Steve Martini - Compelling Evidence

“What’s that?”

“We’ll never know now, will we?”

“That’s true,” he says. “Ain’t that the truth.”

There’s a translucent quality in his eyes. I can sense that he’s searching for something lyrical, a little poignancy to be remembered later, repeated to others, a message from Ben’s partner to the world. Verse dies on his lips as the waiter arrives with his drink. He takes the glass, and by the time he looks back he’s forgotten what it was he was searching for.

“Been meanin’ to call ya,” he says. “Somethin’ we need to talk about.”

I look at him-a question mark.

“It’s a little delicate,” he says.

This has never stopped Skarpellos, I think.

“You got a client-the Hawley girl?”

I nod, wondering what interest he could have in Susan Hawley.

“A good piece of tail, from what I’ve heard.” He gnaws on a little ice.

“What’s your interest?”

“Got a client in a little pickle-a little trouble,” he says.

If Tony’s client knows Hawley, it’s more likely that his pickle got him in that trouble.

“Maybe this Hawley broad can help,” he says.

“In what way?”

“Can’t talk here,” he says. “Maybe my office in a few days. I’m in a good position to deal. Make it worth your while.”

This is Tony’s idea of lawyering, a quick deal, no ethics asked.

“What’s it about?”

He waves me off with the back of the hand holding his drink. “Harold Stone,” he says. He nods back over my shoulder. “Do you know Justice Stone?”

I shake my head.

“A prince,” he says. “Absolute prince. I’ll introduce ya.”

Oh joy, I think.

Skarpellos hoists himself out of the chair.

“Tony Skar-pell-os.” The name emanates from a grating bellows of a voice. Like molten phlegm from Vesuvius, it erupts behind me. Skarpellos is motioning me to my feet. I rise and turn.

“Harold, it’s good to see you again.” This is the stuff the Greek lives for, prattle on a first-name basis with the judicial brass.

Stone is an immense man of awkward proportions, a face dominated by sagging, fleshy jowls. Threadlike veins seem to erupt at the surface of loose flesh that wallows like waves on his cheeks as he speaks.

His expression suddenly turns moribund. It’s an easy transition.

“My sympathies, Tony. You have the condolences of our entire bench.”

For a moment Skarpellos looks down at Stone’s hand and I wonder if he’s about to kiss his ring finger. Then I realize that the Greek’s just buying time, the bard, again at a loss for words, this time with a more influential audience.

“He was a great man, Harold.” Skarpellos sucks a little saliva and completes the thought. “It will be many years, if ever, before this town sees his likes again.” He delivers the lines as if his eyes have just peeled the words from some mystical idiot board.

Their voices drop deeper, to the diaphragm, as private chatter is exchanged. I begin to feel like the proverbial potted plant, standing here. Finally Skarpellos looks over at me.

“Harold, I’d like you to meet someone. Paul Madriani. Paul used to be with the firm.”

A limp hand comes out to meet mine and I get the once-over by Stone. He’s keyed on that all-important phrase-“used to be.” There’s a quick, pained smile, and he returns his undivided attention to Skarpellos.

“Paul, I think we should talk again, when I have more time.”

“Excuse me?”

“Not now, later at my office.” Skarpellos has turned me into an unwitting stand-in, an understudy for the usual cadre of office eunuchs that the Greek has somehow managed to misplace-a little show for jurist.

Stone waits for me to be dismissed.

“Call my office for an appointment, next week. We’ll have more time to discuss the thing then, the thing with your client.”

Standing here with nowhere to go, I have but a single thought on my mind-“What an asshole.”

“I’ll have to check my calendar. It’s pretty full next week.”

“Well, make time.” It’s the imperial Greek command. He turns before I can say anything, putting distance between us, Stone in tow.

“I’ll see what I can do.” My words are delivered down into the nape of his neck as he walks away.

I move away, abandoning a full drink on the table behind me, the price of salvaging a little pride, of saying “I was leaving anyway.” For the first time I realize that perhaps my departure from Potter, Skarpellos was preordained, for even had I survived my affair with Talia, pride would surely never have allowed me to weather Ben’s death and the compulsory primping and preening of Tony Skarpellos, the price of all success in the firm after Ben’s passing. It is, after all, a considerable consolation.

I’ve picked the Golden Delicious from the tree behind the house, a whole bag, and brought them with me, a kind of peace offering for my regular visitation at Nikki’s.

Sarah, my three-year-old, is standing on a chair at the countertop by the sink, turning the crank on the little apple peeler. She is an endless litany of “whys?”-“Why is the apple round?” “Why is it yellow?” “Why does it have seeds?”

I tell her the ultimate imponderable-“Because God made it that way.”

She says, “Why?”

I catch Nikki looking at me from the sink.

It’s in moments like this, though increasingly when I’m alone in the big house, that the pain is greatest. The realization settles in that Sarah, this oblivious, energized innocence will never have a childhood like my own, two loving parents together with her. My daughter is rapidly becoming the product of a broken home.

“I have to go to the store for a few minutes. I may not be here when you two get back.” There’s an edge to Nikki’s voice. Watching Sarah and me, she’s caught herself teetering on the precipice of happiness in my presence. But my wife is nothing if not resilient. Quickly she recovers her balance and is again the image, the very soul, of indifference.

“I was just going to take her to the park. I thought you might want to come along. We could have lunch out.”

“I don’t think so.” The apathy of her voice is overshadowed only by the aloof language of her body huddled over the sink, her back to me. “The two of you should have some time alone.”

“I think she’d enjoy it.”

“No. I have some things to do.” Nikki is now emphatic.

I don’t pursue it. She is painfully civil toward me. But increasingly I sense that any relationship that remains between us now revolves around Sarah, locks of auburn hair, pink pudgy cheeks, and dark brown eyes like olives. She is the link that binds us.

I have tried on numerous occasions to have Nikki take the house. I have offered to move into her apartment. But she will have none of it. This is a point of stubborn pride with Nikki: It was her decision to move out.

She’s priming the dishwasher with soap now. “Tell me,” she says. “How’s the practice going?”

“Haven’t missed any support payments, have I?”

“That’s not what I meant.” She turns to look at me, a pained smile on her face. “You always manage to twist what I say.”

I can’t tell whether she’s angry or embarrassed.

“Just a joke.”

“No, it was a dig.” She is hurt, silent as she looks at me. They’ve become like deadly clouds of cobalt between us, these monthly payments mutually agreed upon to keep the lawyers out of our lives, a form of alimony to keep the wolves away from her door. Without intending it, I have unleashed Nikki’s perpetual nemesis. It’s a demon I have never managed completely to comprehend. She will stand her ground in arguments on the most meager point or principle until more timid minds capitulate. But place her in circumstances where she is required to ask for money and she becomes an instant, stammering wreck. I suspect that if I ceased my support payments she would suffer silently until the county, in a miasma of welfare payments, hunted me down and hung the collar of contempt about my neck. It’s as if the creator of all things dependent had omitted some vital element in Nikki’s makeup that permits her to ask when there is a need.