Drawing Dead (23 page)

Mr. Redman, he reverberated, I should let you know that I’m an attorney.

And I should let you know that I’m judgement-proof. No lawsuit can touch me. I don’t have a job. I don’t have any money. I lost the house. And if I win the tournament, I promise to dissipate every penny of the prize money within a week. So you can tell whoever she is to fuck off.

I drifted back into myself as the good attorney Esquinasse pondered this. The pianist was playing ‘Feux d’artifice.’ Subtly drifting black-key arpeggios at marvelous speed. I wanted to be there. In the fireworks. Alone.

Mr. Redman, Mr. Gotti interrupted. Please do not rush to judgement. I do not represent one of your former girlfriends, or wives, if that’s what you’re thinking.

Actually, I said, I was thinking of my former housekeeper. I think I stiffed her on that last sixty bucks. Felt bad about it, but I had to get out of town. Right away, if you get my drift.

I’m not sure I do. But no matter. I’ve been hired by a certain individual.

Certain. That’s good. Better than the vague kind, anyway.

This certain individual, he went on, ignoring me, wishes me to ask you a question.

All this lead-in for one lousy question?

Mr. Redman, I hope you’ll allow me to address the purpose of my visit at some point.

Certainly, certainly. Sorry. I like to amuse myself. Bad habit.

I understand, he said, without a trace of understanding. Well, this is a delicate matter. The person I represent would like to know, sir, whether you would like to meet someone.

Can you be a little more vague?

The last notes of ‘Feux d’artifice’ faded away. I wanted them back.

Mr. Esquinasse cleared his throat.

The certain person is your daughter.

My daughter? Who the fuck are you, man? If my daughter wants to ask me a question, she’ll call me.

Ah, your daughter. I see. Well, sir, this is—how would you—I guess you would say, another daughter. One of which you were, perhaps, unaware.

It took me a moment to assimilate this rather, shall we say, unusual information. I tried to catch Armand’s eye. I was going to need a refill. Or three.

Are you serious? I asked His Seriousness.

I am, he intoned superfluously.

I see, I said. A daughter. Another daughter. Well. How interesting.

Yes, sir. I apologize if I’ve startled you.

Oh, you’ve startled me, all right. Who the hell are you, anyway? How do I know you’re not trying to shake me down or something?

I am, as I said, merely an attorney. An emissary, if you will.

I’m not sure I will. How sure are you of this?

That she is, in fact, your daughter? That is not my purview, sir. I know nothing. I can inform you, though, that my client is quite certain of it indeed.

And who, pray, sir, I asked, adopting his tone, might your client be?

I’m not at liberty to say, sir.

How did I know you were going to say that?

I don’t know, sir. I’m sorry, sir.

Stop being so damn sorry. Listen, can I buy you a drink?

I shouldn’t, he said, the first crack appearing in his façade.

C’mon, Esquy, I urged. Surely it’s not every day you get to tell someone they’re an accidental father? Let’s … celebrate.

Well, sir, you are right about that. That’s true. Perhaps I’ll have a small glass of scotch.

Armand! A double scotch for my friend! Make it the best!

I turned to my new friend Esquinasse.

Is there a best scotch? I asked him. I mean, what’s your preference?

I’m partial to Glenlivet.

Glenlivet it is. Armand! Make it Glenlivet!

I slugged down what remained of my Laphroaig. Knew that Armand would know enough to return with a refill along with Esquy’s Glenlivet.

Well, Esquy, I said. I guess the obvious question is, are you here to tell me only that I allegedly have this previously undisclosed progeny, or to tell me who she is? Or where, anyway? Or anything at all? How old she is, maybe?

As a matter of fact, sir, I am.

You am what?

Armand arrived with the libations. I sucked at mine greedily. Esquinasse sipped his with the delicacy of the overcompensating brute.

Well, he said, I hate to add to your … burden … no, that’s not the right word …

Don’t worry about it. Fire away.

Well, she’s eighteen years old. And she’s here, sir.

She’s here? In town?

In the room.

The room? She’s staying in the hotel?

This room, sir.

My chest clenched. Jesus. This was just too much. I needed some time to process this new information before being confronted with the object of it. Subject of it. Decide whether to flee. Find a nice warm monastery in Belize. Preferably one where they brewed their own spiritual condiments.

