Best Friends (21 page)

He really did regret not having kept his promise, but it would be impossible for him now to profane the Silver Wraith by sharing it with anyone but Kristin.

 

“Well,” a beaming Margaret Forsythe said when Roy reached the office, “that was quite a lengthy picnic. Do I assume correctly that all is going well?”

“You haven't ever seen Michelle, have you?”

“I haven't had the pleasure.”

“She's a beautiful girl,” said Roy. “She's also very young. I may have more in common with mature women.”

“Oh?” Margaret frowned slightly as if in polite dismay, but she did not seem offended by the sentiment.

Seated at his desk, Roy was struck with a guilty awareness that he had not acted responsibly in the case of Michelle. Instead of just getting rid of her, he should, as a grown man, have shown some concern for her lack of direction, which was not unlike what his own had been at that age. Nor had he been a social success then, either. He had thought of the girls of his day much as she did of the boys of hers. Sam's friendship had been a lifesaver. Michelle needed at least one friend, preferably of her own sex, so that the friendship would not be compromised by other emotions, and more or less her own age, because nothing was more essential at such a time than a sense that one was not unique in the universe.

Margaret was speaking to him. “Excuse me?”

“Mr. Alt called.”

“I'm sorry. I was thinking of something.”

“Seymour Alt,” said Margaret, who Roy only now noticed had done something to her hair that gave her a lower and younger forehead.

Sy practiced a profession that usually provided only bad news, if you were with the defendant majority of the human race and not a plaintiff: Rarely you might be let off the hook, but you never won. Roy always dreaded a call from the lawyer, and that was too bad, for Sy was also a friend.

The signal rang and rang, but nobody at Alt's office picked up. “How long ago did you hear from Sy?”

Margaret consulted the monitor for her phone log. “Twelve oh-two. I just got here. It was his assistant, Celia. She just said to call him.”

“I'm not even getting voice mail. I'll redial.” He did so and after a moment said, “Same thing,” and hung up. “Let me try his cell number. But if he's in court it won't be on.”

Alt's cellular telephone was answered on the third ring. The male voice was not one that Roy recognized.

“Please do not call this number until further notice. I'm switching it off.”

“Wait!” Roy cried. “Isn't this Mr. Alt's phone?”

“This is an attendant at Mercy Hospital. I don't yet know the name of the patient. The phone was ringing in the pocket of his suit.”

“Hospital?”

“He was just brought in to the E.R. He was in a car accident. I can't say more now, sir. We're real busy.” The man hung up, despite Roy's protests.

Margaret asked, “Mr. Alt's in the hospital? Another heart attack?”

Roy stood up. “He was involved in an accident, but I can't find out anything else at the moment. I better go see what happened, before his wife's notified. He may not have been hurt all that seriously. I think they rush everybody there as a matter of course. But Dorothea's an excitable person. She'll find it hard to handle if she just hears where he is. Maybe I can intercede.”

Margaret gave him a warm smile. “Go to it, Roy. He's fortunate to have a friend like you. Most people hate lawyers, even their own…. I hope he's okay.”

*  *  *

Mercy, the other area hospital, was at the far side of the county. The traffic on the direct route there was bottlenecked because of highway repair, and Roy decided against detouring on unfamiliar roads. Therefore it took him fifty minutes to reach his destination. On his arrival more time was squandered in arguments with hospital personnel as to his status. A mere friend and business associate could not gain access to a patient except during regular visiting hours—and not at all to one admitted for emergency care.

The conflict was abruptly resolved by someone's coming through a stainless-steel doorway and calling his name.

It was Dorothea Alt. She wore no special expression. She came to him and took his hand. “Sy's gone, Roy. He was hit by a car right in front of the courthouse. There were cops all over the place, but nobody got the fucking license number. Nobody.” She acquired a crazed smile. “How could that ever be explained to Sy? Nobody to sue! Oh, Roy, Roy, Roy…” She collapsed against him, sobbing into his chest.

He drove Dorothea home in the Mercedes CLK55 convertible in which she had come to the hospital. It had been Sy's gift to her on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, the previous May. “Seventy something,” Alt had told Roy. “But it's got sensors that instantly put up a roll-bar if they detect the car is starting to roll over. Dodie's a good enough driver, but she's reckless. Remember when she totaled her Beamer?”

The Alt driveway was filled with vehicles, and more were parked along the curb on both sides of the street. “Will you look at that,” said Dorothea. “I only called my son a little over an hour ago. The gathering of the clans. I must look awful. I can't bear to see.”

She was eight years younger than Sy's fifty-six and had been well maintained, but she was now a haggard elderly widow, with bruised eyes in a face that had fallen to what it was before cosmetic surgery.

“You're as beautiful as always,” Roy said, double-parking so she would not have far to walk. He took her to the front door on his arm.

Amid the throng inside the house Roy saw the Alts' son and called to him. “Wilson!”

Wilson Alt, a lanky, fair haired, long-jawed young man who resembled his late father in no way, had just begun his final year at law school.

“Hi, Roy. I just happened to run down to get some clothes I forgot. A trooper lasered me at eighty-two. I told him I was late for my father's funeral! Who knew? He didn't buy it, incidentally.” Wilson looked around and called out his sister's name.

Sybil Alt emerged from the crowd. She was twenty and unfortunately looked very much like her male parent and nothing like her mother. So far as Roy knew, she was still an undergraduate at the local community college; perhaps she had been a classmate of Michelle Llewellyn's.

“Thanks, Roy.” Sybil took Dorothea off his arm and led her haltingly away. They were detained by sympathetic relatives and neighbors who wanted to express condolence.

