The Sirena Quest (10 page)

Chapter Twenty

“Rachel Gold?” Ray said. “You trust her?”

“Gabe does,” Lou said. “That's good enough for me.”

“She's a lawyer?”

“She is. Used to be at Abbott & Windsor.”

“What happened?”

“She left.”

“Voluntarily?”

“Definitely. Gabe said she was one of their best associates. Smart, tough, hardworking. And apparently gorgeous.”

“I like that last part. So why'd she leave?”

“According to Gabe, she wasn't crazy about life in a big law firm. She wanted to go solo. She's got her own practice now. Mostly litigation.”

“That takes some balls. I like that in a woman.”

They were in a small conference room down the hall from Gabe Pollack's office at Abbott & Windsor. Just the two of them this morning. Gordie was giving a presentation to one of his agency's big accounts, and Billy had a representative from the Spanish consulate visiting his classes.

“And she's from St. Louis, too?” Ray said.

Lou smiled. “Another graduate of U. City.”

“Did you know her in high school?”

“Nah. She's at least ten years younger than us.”

Having struck out on the newspaper angle yesterday, they'd shifted their focus to the Canaan bequest—namely, that odd codicil to Marshall's will that established a trust fund for the maintenance of a grave at a pet cemetery for something called Canaan. Although Marshall's will seemed to direct them toward wherever the mysterious sultan had pointed, the odd pet cemetery bequest was hard to ignore.

Gabe had been familiar with the codicil—or at least its existence. That was clear when they mentioned it to him.

“Ah, yes.” He'd nodded and smiled. “The Canaan legacy.”

The firm had discovered the codicil among Marshall's estate papers after his death. Its existence had been a surprise to all—from his widow, who knew nothing about it, to the trusts-and-estates partner at Abbott & Windsor, who'd drafted what he'd believed was the entirety of Marshall's estate plan. The firm had retained its former associate, Rachel Gold, to quietly investigate the matter. Although the results of her investigation had been strictly confidential at the firm, Gabe believed it was unrelated to Sirena.

Gabe had called Lou earlier that morning when he learned that Rachel was going to be at the law firm that day regarding another confidential matter for Abbott & Windsor. If they could come by around ten-thirty, she'd meet with them before heading back to her office.

There was a knock on the conference room door.

“Come in,” Lou called.

The door opened and a young woman stepped in. A strikingly beautiful young woman. She gave them a friendly, confident smile.

“Hi, guys. I'm Rachel.”

They stood, shook her hand, and introduced themselves.

Rachel Gold was tall and slender, with dark curly hair, high cheekbones, and intelligent green eyes. She was wearing a dark two-piece suit, the skirt hemmed at the knees, an ivory silk shirt underneath the jacket, and low heels. There was a calm, assured aura about her that conveyed the sense that she'd be happy to meet you in court or on a tennis court. Lou liked her immediately.

She took the seat at the head of the table and set her leather briefcase and purse on the floor beside her. Lou sat on one side of the table and Ray on the other.

“Well?” Rachel said.

“Thanks for meeting with us,” Lou said.

She smiled at Lou. “We U. City grads have to stick together.”

Lou grinned. “Agreed.”

“So tell me why I'm here.”

She listened as Ray gave her the background on Sirena.

When he finished, she frowned. “So you believe Mr. Marshall arranged for her disappearance?”

“Apparently,” Lou said.

“Okay. And?”

Lou said, “We understand that after Marshall died, the firm retained you to work on a matter involving his estate.”

She nodded. “That's true.”

“Specifically, we understand it had something to do with that codicil for the grave in the pet cemetery.”

“That's also true.”

“We went over to probate court,” Lou said, “and made a copy of it. Canaan, right?”

She nodded.

“What's the deal with the grave?” Ray asked.

Rachel shook her head. “I can't say anything more about the grave, Ray. Attorney-client privilege. But I can guarantee that your missing statue was
never
in that grave. Ever.”

“You're that sure?” Ray said.

“I am.”

After a moment, Ray said, “Was it one of his practical jokes?”

“Pardon?”

“That Canaan legacy thing.”

