Pleading Guilty (40 page)

The signature form was printed on onionskin with a schmaltzy heading in script: "International Bank of Finance, Pico Luan, N
. A
.- There were only four or five lines of information required, the descriptions written in all of the major Western European tongues. Using the felt tip, I filled in the account number that appeared on the back of the Litiplex checks, 476642. I named the account owner as Litiplex, Ltd., Jake Eiger as president. Then just to remind myself of the look of his hand, I took Jake's old letter from the briefcase and signed his name to the form with the ballpoint, dead on again, so close you'd think it wa
s t
raced. After that, I cut Jake's grinning puss out of the TN annual report and pasted it down where Mr. George had shown me it would go in the upper-right-hand corner of the form. Finally, in the little block labeled "Designation," meaning code word, I wrote out, perfectly, "J. A. K. E."

Then I went back to the clerk at the counter. He was starting to get used to me. I gave him a weary sigh, dragging my hands down my raddled kisser.

"I have a presentation in the morning and I forgot to copy one thing. Just two pictures of it, one page. You must have a machine in the office." I had a twenty between two of my fingers, but this guy, young, maybe a graduate student, somebody still starting out in his life, wouldn't take it. He was still feeling bad for thinking I was a bum. He brought back the copies of the signature form and we talked about the weather, how quiet the city could be at night.

I returned to the phone booth. I took the original of the signature form and tore it into pieces, throwing them in the opening in the long sand-topped trash canister by my feet. The two photocopies the desk clerk had made me went into my case. Then I called information for D
. C
. The latest Mrs. Pagnucci, a six-foot blonde, answered the phone. She said nothing to me when I explained who I was. Instead, in a voice I'd heard now and then in my own home, the soul of tedium, she remarked, "One of your partners."

B . Step Two

Brushy was asleep when I let myself into the room. It was about 3:0o a
. M
. She still slept like a child, in a small fetal ball, and her hand was close enough to her mouth that I wouldn't have been surprised if she suckled a digit or two. Vulnerable, with her sly wits turned off for the night, she looked dear to me, maybe precious is the word, and I felt really bad, my hear
t t
wisted around like a cloth being wrung. I threw my clothes down and crept into bed. As my night eyes came on, I could see this was not exactly the bridal suite. The headboard had been nicked in many places, revealing the mealy composition of the underlying particle board, and directly over the bed the old textured wallpaper had peeled from its butt joints and hung down from the plaster like an extruded tongue. I drifted a hand against Brushy's solid flank to comfort myself.

-Flow's Bert?" She still hadn't moved.

-Okay," I said, "safe at least." I apologized for waking her. "I was waiting for you." She snapped on the light and covered her eyes like a child with the backs of her hands. While she was blinded, I touched her, just kidding around, pulled the sheet down and nuzzled my cold cheek to her breasts, but she held me there and we heated up fast. Every time we had screwed so far it was different. There was horseplay sometimes, as in the hotel ladies' room, and she also had a lot of daring and skill, a bold way of laying her hands on that cut to the basics, that said this was for pleasure so let's not kid ourselves. Now suddenly, in the cheap hotel room, as beaten down as Center City around us, we were quick and desperate, wanting to overcome everything else. Real fire, and afterwards, spooned to her from behind, I could tell she thought that was great. We were quiet, with the empty sounds of the hotel and the street reaching us--sirens at a distance and the shouts of drunks and kids like my son who should have been at home for the night. I asked if she had brought cigarettes, then sat beside her on the bed, trading one back and forth with her in the dark.

"Does he have the money?" she asked.

"Come on, Brush."

"Just that. Does Bert have the money?"

"Brush, aren't we too old for Twenty Questions?" "Attorney-client," she said. "Does he have it? Yes or no?" -No."

"Really? Did he ever?"

"He doesn't have the money. Go to sleep." I went to the john, found the toothbrush she'd bought me, and lingered there hoping she'd fall off.