Right in the room? This fucking room?

At the piano, sir.

At the piano? You mean, the pianist?

Yes, sir.

Playing Debussy?

I thought it was Bacharach.

What the …

It wasn’t the time to lecture the good Mr. Esquinasse on the finer points of music appreciation. And anyway, he clearly hadn’t gotten past the grosser points. I got up. My knee knocked over the scotch glass. My shin smacked the edge of the coffee table. I didn’t feel a thing. I
staggered piano-ward. I strove mightily to clear my head. I straightened my tie. No I didn’t. I didn’t have a tie. I wasn’t a lawyer any more. I tucked in my shirt instead.

The piano hove into view. For the first time I noticed the silence. The musical silence.

She wasn’t there.

What a fucking relief. Or something.

I was confused.

I headed back to the table.

Esquinasse was gone. His empty glass graced the table.

My cell phone rang. Louise Chandler. Needed to see me. Seven o’clock. At the Wynn.

All of this was making me very tired.

I dropped back into the chair.

It enveloped me.

I
MUST HAVE FALLEN ASLEEP
.

When I started awake, God knows how long later, Armand had been replaced by a bubbly pneumatic thing with a relentless smile, who kindly pretended not to notice that I had been, no doubt, for minutes or perhaps hours, snoring up a storm in her tastefully appointed watering spot.

There was no Esquinasse. And no piano music. I staggered to my feet. Wandered to the Velvet. Hoped to find Butch there. Ask him what to do.

The exhausting clamor of the casino intruded, for a time, until—bizarrely—Bob Dylan emerged on the overhead speakers. I didn’t recognize the song—rather shocking, given that I thought I’d once owned every disc he’d ever recorded—but the sound, the rhythm, the unmistakable narrative pulse—despite the shrieks of the brain-dead video poker player communing with two loud black hookers at the bar and then the bartender—who tells the guy, Careful, man, of the whores, and with whom the drunk sadly tries to relate by asking how to say who’s your daddy in Spanish—razored through.

I’m not a romantic. I mean, I can get in touch with my inner romantic, when the occasion requires, if you know what I mean. But
I’m not a soft fucker, a kneel-down-and-worship-some-guy-I-never-even-met kind of dude, but every day that I’m reminded—which is maybe most days—I thank the Lord God Almighty, if there is one, for sparing Bob Dylan’s life from that motorcycle accident in 1966, or whenever it was, and every other stupid self-destructive thing he may ever have done. A master of word and sound of such natural power. The guy can’t even read music. He’s so—what’s the word?—real, I guess, that even his poses—the late-Dylan-Mexican-pencil-mustache-poseur, for example—are flush with undeconstructible meaning, and the rattling age in his voice now only adds poignancy to the gravity.

I guess I’m a fan.

I closed my eyes. Leaned back. Luxuriated in this new ballad. What a treat. I made out the chorus. Stayed in Mississippi, way too long, syllables descending through the scale, stretching out the last three, with the unmistakable Dylan punch at the end of the line. Amazing. New Dylan. As good as the old Dylan. Maybe better. Didn’t think it was possible.

The song ended. I breathed deeply. I opened my eyes.

I wasn’t alone.

Sitting across from me was an elegant young lady in a burgundy sheath dress. She had long, full brown hair, seductive almond eyes. She had a patrician nose and a scary pair of heels.

Father? she said.

No, I replied involuntarily.

Wait, I amended, I don’t mean no, no. I mean, I don’t know. I mean, like, no way, man. I mean, what the hell are you talking about?

I’m afraid it’s true, Dad, she said, as natural as if she’d been calling me that since birth.

Ah, I said eloquently. Ah. Ah.

I’m sure it comes as a shock, she said, with an air of possession that only worsened my condition.

Uh. Uh. I mean, hi, I ventured.

I’m Madeleine, she said, extending a long slim hand.

I took the hand. She had a soft grip. I understood. A pianist had to protect her fingers.

You play beautifully, I said.

