Drawing Dead (4 page)

Oh fuck off, said Brendan.

But he knew I was right.

A
T TEN IN THE MORNING, THE PHONE RANG
.

Go away, I said.

I turned over. Put the pillow over my head.

The phone kept ringing.

It stopped.

It started again.

Shit, I said. I opened an eye. Quickly closed it again. I didn’t need to see the pizza cartons. Empty bottles. Full ashtrays. Three weeks of dirty clothes, six weeks of damp and wrinkled
New York Times
.

And that was just the bed.

The phone kept ringing.

It wasn’t going to go away.

I was going to have to find it.

I shuffled some detritus around. I found a copy of a Pete Dexter anthology I’d been looking for. This made me happy. Under it I found the phone. I wasn’t sure how that made me feel. I picked it up.

Redman, I said.

Rick, it’s John.

John?

John Kennedy.

Jack!

Oh, shut up.

Okay.

After twenty years the joke was growing a little stale.

Listen, Kennedy said. I might have a bit of business for you.

Business?

Yes, Rick. A job. Some work. A paying gig.

Really? I said.

I’d printed up some nice business cards.
The Outfit
in gold-embossed letters. Wrote up a fancy note, announcing my latest prestigious project. Mailed them out to everybody on my list. Old clients. Old colleagues. Kennedy was always first on my list. He was a good guy. And an excellent trusts and estates lawyer. But T & E guys hate messes. They have a good, quiet life. Going to lunch with nice, eccentric, wealthy old ladies. Holding their hands. Writing their wills. Setting up financial plans. So when something nasty came up, something requiring litigation, say, or criminal defense, or dealing with the ugly side of the press—in other words, when the real world intruded—Kennedy called me up. To return the favor, whenever I had some boring shit involving little old ladies, I’d call him. As a matter of fact, I’d referred to Kennedy the late unlamented FitzGibbon, who wasn’t a little old lady, and was involved in enough nastiness to fill several bad novels. But I didn’t know that at the time. He just needed some help with some trusts and such, FitzGibbon had said.

In the end, that whole thing hadn’t turned out too well. Pesky dead bodies. All over the joint.

But Kennedy got paid. And in the law business, that’s what matters.

Work? I said. Are you serious?

Sure. One good turn deserves another.

One? I queried. Seems to me it’s about fifteen to three, right about now.

I could count on you to say that.

Consistency is the hobgoblin of my middle name, I replied, trying to remember my middle name.

Jesus, said Kennedy, you’re in even worse shape than usual this morning.

I won’t deny it. I was out with a bunch of Russians last night.

It doesn’t get worse than that. I hear.

You hear correct. Okay, wait a minute. I’m going to stick my head under a cold faucet.

Don’t forget to turn the water on.

Right.

I put down the phone. I administered to my face a good dose of the ice-cold, while my mind roamed free. Cockroaches and mold. That’s all I could think about. Don’t ask me why. Probably the old pizza. I’ll talk about it with Sheila, I thought.

Okay, I said when I had the phone back in my hand. This better not involve homicidal adopted twin brothers.

I can’t promise anything, said Kennedy. I have a client. Her name is Louise.

So far so good.

Can you shut up for just two minutes?

I’ll do my best.

Okay, listen up. She’s a paying customer. Big time. A regular at Sotheby’s. You know the type.

I do. Vintage brooches. Gucci handbags. Prada shoes. Though I’m sure I’m not up-to-date with the brands.

No, you’re not. She’s a widow. Inherited some nuts and bolts fortune. Got some ultra-secret issue to deal with. Wouldn’t even share it with me. Criminal overtones.

Great, I said, looking around for a shirt I had worn fewer than four times since the last laundry episode. Criminals are my favorite clients.

She’s not the criminal, Rick.

That you know of.

I suppose. Anyway, there’s something snaky involved. I talked you up. Your new outfit.

You’re a prince, I said.

I neglected to let him know that I’d soon be spending long stretches of time out of town playing in the World Series of Poker, likely rendering me highly unlikely to be useful to my, our, new client. Why ruin the mood?

She’s going to call you. She’s very anxious.

Perfect. That’s what I need. Another anxious woman.

Chandler, he said.

What?

Chandler. Her name’s Louise Chandler.

