the lines! Anyone can read it!”

“He didn't get it from me.”

As he had a few times over the years, on odd occasions (mostly when they were angriest at each other), Phil surprised himself by noticing she was beautiful. Not “aging well”: That implied making the best of a bad situation. Marian's beauty had grown richer with time, a clear summer morning unfolding into luxuriant, abundant day.

“If you've never told anyone this, why are you telling me now?” She asked that with a triumphant smile, as if it had come to her that if he was telling her a secret, that in itself proved it was a lie.

He was tempted to agree with her: You're right, I'm lying, very clever of you to figure that out, goodbye. Let her read all about it in the paper like everyone else.

Instead he told her what was coming. “What Randall's charging is enough to trigger an investigation. It'll come out then.”

“Who'll say it?”

“I will.”

“After all these years?”

“No one ever asked before. I spent eighteen years looking the other way, but that's not the same as perjury. I know you think I don't know the difference. You think I'm a lying snake-”

“You're a lawyer.”

That was a low blow, unworthy of her. She must be really shaken up, Phil decided. “If they ask me, Marian, I'm going to tell them.”

“Not from Jimmy,” she said. “Not from Jimmy. You're making him the scapegoat because he's dead. That money was from somewhere else. And I'll bet anything there was more than you passed on to Sally. Something for your trouble.”

Her eyes, hard as gems, allowed him no entry. He judged silence to be his most effective weapon, so he used it.

“That's what Randall really wants to know, isn't it?” she asked. “Where that money came from.”

He smiled. Over the years he'd found it multiplied the effect of silence the way caffeine did for aspirin when your head was pounding.

Marian said, “And that's what this smoke screen about Jimmy is for. To distract Randall.”

Quietly, deliberately, Phil said, “Bullshit.”

“I knew Jimmy! I knew them all! I was there in those days, remember?”

“And what are you hiding?”

Her face flushed again, became a mask of openmouthed disbelief the same color as her drink.

“Oh, come on, Marian!” Phil slammed his beer bottle on the tabletop. People were staring at them now, but he didn't turn to look. “You came here for the truth. I'm telling you the truth, and it doesn't make you happy, it pisses you off. You're scared shitless something even worse is going to happen. What are you so afraid of?”