When I snuck in beside her, I slept dreamlessly, a velvet pit. Near seven, I snapped awake with a tiny outcry, quickly muted, the sound of inspiration. I dressed quietly and left Brushy a note that said I'd be back.

I had a walk of about six blocks and I jogged a step or two now and then as I penetrated Center City from its grotty outskirts, getting closed in by the morning hubbub, the trucks double-parked and wreaking havoc with the traffic, the silent army of workers marching the streets. It was pretty cold, less than 15 degrees, and I threw myself down into my coat. Toots ate breakfast every morning with the same guys, old pols, ward types, and lawyers, at a corner table of a Greek joint called Paddywacks right across from his office. This was a legendary event. Toots greeted half the folks in the restaurant and waved to them all with his cane. In the corner booth Toots and his friends gossiped about dirty business in any number of venues--the courthouse, the council building, the mob. A few years ago the feds had put a microphone in one of the salt shakers, but Toots and his pals had got word somehow. One of them, it was said, complained loudly about the taste of his eggs, then slammed the shaker on the tabletop and blew the listening agent's eardrum out.

Paddywacks was slightly overdecorated--brass fixtures and tufted benches and floors that were mopped once a week. I was beginning to be afraid I'd missed Toots, when he came in about 8:15 on his stick, two paisans on either side. One of them, Sally Polizzo, had been a federal guest up until six months ago. Toots greeted me like a visiting king. I shook hands with each of his companions, then strolled him down to a booth where he took a seat alone. I stayed on my feet.

"Did you mean what you said about a favor?" I asked him. Sitting on the little velveteen bench, the Colonel looked tiny
,
a little guy shrinking worse with age, but when I asked if he'd meant what he said, he just drew back with a look tough enough to make you believe he'd been a killer. I corrected myself. "This may be too much. If it is, you say so. You remember we talked about my partner?" I went over it quickly, but I told Toots the truth. How his pals were looking for my guy and his friend and how my guy was hiding. Somebody else was going to end up dead, and for nothing. The bookie had paid the big price, and these other guys were scared straight. Justice of the kind Toots practiced had been served. I asked him to get his friends to lay off Bert and Orleans. Favor for favor.

Toots sat there silent, the rubbery old mouth pursed, his eyes still. He was working it out in his head. If he called that guy and reminded him of this thing, then that guy could get to someone else. It was all geometry to him, and power. He wanted to justify my faith.

"Maybe," he said. "Depends. I think so. I'll let you know this afternoon. This fella got any money?"

"Some." I said, then thought of Pico and added, "yeah, he's got money. Why?"

"This here's a business. Somebody's got a point to make. He gets paid, that's his point. Right?"

"I suppose."

Toots said he'd leave word for me at the office. Then I helped him to his feet so he could totter down to the corner booth and his courtiers. There were already two old guys with rubbery faces waiting to say hi.

C. Watch That Step

"I went to see Toots," I told Brushy when I got back to the room.

"Toots?" Sitting by the window at a little cane table arrayed with a light room-service breakfast she'd ordered--coffee an
d r
olls, half a cantaloupe--she considered me intently. The heavy-lined night curtain had been pulled back, admitting the light and revealing a sheer that nestled about her. She was wearing her overcoat as a robe and she'd made up her face. When I came in, she'd been reading the paper.

"Mack," she said, "I want to know."

I didn't say anything and threw my coat on the bed. I was hungry and she watched me eat, measuring the meaning of my lack of response.

"I called the office," she said, "to say we'd be late. Detective Dimonte's been there already."

I made a sound. No surprise.

"And Lucinda said Martin's looking for you. He's left two messages." She looked at the phone as if to guide me, but I didn't move.

"Look, Mack," she said, "I can handle it. I'm a grown-up. Whatever it is. It's just--"

"I thought you were going to take my advice."

"It's my life too."