Rachel leaned back as she considered the question.

“In a way,” she finally said.

“When you were doing that investigation,” Lou said, “did you come across anything having to do with Sirena?”

Rachel frowned as she thought it over. She shook her head. “No.”

Ray asked, “Did Marshall know any sultans?”

“Sultans?” she repeated.

“Yeah.”

She shrugged. “It's possible. Abbott & Windsor has an office in Riyadh. I think Marshall handled a commercial arbitration over there back when I was an associate. I assume they have sultans in Riyadh.”

“Did he represent one?” Lou asked.

“I don't know.” Another pause. “Why?”

Lou explained the sultan reference in the will.

“That is odd.” Rachel leaned back in her chair. “You should ask Gabe to run off a list of Marshall's clients. That information should still be in the firm's database. That list may tell you whether he ever represented a sultan—or handled any matter that might have involved a sultan.”

***

“This is frustrating,” Ray said.

They were heading back down the hallway toward Gabe's office.

“Raymond?”

They stopped and turned toward the voice. The speaker was a female attorney in her early forties. She held a yellow legal pad in one hand and a dark Prentice-Hall treatise on tax law in the other.

Lou glanced over at Ray, who had a rigid smile on his face.

“Elaine,” Ray said. “What are you doing here?”

She was dressed in a conservative gray suit and dark flats.

“I work here, Raymond.”

Ray said, “I thought you were at Winston and Strawn.”

“I was. Things change. I came over her about eight years ago. What are
you
doing here?”

“Talking to one of your lawyers. Me and, uh, this is Lou. My friend Lou Solomon. Lou, this is Elaine, uh—”

Ray paused, glancing down at her left hand. She was wearing a gold wedding band.

“Sansbury,” she said, reaching to shake Lou's hand. “Elaine Sansbury. Very nice to meet you. You were one of Raymond's roommates freshman year, right?”

“Right,” Lou said, surprised.

“The normal one, right?”

“Normal?” Lou smiled. “Says who?”

“Raymond.” She glanced over at Ray and winked. “Although he may not be the most reliable expert witness on the subject of normality.”

Lou laughed. “No comment.”

“There were two others, right?” She squinted in concentration. “There was Gordie. Gordie Cohen. He was the comedian. And then—hmm—cowboy name, right? Tex? Bronco? Bronco Billy. You called yourselves the James Gang.”

Lou raised his eyebrows. “I'm impressed. How do you know all this?”

“Raymond and I were once married.” She looked at Ray. “A long time ago, eh?”

“Seems that way.”

Surprised, Lou glanced at Elaine and then Ray and back at Elaine. She had lively blue eyes, thick chestnut hair cut short, and a sprinkling of freckles over her high cheeks and broad nose. She had the round face and stout build of a Russian peasant.

She said to Ray, “I read that article about you in
Forbes
. I was impressed.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Ray said, “You're looking fine, Elaine.”

She laughed. “You're sweet, but you always sucked at bullshit. I put on forty-two pounds when I got pregnant. Everyone told me, ‘Don't worry, Elaine. Once the baby's born, all that weight'll drop right off.' That was six years ago. Apparently, thirty-five of those pounds decided to take up permanent residence.”

“So you have a child?” Ray asked.

“Hey,” Lou said to them, “I've got to go check on that list with Gabe. When I'm done, where will I find you two?”

“My office,” Elaine said. “I'm one floor down. When you're done just have the receptionist buzz me.”

She turned to Ray with a warm smile. “Come on, Raymond.”

SCENE 64: FRONT-END, PART II {Draft 3}:

CUT TO:

INT. BARRETT COLLEGE DINING HALL - NIGHT

Dinner. The usual mealtime sounds in the crowded dining hall: LAUGHTER, SHOUTS, CLANGING of plates and silverware.

ANGLE ON LOU AND RAY

They are wearing white cotton busboy jackets and pushing a large metal bussing cart through the dining hall.

A group of upperclassmen get up from a table and leave. Lou and Ray push their cart over to the table and go to work: scraping the plates into the garbage pail on the cart; stacking the trays, dirty dishes and glasses on the cart; putting the silverware into the divided rack.