Wow, I said. That’s so cool.

You’re welcome, said Kennedy.

He hung up.

The problem is, I thought, even before Vegas I’m supposed to be playing poker all day and night. Getting ready for the Series. I didn’t have time for actual work.

There was always one answer to those kinds of problems.

Delegation.

I called a meeting of my putative partners. Told them to meet me at the Wolf’s Lair. Butch said he was at work.

Fuck work, I said. This is more important.

I’ll see what I can do, he said.

I knew that meant yes.

I found a shirt. The pizza stain wasn’t too obvious. I put it on. Went to the Wolf’s Lair, ordered a fine glass of breakfast scotch.

Out of respect for the early hour, I made it a single.

Looks like we may have a case, I said, once the team had assembled.

What kind of case? asked Butch.

I don’t know, I said.

A case of Molson? said Brendan.

A case of naked ambition? said Butch.

A case of the clams? said Brendan.

The clams? I said. What the hell is a case of the clams?

I don’t know, said Brendan. It sounded good.

Yeah, I said. Sounds great. Anyway …

I described the call with Kennedy.

Well, said Butch, I have only one thing to say.

Which is?

You don’t have time.

Yeah, I said. I know. That’s why you guys are here. I need your help.

Whoa, said Butch. Slow down, cowboy. What makes you think we have any more time than you do?

Between the three of us we can handle it.

How do you know that? You don’t even know what it’s about yet.

You got a point, my man. You got a very good point.

Well, shit, said Butch. We’ll see when it happens.

I looked around at the team.

Butch shrugged.

Brendan involved himself with his sausage and eggs.

It looked like the beginning of a good relationship.

K
ELLEY WAS COMING TO VISIT
. My light. My anchor. My reason for living. My daughter. With whom I’d shared—and only with her had I shared—the awful, subversive, slow-motion, ugly, paralyzing disintegration and death of Melissa. Her mother. My wife.

Melissa had been a mysterious soul, beautiful and brilliant and tortured and sad. It had killed her, at the end. Or, the causal skein extending infinitely backwards, to the scandals of her childhood, accusations of incest, refusal to conform, whatever, had started it. From there it was a common-enough tale. The pills of many colors, the booze of many varieties. She had slowly lost interest in life. She’d lived on the couch in the living room. Slept there, sometimes for days at a time. There were endless, enervating trips to the clinic in Westchester. Hope. Violence. Betrayal. Hope again. Hope sucked dry. And a dead body in the living room. Nicely displayed, there for Kelley to find.

Nice touch, Melissa. Thanks for that. Nice final touch.

Ugly endings are ugly each in their own way.

But we lived through all of that, and more, Kelley and I. She was my flesh and bones. She had a sense of humor—dry, outrageous, deadpan—and a passion for words. She was a beautiful girl—got that from her mother—but she hid it from the world. Almond eyes behind outrageous frames. The generous heart behind jokes of many hues.

She showed up with Peter, her fat, funny, operatic best friend. A chain-smoking, scenery-chewing film encyclopedia. We met at the Cracked Claw, a cheesy clam joint in Hoboken. Peter was pontificating about some dissolute actress’s latest exploits.

You’re such a hypocrite, Kelley interjected.

Of course I am, he admitted proudly. But hypocrites get a bad name in this country.

I started a new business, I said.

You’re right, said Kelley. Hypocrites are people, too. They have rights, just like everybody else.

It’s called The Outfit, I said.

They should be able to organize, said Peter.

By God, I’m going to do it, said Kelley. I’m going to quit my job and organize the hypocrites.

With Brendan and Butch, I said. And you don’t have a job.

Yeah, I mean, medical benefits, said Peter.

Exactly, said Kelley.

We’re going to do investigations and stuff, I said. A little legal work if it comes along. Of course, we’ll need a little capital to start it up.

Why should auto workers get a pension, and not hypocrites? said Peter.

It’s a shame, said Kelley.

An outrage, Peter said.

A national tragedy.

Waiter, I said, another double please.

Daddy, said Kelley, you’re not fooling anybody. This Outfit thing is just a front.

A front?

You’re just looking for an excuse to play poker all the time.

Damn, I said. I can’t get away with anything around here.

But hey, said Peter, why not do it for real? Hire me. I
love
peeping in windows.

