Dead Money rrm-1

  Dead Money

  ( Rick Redman mystery - 1 )

  Grant Mccrea

  Dead Money

  Grant McCrea

  1.

  I’d been at the Wolf’s Lair til closing the night before. Not for any special reason. Just because. I dragged myself into the office. The place had a foggy, unnatural air. I sat down. The message light on my phone was blinking. It made my head hurt. I checked the voice mail, to make it go away. Nothing urgent. That was a relief. I deleted a few dozen e-mails. Maybe some of them were important. I couldn’t really tell.

  The phone rang. Please hold for Mr. Warwick.

  Shit. Please hold for Mr. Warwick. The lard-ass can’t dial four digits for himself. Has to delegate it.

  Redman.

  Yes, Charles.

  I heard an unsubstantiated rumor.

  They’re the best kind.

  Someone resembling you was seen in the elevator this morning. Yes?

  At ten forty-five.

  Yes?

  In sneakers.

  Well, yes. I’ve got plantar fasciitis. Very painful. Something to do with tendons in the arches. Common in basketball players. Anyway, I change my shoes when I get to the office.

  Well, I don’t doubt you, Redman. I really don’t. Well then. But we’ve got to think of morale.

  Morale?

  Yes. Morale.

  All right then.

  All right?

  Yes. I’ll think about it. Morale, that is.

  Good. Good. You think about that.

  Yes, I will.

  Morale.

  Yes.

  Click.

  Jesus. What was wrong with these people?

  I’d never figure it out.

  My stomach hurt. My head felt light and heavy at the same time. I thought about the hours of my shrink’s time my conversation with Warwick was going to eat up, at two hundred dollars per. Time that could much better be spent talking about my sex life. Why I didn’t have one.

  All I could do was close my door. Pretend it wasn’t there. This job. My life.

  And call Dorita.

  Guess what now? I said.

  Don’t tell me.

  But I must. Listen here, darling. They’re monitoring my appearance in the morning.

  Who is?

  Them. They. You know, the ubiquitous, omnipotent, omnivorous They.

  I do. I know them well. Pesky.

  Yes. Get over here.

  In seconds she was at my office door.

  Ricky? she inquired.

  Her legs were impossibly long. Her back was army straight. Her breasts, voluptuous. To be desired.

  But not for me. No. I’d thought about it, more than once. Something in my wiser self had held me back, appraised the situation and realized, as clear as vodka in a martini glass, that this was not a good idea. Not at all.

  So, we were friends. And friends we would remain.

  Dorita closed the office door behind her.

  Why did I ever get into this business? I asked.

  Because you’re brilliant at it. Come on, Ricky, do I have to tell you that every day?

  Well, yes. If you don’t, who will?

  You’ve got a point. Anyway, what’s today’s little crisis?

  That damn Warwick again, what else? He thinks I’m bad for morale. Dorita pulled out a cigarette and a platinum blowtorch of a lighter. The blue flame shot a good six inches toward the ceiling. She sat down, took a generous haul of the smoke, blew it decisively about the room.

  That’s a laugh, she said.

  Of course it is. How can wearing sneakers in the elevator compete with five-page memoranda about how to train your secretary to stop wasting file folders?

  They’re a scarce resource.

  Secretaries?

  File folders.

  So I understand. Damn, why did I ever get started in this business?

  We already resolved that question.

  That was a resolution?

  As much as the topic merits.

  I should have been a poker pro.

  Yes, darling. And how does your poker bankroll stand today? Don’t lie now.

  Minus eighteen thousand. But that was tuition. I don’t lose anymore.

  That’s some expensive school you went to.

  Yes, well. I did some stupid things.

  Nobody never loses at poker.

  You know what I mean. I’m in control now. I almost never lose. Long term, it’s a lock. I know that if I stay at the table long enough I’ll be up at the end of the night.

  Let’s see. Maybe you could quit your job. Minus eighteen thousand times two – it’s been six months, right? – that’s minus thirty-six thousand a year. You could probably live on that. You’d have to cut back on those happy lunches at Michel’s though.

  That’s what I love about you. Always a sympathetic ear.