“I can't take over yet,” Wilson told Roy. “We'll have to hire another attorney for a while, and I worry about what he'll want. My father always kept it a one-man firm until I could join him. But now?”

“I'm really sorry about your dad,” said Roy. “I've known him most of my life. He was more my friend than my lawyer, or maybe the older brother I never had. He looked out for me.”

Wilson, taller than he, took Roy by the elbow. “Roy, I won't let you down. Just give me a little time to get my shit together.”

Wilson had always been a kind of punk. His sister was a better person, but in addition to her deficiencies of feature, she did poorly in school.

“How about a drink?”

Roy declined and left the house, purposely avoiding the other people, a number of whom he would surely know. He parked Dorothea's Mercedes in the next block and returned to put the ignition key in the mailbox. Cell phone in hand, he was about to call Bob's Taxi when he remembered Sam.

“It's me, kid. Have you heard about Sy Alt?”

“Is he in some kind of trouble?”

“He was killed, for Christ's sake. Hit-and-run.”

For a moment Sam was so quiet that Roy feared the cellular transmission had failed. “Sam?”

“I'm trying to deal with it…. My God. He's the last guy I would have…It's one thing after another.”

“Listen. I'm coming over.”

“Here?”

“I'm at Sy's house. I'm walking.” Sam lived only a couple of miles away, and the adjoining neighborhoods, while subtly different—Sam's was probably more parvenu in its prevailing architecture than Alt's, though Sy was a self-made man—were consistently residential without much traffic. In a high-performance car Roy could have made the trip in less than two minutes, but afoot, though a vigorous walker, he consumed the better part of half an hour and found himself slightly winded as he strode up the Grandy driveway, where there were more dead leaves than last time, or perhaps it was only that he noticed them now as he had not when driving. The fall was on its inexorable way, and he was growing older. Given his regimen of exercise, the short hike, really a stroll, should have gone unnoticed. Maybe it was the very modesty of the physical demand that made it more taxing than it should have been.

Though on foot, he went around to the rear entrance as if arriving by car. His ring was answered by Maria, the Hispanic woman originally hired to clean twice a week but who, spoiled by Sam, had elevated her job to housekeeper-cum-maidservant. She still did light cleaning chores but if on the premises when a visitor arrived, might don a little apron and serve refreshments. For more ambitious procedures of maintenance, the windows, floor-cleaning and waxing, and even the vacuuming of the larger rooms and longer hallways, she brought female relatives and friends.

Maria's round tan face often displayed a sunburst smile that was probably intended to make up for her limited ability to communicate in English, but on seeing Roy now she looked solemn and did not respond to his greeting.

“Mr. Saym is not feeling gude.” Having said which she exited by the door through which Roy had entered, probably to wait for her ride home. She carried a tote bag and was obviously finished for the day.

En route to the entertainment center where Sam could usually be found, Roy passed the entrance to the many-windowed sunroom and saw his friend's bulk in a chair that faced the outdoors. Sam appeared to be contemplating the sward of lawn, still bright green through the iridescence of sprinkler spray, and beyond, the sweep of driveway and the dark stand of trees that concealed most of the pool and all of the garage.

“The hike was longer than I thought.” For a moment Roy believed Sam was not aware of his arrival, and he whistled at him and cried, “Hey.”

“I've got too much property here,” Sam said. “There's at least an acre I don't use. I ought to do something with it to make a buck.”

Roy took one of the empty chairs near Sam's, like his, of varnished bamboo with flowered upholstery. He moved it to face his friend, back to the big window where it could have been too warm had the direct sunlight not been blocked by foliage.

“I have to look up the zoning,” Sam went on. “Maybe I could get a variance. Who's going to replace Sy?”

“It was a hit-and-run,” said Roy. “Nobody even got the number. Right in front of the courthouse, for God's sake. Cops all over.” He still knew no more than what Dorothea had provided.

Sam looked at him now for the first time. “I don't know how much more I can take.”

Roy remembered Sam's inordinate grief when Roy's father died and wondered whether his friend had been personally close to Seymour Alt. He could not recall Sam's being at Dorothea's big parties, nor did he play much golf despite owning a set of the most expensive clubs Callaway made.

“Sy seemed like too alert a guy not to see a car coming.”

Sam continued to stare at him. “Sy did some work for the mob, didn't he?”

“I never heard that.”

“Your dad told me once.” Sam looked away at last.

“It's news to me…. This is going to be tough on Dorothea.”

Sam looked back with a sneer. “Are you putting the moves on her already? Or have you been doing it all the while?” The sneer became a bitter smirk. “Though she's a little long in the tooth.”

“You're going too far,” said Roy. “Take it easy. Sy was just run down in the street a couple hours ago, and she's a widow. Of course I've never touched her.”

Sam lowered and shook his heavy head. He had needed a haircut for weeks. He was also unshaven, now that he had been home awhile. “Shit. Sy Alt is dead. That's all I need.”

Facing him, here in their house, Roy felt so guilty about Kristin that he could not protest directly against Sam's self-absorption. “Sy was a good father.”

Sam's nostrils dilated as if at a bad odor. “Think Celia'll be at the funeral?”

The reference was to Sy's assistant of twenty years; she was also his mistress. “It would seem funny if she wasn't, working for him as long as she did.” Sy was the most discreet of men. In two decades he had never been seen with Celia in any social venue. Roy and Sam for years had joked about this subject but only with each other. They had no hard evidence; they just knew that Sy and Celia had an intimate connection. You could tell by the way they spoke together on business matters, or anyway Sam could. He was the one who made the point to Roy, who had no gift for smelling out illicit liaisons despite his own proclivities, or perhaps because of them, his basic assumption being that he was unrepresentative: Most men, more fortunate than he had been, had permanent and exclusive attachments.