RAY
(as he scrapes a plate)

I talked to the graycoat tonight. About front-end and back-end.

LOU
(putting silver in rack)

Yeah?

RAY

Said he might let us try it on Buzz's night off.

LOU

You really want to?

RAY

Bussing is grunt work, man. Front- and back-ends are the coolest job in the dining hall. Let's unload.

Lou wipes the table with a wet towel and they push the cart toward the front left side of the dining hall and through swinging doors into the tiny area between the dining hall and the dishwasher area. There's a large square opening in the wall, which is where the busboys pass the garbage and dirty plates and silverware and glasses and trays into the dishwasher area to BUZZ, the front-end man.

It's NOISY in there: CLANGING of dishes and silverware, GRINDING of the garbage disposal, STEAM and SPRAY and ENGINE NOISES of the industrial dishwasher.

RAY
(poking his head
through the opening)

Hey, Buzz, how's it hanging?

INT. DISHWASHER ROOM

BUZZ is bare-chested beneath his white cotton jacket, sleeves pushed back above his elbows. His haircut matches his name. Buzz looks like a cross between the Marlboro Man and a Hell's Angel—and most definitely at home on his range, which consists of a deep metal sink area with a power sprayer the size of a handgun and the front end of an industrial Hobart dishwasher.

Lou passes stuff through the opening while Ray watches Buzz put on a master demonstration of front-end man in action—stacking plates and trays and glasses into the plastic racks with the speed and dexterity of a Ninja warrior. As soon as a rack is filled, he slams it down onto the conveyor belt that moves the line of racks through the various chambers of the stainless steel dishwasher.

At the back end, the racks emerge, one by one, pushing through the hanging canvas flaps in a cloud of steam. Waiting there is CHARLIE, the back-end man. Like Buzz, Charlie is bare-chested under his white jacket. With his long blond hair kept out of the way by a tie-dyed headband, he looks like a ski bum. Charlie wears rubber gloves. He yanks each rack out of the machine, slams it down on his work area, and rapidly removes and stacks the contents, his hands almost a blur. When the rack is empty, he whips it onto the return conveyor belt and spins toward the back end in time to grab the next rack as it emerges.

Angle on Ray as he peers at the action, a smile of wonder on his face.

Chapter Twenty-one

“Well?” Ray asked.

They were waiting for a down elevator in the lobby of Abbott & Windsor.

“No match,” Lou said. “The firm wouldn't give me a printout, but Gabe put Marshall's client list up on his computer screen and let me browse through it. No sultans. In fact, no clients at all from the Middle East.”

“Shit.”

“It was a long shot.” Lou smiled at Ray and raised his eyebrows. “So?”

Ray frowned. “So what?”

“Was it nice to see her?”

“I guess.” He shrugged. “It's like running into a friend you haven't seen since grade school. It didn't take us long to realize that we don't have much in common anymore—not that we ever did.”

“She was more than a grade school friend.”

“Barely. We were kids back then. Young and stupid and mismatched. Her dad's a lawyer. A big mucky-muck in Cleveland. Brother's a lawyer, too, and so are two uncles. We met during her four minutes of rebellion. I was about the furthest thing you could find from a lawyer,” He hesitated, pensive. “Man, I was an even bigger asshole back then.”

“How so?”

“Doing drugs, hanging out in bars, stumbling home at three in the morning. And good old reliable Elaine was getting up early everyday and going to classes and cooking our meals and studying hard in the library and working on the law review and putting on fancy clothes for interviews with the downtown firms and getting herself primed to join the Yuppie labor force.”

He shook his head. “Poor gal totally freaked when she found out I was selling drugs out of our apartment.”

The doors slid open and they stepped onto the empty elevator.

Lou pressed the button for Lobby. “She seems nice.”

Ray nodded as the doors closed. “She is. I'm a dick, but Elaine's a good person. I'm glad her life worked out well.”

“What's her new husband do?”

Ray gave him a smile. “Lawyer.” He paused, his eyes going distant. “Her kid's cute.”

“Boy or girl?”