Looking for filthy things in people’s closets, said Kelley.

It’s not like that, I said.

What
is
it like? asked Peter, leaning forward, chin cupped in hands, eyes wide.

I don’t know, I said. I haven’t done it. Yet.

Yet, Kelley snorted.

Then how do you know it’s not seamy and dirty and nasty and … you know, fun? said Peter.

I guess I don’t.

Then we want to join, said Peter. Believe me, if
we’re
involved, it’s going to be fun.

Okay, I said. I’ll take it up at the next board meeting.

We stuffed ourselves with oysters Rockefeller, king crab legs, steamed clams and all the other seawater clutter they serve in joints like the Cracked Claw, drenched in butter and lemon, slick and evil and fabulous in your mouth.

I ran into Denise yesterday, said Peter.

I Used To Be Forty-Five Pounds Lighter Denise? Kelley asked.

Her.

Who’s Denise? I asked.

I don’t know, said Peter. She works at the video store. How would you describe her, Kelley?

She’s fabulous, said Kelley. If by fabulous I mean flagrantly depressive and seriously overweight.

Every time she meets someone, said Peter, she says, I used to be forty-five pounds lighter; I used to be an actress, I don’t know how this happened.

So, said Kelley, when we introduce her to people, we say, this is Denise. She used to be forty-five pounds lighter.

You’re kidding, I said.

Would we kid you about a thing like that?

And she puts up with it?

Puts up with it? said Peter. She loves it. She doesn’t have to wait for an opening. To bring it up herself.

She can go into the whole story right away, said Kelley.

Which is?

The story of her life, said Peter.

Her life story, said Kelley.

Yes, said Peter, it’s kind of her life as a formerly slim actress down on her luck and saddled with a probably-autistic little monster of a child whose father’s long loped off to the abundantly greener pastures offered by just about anyone else on the planet kind of story.

Sounds kind of sad, actually, I said.

Of course, said Peter. It’s incredibly sad. That’s what makes it so funny.

I broached a new business idea: We could rent Peter out. As a party favor. He could tell stories for tips.

I’d rather rent out my ass, he said.

It’s too late, said Kelley, it’s already all over the Internet.

Oh, that, said Peter. The real thing is so much better.

Speaking of the real thing, Daddy, said Kelley, what happened to Dorita?

What’s that got to do with the real thing? I asked.

Oh, come on, Daddy, said Peter. Legs from here to the moon? Breasts from the Pillow Shop?

I don’t know, I said. It just didn’t work out. I’m sorry. I know you liked her.

She was sweet, said Kelley, a little sadly.

I know, I said. But … I don’t know. I can’t talk to my children about this kind of stuff.

They both laughed. Come on, Daddy, said Kelley, we all know you’re a womanizer.

I laughed. I proposed a toast. I wondered what she meant. I wondered if she really meant it. If it wasn’t a joke. Damn. Fatherhood was hard.

I’d thought Dorita was the answer to everything. My rescuing angel, descended from the clouds, to fix all that was broken, after Melissa. I’d loved her. Loved her endless legs, her acid humor, the way she held a cigarette, lit it with a platinum lighter, the blue flame two feet high. We’d been partners. Worked the FitzGibbon case together. She’d had as much to do with cracking it as I did.

And the kids had loved her, too.

But I should have come up short, slapped myself in the face. There aren’t any answers to anything, really, still less to everything. Damn. I’d put her up there, in the pantheon. Sheila had warned me. And Sheila’d been right. Dorita had turned out to be human. Despite the legs, the breasts, and all. She had needs. We had fights. It didn’t seem right, my rescuing angel calling me a selfish prick.

I couldn’t handle it.

I told her to go away.

Fine, she said. Walked out the door. Slammed it behind her.

I let her go.

And, like so many others before, I’d never know if it had been the right decision.

I never saw her again.

Peter rescued me from the morbid remains of the recent past with a discourse about men.

My ideal man, you ask? he began, unbidden. Biceps bigger than my head, a moderately hairy chest, Russian. Bulgarian’s even better. Oh God, I’ve got to lower my standards. Okay, no mustaches. But I’m magnetically attracted to muscles. I’ll jump on his back and say, You’re going to have to get me off.