I hated this moment. But I'd always known it was coming. One of the problems about settling for Mr. Not-Quite-GoodEnough is a sense of peril about accepting his guidance. With my eyes closed I ruminated, then I grabbed my briefcase and looked into its dark, disordered depths. Balled deposit slips rested in the bottom, along with fragments of papers, and paper clips; stick-on notes adhered to the sides. I pulled out one of the photocopies of the signature form I'd made up last night. I laid it down on the rattan table. Litiplex, Ltd. Jake Eiger, line 1.

"Don't ask how Pindling got it. We don't want to know." She studied the document with a hand on her forehead as the weight of the tangible evidence bore down on her visibly. I got her cigarettes and we shared one, the odor of the smoke filling up the little room. I cracked the sliding window a bit and the curtains flowed around her like spirits.

"Jake?" she asked.

"That's what it says."

"You've known about this all along, haven't you? That's why you were so peeved with Jake." I think I winced when she said that. Even with alarm bells clanging, she was listening for good news about me.

"I've known a lot," I told her.

"Like what?"

I was just sailing here, no charted course. I didn't have the will to resist her and the lying made me feel childishly eager to cry. In my briefcase I found the memo I'd pulled from Martin's drawer. As she read, she picked a fleck of tobacco off her tongue. Her expression was flat, intense. She was being a lawyer.

"I don't understand," she said. "This isn't from Pindling. This memo."

"Martin."

"Martin!"

I told her the story, some of it anyway, about finding the memo, chugging over to the Club Belvedere. I was moved by her pain. As she often told me, Brushy liked these people. Martin. Wash. Her partners. The firm. These were her colleagues, who admired her abilities, who trusted her years ago with the things that mattered to them, who applauded her many triumphs and had received her assistance with a gratitude that was often intense. She knew she'd survive. She had clients, a growing reputation. That was not her worry. The point was commitment, allegiance, shared enterprise. She was devastated. "They were setting up Bert? Right? To take the blame for Jake. Isn't that how this looks?"

"That's how it looks."

"God," she said, and raked a hand through her hair. I opened the sliding door for an instant to crush out my cigarette on the small cement balcony, and the cold briefly forced its way into the room. The sun was out but seemed to offer no heat, as if it were just posed in the clear sky for decoration. Brushy aske
d m
e how Bert fit in and I told her his story and why I'd gone to see Toots. Her mind, though, remained on the Committee. "Oh, it's so stupid. Stu-pid," she said. "Is this all of them?" "Couldn't say. Martin obviously. Pagnucci doesn't seem to be in it. Wash--well, I told you what his attitude was."

"Martin," she said again. The Great Oz. She'd taken a seat on the bed, clutching her coat. I'd be willing to bet she wasn't wearing a stitch underneath--not that either of its would be pursuing that prospect in our present mood.

"What are you going to do with all of this, Mack?" I shrugged. I'd lit another cigarette.

"I'll probably do the right thing."

She watched me, assessing, wondering what that might mean. Then she shook herself in a lonesome spasm of disbelief. "Something," she said. "I mean Jake. Why? It doesn't make sense. He makes money. His father is rich. Why do this?"

I leaned over the bed. I peered in her eyes.

"Because that's how he is." The sheer viciousness gripped me and she looked on as if it were some kind of spectacle. She didn't care that I was saying I told you so. And she wasn't afraid. She held me at a distance, marveling.

"You're going to blackmail him, aren't you?"

It was the weirdest fucking thing. I felt like I'd been kicked. My mouth hung open and my heart felt hard as a fist and filled with intense physical pain. The humiliation ran like an acid to my eyes.

"Kidding," she said.

"Bullshit."

I walked around the bed and picked up my coat.

"Mack." She reached for me. "I don't care what you do." "You don't mean that. Don't even ask me to believe it. I know who you are and so do you." Looking into my case, I realized I'd left the papers on the table. I waved them at her as I picked them up. I was hating myself for having said anything. "Attorney-client," I remarked to remind her she was ears only
,
that I was the only one with options, the right to act. Then I went down the shabby hallway to the elevator. I punched at the button, calling the car, and leaned against the wall, hollowed out and hopeless, certain that I would never understand the first thing about myself.