Michael Crichton - A Case of Need

I shrugged. “It strikes me as a legitimate question,” I said, “and there are several possibilities.” I ticked them off on my fingers. “Tokyo, Switzerland, Los Angeles, San Juan. Or perhaps you have a good friend in New York or Washington. That would be much more convenient. And cheaper.”

He turned on his heel and unlocked the door to his car.

“Think about it,” I said. “Think hard about what you would have done for that family name.”

He started the engine and glared at me.

“While you’re at it,” I said, “think about why she didn’t come to you for help.”

“My daughter,” he said, his voice trembling with rage, “my daughter is a wonderful girl. She is sweet and beautiful. She doesn’t have a malicious or dirty thought in her head. How dare you drag her down to your—”

“If she was so sweet and pure,” I said, “how did she get pregnant?”

He slammed the door shut, put the car in gear, and roared off in a cloud of angry blue exhaust.

WHEN I RETURNED HOME, the house was dark and empty. A note in the kitchen told me that Judith was still over at the Lees with the kids. I walked around the kitchen and looked into the refrigerator; I was hungry but restless, unwilling to sit down and make a sandwich. Finally I settled for a glass of milk and some leftover cole slaw, but the silence of the house depressed me. I finished and went over to the Lees; they live just a block away.

From the outside, the Lee house is brick, massive, New England, and old, like all the other houses on the street. It had absolutely no distinguishing characteristics. I had always wondered about the house; it didn’t seem suited to Art.

Inside, things were grim. In the kitchen, Betty sat with a rigid smile on her face as she fed the year-old baby; she looked tired and ragged; normally she was immaculately dressed with an unwilting, indefatigable manner. Judith was with her and Jane, our youngest, was holding on to Judith’s skirt. She had begun that just a few weeks earlier.

From the living room, I heard the sound of the boys playing cops and robbers with cap pistols. With every bang, Betty shuddered. “I wish they’d stop,” she said, “but I haven’t the heart….”

I went into the living room. All the furniture was overturned. From behind an easy chair Johnny, our four-year-old, saw me and waved, then fired his gun. Across the room the two Lee boys were huddled behind the couch. The air was acrid with smoke and the floor littered with rolls of paper caps.

Johnny fired, then called, “I got you.”

“Did not,” said Andy Lee, who was six.

“I did too. You’re dead.”

“I’m not dead,” Andy said and fanned his gun. He was out of caps, though, and made only a clicking noise. He ducked down and said to Henry Lee, “Cover me while I reload.”

“O.K., partner.”

Andy reloaded, but his fingers were slow, and he grew impatient. Halfway through he stopped, aimed his gun, and shouted “Bang! Bang!” Then he continued.

“No fair,” Johnny called, from behind the chair. “You’re dead.”

“So are you,” Henry said. “I just got you.”

“Oh, yeah?” Johnny said and fired three more caps. “You only winged me.”

“Oh, yeah?” Henry said. “Take that.”

The shooting continued. I walked back to the kitchen, where Judith was standing with Betty. Betty said, “How is it?”

I smiled. “They’re arguing over who got whom.”

“What did you find out today?”

“Everything’s going to be all right,” I said. “Don’t worry.”

She gave me a wry smile. Art’s smile. “Yes, Doctor.”

“I’m serious.”

“I hope you’re right,” she said, putting a spoon of apple sauce into the baby’s mouth. It dribbled out over her chin; Betty scooped it up and tried again.

“We just had some bad news,” Judith said.

“Oh?”

“Bradford called. Art’s lawyer. He won’t take the case.”

“Bradford?”

“Yes,” Betty said. “He called half an hour ago.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing. Just that he couldn’t take it at this time.”

I lit a cigarette and tried to be calm. “I’d better call him,” I said.

Judith looked at her watch. “It’s five-thirty. He probably won’t be—”

“I’ll try anyway,” I said. I went into Art’s study. Judith came with me. I shut the door, closing off the sounds of gunfire.

Judith said, “What’s really happening?”

I shook my head.

“Bad?”

“It’s too early to say,” I said. I sat down behind Art’s desk and started to call Bradford.

“Are you hungry? Did you get anything to eat?”

“I stopped for a bite,” I said, “on my way over.”

“You look tired.”

“I’m O.K.,” I said. She leaned over the desk and I kissed her cheek.

“By the way,” she said, “Fritz Werner has been calling. He wants to talk to you.”

I might have expected that. Count on Fritz to know everything. Still, he might have something important; he might be very helpful. “I’ll call him later.”

“And before I forget,” she said, “there’s that party tomorrow.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“We have to,” she said. “It’s George Morris.”

I had forgotten. “All right,” I said. “What time?”

“Six. We can leave early.”

“All right,” I said.

She went back to the kitchen as the secretary answered the phone and said, “Bradford, Wilson and Sturges.”

“Mr. Bradford, please.”

“I’m sorry,” the secretary said. “Mr. Bradford has gone for the day.”

“How can I reach him?”

“Mr. Bradford will be in the office at nine tomorrow morning.”

“I can’t wait that long.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Don’t be sorry,” I said. “Just find him for me. This is Dr. Berry calling.” I didn’t know if the name would mean anything, but I suspected it might.

Her tone changed immediately. “Hold the line please, Doctor.”

There was a pause of several seconds while I waited in the mechanical humming silence of the “Hold” button. Being on the “Hold” button is the technological equivalent of purgatory. That was what Art used to say. He hates telephones and never uses them unless he has to.

The secretary came back on. “Mr. Bradford is just leaving, but he will speak to you now.”

“Thank you.”

A mechanical click.

“George Bradford speaking.”

“Mr. Bradford, this is John Berry.”

“Yes, Dr. Berry. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to speak to you about Art Lee.”

“Dr. Berry, I’m just leaving—”

“Your secretary told me. Perhaps we could meet somewhere.”

He hesitated and sighed into the phone. It sounded like a hissing, impatient serpent. “That won’t serve any purpose. I’m afraid my decision is quite firm. The matter is out of my hands.”

“Just a short meeting.”

He paused again. “All right. I’ll meet you at my club in twenty minutes. The Trafalgar. See you then.”

I hung up. The bastard: his club was downtown. I would have to run like hell to make it in time. I straightened my tie and hurried off to my car.

THE TRAFALGAR CLUB is located in a small, dilapidated house on Beacon Street, just down from the Hill. Unlike the professional clubs of larger cities, the Trafalgar is so quiet that few Bostonians even know of its existence.

I had never been there before, but I could have predicted the decor. The rooms were paneled in mahogany; the ceilings were high and dusty; the chairs heavy, padded tan leather, comfortable and wrinkled; the carpets were worn Orientals. In atmosphere, it reflected its members—stiff, aging, and masculine. As I checked my coat, I saw a sign which stated crisply, FEMALE GUESTS MAY BE ENTERTAINED BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 4 AND 5:30 O’CLOCK ON THURSDAYS ONLY. Bradford met me in the lobby.