Sol Stein - Other people

The West Side streets were full of lolling people who watched me as if I were hurrying too fast. One of four stoop poker players whistled. Steeled, I headed for my car, key in hand, saw the street-corner phone booth empty, searched through my bag for a dime, called. Answering service. Of course, it was after hours! I fussed through the bag for the pack of matches on which I had scribbled his home phone, found a second dime, dialed. It took him a long time to answer.

"It's me, Francine," I said.

"What's up?"

You could kill a man who talked that way.

"Can I come on up?"

"I don't think so."

"Look," I said, "it was just the first time."

Then I heard her voice in the background saying purposely loud enough for me to hear, "Who is it, George?"

What else could I do but hang up?

Home, I went through charades of conversation with my parents, what did you do today? I didn't pay attention to what I did today, what did you do today?

"You seem distraught, dear."

You bet your ass I'm distraught. I'm going to steal your gun and keep it loaded on a table facing my door, and if Koslak or the super gets through the door, I'm going to shoot them where the guy said I should kick them.

"How is Mr. Thomassy doing with your case?"

"I'm going to fire him," I said.

My father's face adjusted itself to a totally unexpected piece of news. "We should discuss this," he said.

Now father, under the same set of circumstances in your pied-a-terre — you do have one, don't you? — would you have been flaccid with me, you wouldn't find incest an inhibition, it'd be an encouragement, after all, you've had all these years to get used to the idea, haven't you?

"I think we should discuss this," he repeated.

"By all means."

"Do you find him unsatisfactory in the way he is handling the case?"

No, idiot, I find him unsatisfactory in the way he is handling me.

"I don't want to pursue the case."

"What caused your change of heart?"

Father, you could choose your expressions better.

"It is pointless to force the District Attorney to prosecute a case the government doesn't want to prosecute."

"That's why you have Thomassy."

I don't have Thomassy. One strike and he went fishing with what's-her-name.

"You'd be appalled at the methods he uses."

"I wouldn't be appalled. I just prefer that others use them."

Fastidious. Say, would you mind rubbing out a few people for me over the weekend? Usual rate? Father, would you please go to sleep so I can find the gun I need. Please?

"You don't seem inclined to talk this evening. Don't do anything precipitous. We'll talk about it again. I'm going up to bed."

I sat at the desk in my room, writing the letter.

Dear Mr. Thomassy, I appreciate everything you've tried to do to me, I mean everything you've tried to do for me, but I see no point in pursuing the matter. Koslak is an admitted danger, but I've got good news I forgot to tell you in the rush of things. My boss is due for reassignment momentarily, Paris probably, and I don't see how I could resist the opportunity. Please send me your bill for services rendered, insofar as they were rendered, or were attempted to be rendered. I am letting you go. Yours sincerely, Francine Widmer.

In the morning I put that letter in a book on the top shelf where I used to hide things from the cleaning woman. The letter I sent was shorter.

Dear George, I can see that by pursuing this case I could turn myself into an injustice collector. If the government doesn't want to deal with rape on its own initiative, I don't want to be the one to force it to. It's not just the expense. It could make me one-tracked, single-minded, a crank. As to Harry Koslak, don't worry. I'll be moving out of the apartment. The landlord will have to find me. Please send me your bill, which I'll pay promptly. With best wishes, Francine.

I kept a carbon of the letter, which I reread the next morning. It seemed too quick and cold. Thomassy had gone out of his way for me. I needed to pick up the phone.

"This is Francine Widmer," I told his secretary. "Did he get my letter?"

"Not yesterday."

"I only mailed it yesterday."

"There was nothing this morning."

"Well, maybe that's good. Can I talk to him, please?"

"He had a first-thing appointment with Mr. Cunham this morning. About your case, in fact."

"Oh God."

"What's the matter?"

"There's been a development."

"If it's important, I could try to reach him at Mr. Cunham's office, though he dislikes being disturbed during outside appointments. Shall I–I see it's after ten. He's probably in with Mr. Cunham already. Shall I try just in case? I'll put you on hold."

When she came back on she said, "He's already in with him. I could leave a message with Mr. Cunham's secretary."

Tell him he's fired.

"Is Mr. Cunham's office in the county courthouse in White Plains?"

"Miss Widmer?"

"Yes."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"You're not me."

Like some doctors and dentists, Cunham measures his worth by the number of people wasting life in his outer office, and so I was surprised to find the waiting room empty. His secretary buzzed him, and I was on my way in. Second surprise. He got up from behind his desk to pump my hand as if I was really welcome.

Gary Cunham was big, easily six-six, played right guard for Army, still had a handsome baby face when he became the youngest bird colonel judge advocate in Vietnam. They say he tried cases wholesale, sent kids to the stockade on punk evidence, got a taste for power, which, as anyone who has had both can testify, tastes better than money. Baby Face Cunham, nearly bald now, was the most famous D.A. Westchester ever had, all ready for lift-off into big league politics. His ruddy cheeks inflated and deflated like a fish when he talked. I wondered what Cunham looked like when he was getting laid. His wife must be blind. Maybe she only lets him in from behind so she can look at the pillow instead.

"You look well, George," Cunham said.

That's his standard opener. Everybody likes to be told they look well.

"I'll try one of your cigars." I pointed to the box on his desk.

He nodded. I took one.

"Didn't know you smoked cigars, George."

"Only defensively." I gestured at the haze of blue-grey smoke.

He sat back down into his brown leather high-backed chair. West Point is good for the spine. Gary looked as straight-backed sitting as standing.

"What brings you here?"

The Armenian massacres. I would have loved to say it out loud. He wasn't waiting for an answer.

"What's this business about a clipping, George?"

"Oh that's nothing important, Gary."

"What can I do for you?"

"I assume you were briefed?"

"Sure, sure," he said, trying to minimize the process. I'd have bet he spent some sweaty minutes over whatever Lefkowitz said to him.

"You know the girl's father? Ned Widmer?"

"Met him. Republican dinners, that sort of thing."

"I'd like to see that case get before the Grand Jury. I'd appreciate it real well if it could happen fast. That maniac is still a threat to her."

"Alleged maniac," said Gunham, making a laugh.

"This county is not exactly known for deliberate speed," I said.

"Except on the thruway."

"Gary, if this were attempted murder one, you wouldn't make jokes. It's rape one, and the attempt succeeded. And there was a second attempt by the same party."

"Alleged rape," he said. "No witnesses. No objectively verifiables. Where'd you get that expression rape one anyway?"

"It was premeditated."

"That's got to be proven. In fact, the act itself has to be proven."