David Rosenfelt: Dead Center

We go back to discussing the Timmerman case, though for the moment I forget who Timmerman is and what his case might be. We’re on for another five minutes, which seem like five hours, and as soon as the light goes off, I head for my car. I know one thing: If the murder in Findlay becomes a subject of these cable discussions, my career as a pundit has come to an end.

It’s only just past noon when I leave, which seems too early to get drunk or commit suicide, so I head back to the office. It hasn’t been a beehive of activity in recent months, but I usually hang out there for a couple of hours a day. It gives me the illusion that I actually have a job.

Waiting for me there is Edna, my longtime secretary. Work has never been Edna’s passion, and she would be quite content if I never took on another client. She spends her six-hour day working on her crossword puzzle skills, which are world-class.

Edna just about jumps out of her chair and rushes toward me when I come in. Fast movements by Edna, rare that they may be, always worry me. That is because she carries her crossword pencils everywhere… in every pocket, in her ear, sometimes in her mouth. I’m always afraid that she is going to slip and impale herself.

“Andy, I’m glad you’re here,” she says. “We need to talk about my microwave.”

“Your microwave.”

“Right. Remember I left it to my Aunt Helen?”

It’s all I can do to stifle a moan. Two months ago I agreed to Edna’s request that I help her draw up a will. It was a prudent move on her part, since her estate is fairly considerable. A while back I divided the million-dollar commission that I earned in the Willie Miller lawsuit among Edna, Laurie, and Kevin Randall, my associate in the firm.

Willie and the other beneficiaries of my largesse have since almost doubled their money with successful, albeit bizarre, investment decisions, while I have been decidedly less fortunate. Edna’s share is now worth almost four hundred thousand dollars, and if that were the reason for her sudden urge to have a legal will, I would be more tolerant of the process. But it is not.

Edna has the largest extended family in America. There is simply no one that is not related to Edna on some level, either by family or by friendship, and she feels obligated to leave something to every single person she has ever encountered.

At this point the will is a seventy-one-page document, and until moments ago I thought it was a seventy-one-page finished and approved document. But now Edna tells me that she visited her Aunt Helen over the weekend and discovered that Helen possesses a state-of-the-art microwave, far nicer than the one Edna was planning to leave her.

She has it all figured out. “I want to take the ficus plant that I left to cousin Sylvia and give it to my Aunt Helen. Helen’s microwave can go to Uncle Luther, who loves popcorn, and Luther’s poker chips can go to Amy, my hairdresser, who has a regular game. I’ll give Sylvia the scented candles I bought in Vermont last year.”

“That’s amazing,” I say. “It’s exactly what I was going to suggest.”

She nods in satisfaction. “I’ll type it up.”

She heads off to do just that, and I proofread it when she’s finished. After that, I hang around until it’s time to head to Charlie’s, the best sports bar/restaurant on the planet.

I often talk about how great it is to live just a half hour from New York City, which provides me access to the finest theaters, museums, and restaurants in the world. The way I take advantage of this access is to hang out every night at Charlie’s, which is about eight minutes from my house.

Charlie’s has forty or fifty tables, and never has a room been designed more perfectly. Each table is within twenty-five feet of the bar and forty feet of a restroom and has a direct line of sight to at least a half dozen televisions showing sporting events.

Waiting for me at our regular table are my friends Pete Stanton and Vince Sanders. Pete is a lieutenant in the Paterson Police Department, and Vince is the editor of the local newspaper. Both distinguished citizens, except for the fact that when they’re not working, they have the combined maturity age of eleven.

Pete is six three and slim, while Vince is five eight and round. They remind me of Abbott and Costello, but with less dignity.

Before I join them, I make a quick phone call to place a bet on the Mets game that we will be watching. When I go to the table, everything looks normal: Every square inch of it is covered with burgers, french fries, and beer. However, I soon sense that something is amiss, as ten minutes go by without either of them insulting me.

I decide to confront them. “Okay, what’s going on?”

They spend the next few minutes denying that anything at all is going on when suddenly Vince asks, “What did you do today? Work… watch television… what?”

“I saw Laurie, if that’s what you want to know.”

Vince feigns surprise. “Oh, was she on?”

“Yeah.”

Pete chimes in. “She ain’t looking so great, I’ll tell you that.”

Even if I hadn’t seen her, I would know this is nonsense. Pete and I are both aware that Laurie would look good if she were wearing a storage bin. “Thanks, Pete, that’s really helpful.”

“You should take out Karen Sampson.”

Karen Sampson is a friend of Pete’s wife’s who is completely unappealing to me in both looks and personality. “I don’t think so,” I say. “I think she’s more Vince’s type.”

Vince considers this for a moment and shrugs. “Sure, I’ll take her out. Why not?”

“Why not?” Pete asks. “’Cause I like her, and ’cause she’s a normal human being, that’s why not.”

The conversation continues like this for a few hours, with the intellectual content inversely proportional to the number of beers consumed. By the time I’ve lost my bet on the Mets, I’m ready to go home, though Vince and Pete seem glued to their chairs.

When I arrive home, I have one of those moments that come from out of nowhere and, while seemingly insignificant, can prove to be life-altering. I walk into the kitchen, and there is an empty pizza box on top of the sink. It’s been there for two days, and the dishes under it established squatter’s rights well before that.

I guess it’s been precipitated by my seeing Laurie today, but whatever the reason, it suddenly hits me. I don’t want to live like this. I’ve always felt anger toward Laurie since she left, but now it comes to the fore and is directed at myself as well. She’s gone, that’s over, and it’s time for me to take control of myself and my life.

It’s time for me to get a grip.

• • • • •

THE VOICE ON the phone says, “Hello, Andy.” Since it’s my phone I’ve picked up, this is not a particularly shocking statement. What sends a jolt of electricity through my body is the fact that the voice belongs to Laurie.

It’s rare that I’m rendered speechless, but this seems to be one of those times. Though I don’t say anything, my mind and eyes are still working, and I pick up on the fact that the clock says five-fifteen, and the call has woken me from a deep sleep. In fact, there’s probably an eighty percent chance that I’m dreaming.

I sit up and turn on the light on the night table, as if that will help me understand what is happening here. I glance at Tara, lying on the end of the bed, but she looks as confused as me.

“Andy, it’s Laurie.” These new words provide just as big a jolt and cut the dream likelihood down below fifty percent. I also feel a flash of worry: It’s got to be four-fifteen in Wisconsin. Why is she calling me in the middle of the night?

“Hello, Laurie,” I say, displaying my keen conversational touch and rapier wit. This is not fair. The suddenness of the call and the time of day have left me without a strategy. Should I sound angry? Concerned? Aloof?