“Girl.”

Lou observed his friend for a moment. “Any regrets?”

Ray gave him a curious look. “About what?”

“Her. You and her.”

Ray shook his head. “As Satchel Paige said, ‘Don't look back.' I don't.”

“That's bullshit, Ray.”

“Actually, it's the best advice out there. If you like where you are today, it's ridiculous to have regrets about yesterday.”

“What's that mean?”

“You are where you are today because of where you were before today. Like that Beatles song—it's a long and winding road.” He paused. “Last year I got roped into speaking to a business class at UC San Diego. Some sort of marketing seminar. During the question-and-answer part, one of the students said that he wanted to become a shopping center developer, too. Just like me. ‘What was your career path?' he asked me.” Ray chuckled. “My career path. Jesus.”

Lou smiled.

“But that's my point,” Ray said, suddenly serious. “You can't possibly duplicate someone else's career path—or their life, for that matter. Why am I here today? Because I spent a couple of years in a commune in Telluride? Because I bought that box of bottle rockets freshman year and about scared the living shit out of poor Bronco when I fired them out his window? Because I married Elaine? Because I wrecked that marriage? Or any of a thousand other things I did? Or didn't do?” He shrugged. “I have no fucking idea. All I know is that if you trace my, quote, career path—or yours, or anyone who's ever done anything in life—it's gonna look like one of those Rube Goldberg contraptions where the ball hits the boot that spooks the dog that pulls the leash that's connected to the bowling pin that knocks over the candle that starts the cannon ball rolling down an incline toward the bucket of red paint and so on and so on and so on. And at the end of all that convoluted lunacy, there you are, still standing, and with a big shit-eating grin. Life happens.”

Lou nodded, thinking of his own. “Maybe.”

The elevator slowed as it reached the lobby level.

“Just maybe?” Ray said. “No, definitely. This is reality, man, not some board game. You don't get a do-over, which is probably just as well, 'cause if you really could go back, if there really were do-overs in this life, the odds are you'd fuck it up even worse the second time around.”

They stepped off the elevator.

Ray gestured toward the newsstand. “Hey, you want a candy bar?”

“Sure.”

Lou was amused by the way Ray shifted from the sublime to the mundane and back again. This, too, was the Ray Gorman he remembered from freshman year.

Ray studied the choices at the candy counter. “What was your favorite when you were a kid?”

“These,” Lou said as he reached for a Snickers. “How 'bout you?”

“These.” Ray reached down for a Baby Ruth.

Out on LaSalle Street, Lou said, “I read somewhere that Baby Ruth isn't named after the ballplayer.”

“Really?” Ray peeled the wrapper off the candy bar and took a bite. “Is it named after anyone?”

“Some president's daughter. Grover Cleveland, I think—or maybe William Taft. One of them had a baby named Ruth while he was in the White House.”

“Well, that's fine with me,” Ray said. “Never been a baseball fan. Any sport that predates “American Gladiators” is highly suspect.”

Lou stopped.

Ray turned to stare him. “What?”

“Whoa,” Lou said.

They were on a sidewalk on the east side of LaSalle Street. People hurried past them on either side.

“Whoa what?” Ray asked.

“Babe Ruth.”

Ray glanced down at his half-eaten candy bar and back at Lou. “So?”

“Ray, what did they used to call Babe Ruth?”

“Lard Ass?”

“I'm serious.”

“The Yankee Clipper?”

“You're kidding me. The Yankee Clipper was Joe DiMaggio.”

“Well,
excuse
me, Mr. Vin Scully. Babe Ruth.” He frowned. “The Manassa Mauler? I don't know. What's the answer?”

“You're going to love it.”

“So tell me already. What was his goddamned nickname?”

“The Sultan of Swat.”

“Good for you, young man. You get a gold star.” But then Ray stopped, eyes widening. “You really think—?”

Lou felt his heart racing. “Got to be.”

Ray looked down at the half-eaten Baby Ruth and frowned. “Did he ever point at anything?”

Lou smiled. “I can't believe you don't know this, Ray. Follow me.”

“Where we going?”

“Just follow me.”