Someone was talking loudly to the bartender. I glanced over. It was a large shadowy thing with a supercilious air, carrying a mean black
motorcycle helmet. Oh shit. Could the guy please get out of my life for a minute? Even two? I tried to shrink into the scenery. It didn’t work. He sauntered over, with his usual air of insolent entitlement. I glared at him. He gave my putative daughter a leather Italian leer. I felt ill. Jesus, I thought, if this really is my daughter, if she really is as poised and accomplished as she appears, the last thing she needs is exposure to the ugly underbelly of American life, aka my existence. As exemplified by Bruno and the baroque entanglements that seem to have bound us together.

I wasn’t sure, on the other hand, that I could prevent it.

This time, at least, I didn’t have to. Bruno satisfied himself with the leer, and a wink for me, hulked away. I turned to Madeleine with a sense of relief that I hoped was not obvious.

Was that a friend of yours? she asked.

I wouldn’t say that, exactly, I said.

She paused a moment. She looked like she wanted to inquire further. Fortunately, she seemed to think better of it.

I missed you, she said.

I’m sorry?

Growing up. I missed you.

You didn’t miss a thing, I was tempted to say. But I held that one back.

I’m sorry, I said instead. If I had known …

You didn’t. I know.

Um, this is really embarrassing, but to tell you the truth …

You don’t know who Mom is.

Um, yes. I mean, no. I don’t.

It’s okay. I knew that too.

I was silent. It was very hard to know what to say. What would be appropriate. What would offend. This wasn’t a situation they trained you for in law school. Or, as far as I knew, anywhere else.

I won’t burden you, she said.

No, no …

Really. It’s not necessary. When you’re ready. She … passed away. You don’t have to feel guilty.

I wasn’t sure it was guilt I felt. Confusion, certainly. I was totally at sea. Whatever impediments life might throw in my way, I almost never was at a loss for words. For the quick quip, the deft cross-reference. A way out, if need be. And here it was, an eighteen-year-old, obviously bright, articulate, but in any other circumstance not someone who could,
or should, render me mute. She was handling this a hell of a lot better than I was. She did, on the other hand, have the advantage of surprise. She’d no doubt prepared herself for this. For months. Years, probably.

I was dying to know, of course. Who her mother was. For the life of me I had no idea. I could see in Madeleine’s face no trace of any likely candidate. Eighteen years ago. Nineteen. Or was it twenty? How did that work? Depended on whether she’d just turned eighteen or … oh, forget it. In any case it would have been—Jesus. I was married by then. Long married to Melissa. Kelley would have been two years old. Or one. Had to factor in the nine months. Surely this must have been an event worthy of remembrance.

But I didn’t have a clue.

On the other hand, I had no doubt. The genetic imperatives made themselves felt. I wasn’t going to contest the diagnosis. Request another opinion. Ask for a lie detector test. Or DNA. A DNA test. I couldn’t define it, can’t define it now. It wasn’t a physical resemblance. At least none that I could put a finger on. God knows it wasn’t her unnatural air of self-possession. Must have gotten that from her mother, along with the good looks. It wasn’t anything I could explain. It was just there. Immediate. Visceral. True. Here was my daughter.

My other daughter.

The question, of course, was:

What to do now?

I shrugged, a half-smiling shrug.

So, I said. I hardly know what to say. I mean, it’s wonderful. Wonderful to meet you. You have a sister, you know. A half sister, I guess.

Yes, she said. I know.

How …

Mr. Esquinasse has been very helpful. I didn’t want to do this without … being prepared. I guess I know a lot more than you might think. When I turned eighteen—

Ah, I said. Of course. That’s when they let you see the records, isn’t it? And you’ve done your research. And tracked me all the way to here.

I thought eighteen years of waiting was long enough.

Yes, I said. Long enough …

Another silence.

In any case, I said, what I meant to say was, you should meet Kelley. Your sister. Soon as possible. Let’s all get together.

I’d like that, she said.

There was an awkward pause. One of many to come, I assumed.

There’s one question I’d like to ask, she said.

Of course.

It’s sort of … personal.

I couldn’t help smiling. Did it get any more personal than this?

Go ahead, I said.

Well, I was wondering, are you … musical?

Oh my God, I thought, if I’d had any doubts …

Debussy, I said. Sublime. You play him so beautifully. I was entranced. Before I knew it was you.

Oh, she said with a slightly startled smile. Oh. That’s so …

Yes, I said.

Well, I know you’re busy …

I wondered what gave her that idea.