  The fact was, she was a sympathetic ear, in her twisted way. Or, rather, more than that. She was my eccentric anchor in the heaving seas of temptation. Had I been less embarrassed about it, had shared with her, somewhere along the way, my bad luck streak, and that my cure for it had been to raise the stakes to get back all that money quick, it never would have happened. Or at least it would have stopped somewhere short of eighteen thousand. She’d have kicked some sense into me.

  I’d like to kill him, I said. I really would.

  Warwick?

  Who else?

  That’s quite a segue.

  Isn’t it, though? I rather liked it myself.

  Drinks later?

  Twist my arm.

  Dorita left.

  The image of her legs lingered.

  2.

  My back hurt. My head hurt. I worried about these pains. What did they mean? Was I ill? Was it cancer? Cancer of the lower back? Hadn’t heard of it. That didn’t mean it didn’t exist, of course. I made a mental note to look it up.

  Why wait? I googled it. God bless modern technology. ‘Lower back pain, cancer.’ Several hundred hits turned up. Alarming. I opened the first. ‘Cancer is a rare cause of low back pain,’ I read.

  I relaxed.

  ‘But not unknown.’

  I flinched.

  ‘When cancer does occur in the lower back, it usually has spread from the prostate, lungs or kidneys.’

  Jesus, I thought, I’m a dead man.

  I called in Judy. Told her to make an appointment with Dr. Altmeier.

  Five minutes later she buzzed me.

  Next Monday at one, she said.

  The pain went away.

  Tomorrow I’d tell her to cancel the appointment.

  I turned to the deposition of Lawrence Wells. The transcript lay unopened on my desk. It had been there for days. I resented it. It sat accusing me. Read me! it shouted, you irresponsible lout! The hearing’s in two days! You’ve got to prepare a cross examination, fat man!

  I wasn’t fat, actually. A little rounded at the edges, perhaps. But the transcript liked the sound of it: fat man!

  Well, I thought, I guess I’ve procrastinated enough. I picked up the transcript. I set my chair to optimum lean. I adjusted the lumbar support. I dove in.

  Halfway through the first page, my mind began to wander. I thought about last week’s oral argument before the Court of Appeals. Just as I was reliving my brilliant riposte to a particularly sticky question posed by the Chief Justice, my computer beeped three times.

  Reverie interrupted. E-mails. All from Warwick. Damn.

  I’d missed another meeting, it seemed.

  Warwick loved meetings. Endless meetings packed to bursting with trivia. Secretarial evaluations. The need for new coffee machines. The latest seminars for junior associates. A new committee on office decoration.

  With a he
avy heart and a trembling hand – trembling not from trepidation, mind you, but from lack of sleep and excessive beverage consumption – I dialed Warwick’s extension. While the phone rang I rehearsed my tale of incapacitating illness. Lower back pain. Of course. That would do the trick. Hell, it was almost true.

  Mr. Warwick’s office, chirped his terminally cheerful assistant, Cherise.

  Hi, Cherise, I said.

  Hello, Mr. Redman! she fairly screamed. I’ll see if he’s in!

  A curious exercise, that. In light of the fact that her desk sat immediately outside his office door, one would think she’d be aware if he was in.

  After a suitably pompous interval, Warwick’s voice arrived on the line.

  Redman, it said. Come to my office at once.

  I composed myself. Rubbed some color into my face. I’d forgotten to shave. Fortunately, I’m blessed with the facial hair of a blond adolescent, so it wasn’t obvious.

  Warwick was sitting ramrod straight in his chair, chewing on an unlit cigar. Doing his best General Patton. I pulled back the visitor’s chair a foot or two. I knew that in my condition a mere whiff of chewed cigar and cloying cologne would make me gag.

  Well, he said.

  Well, I responded, my wit taking wing.

  You’re not looking well.

  I’m not well, I said. Lower back. I had to cancel the Lockwood deposition yesterday.

  Indeed? he responded, with a skeptical raise of the eyebrow. Well.

  I maintained a discreet silence. No point in pushing the issue. God knew what his spies had told him.

  We’ve got a problem, he said.

  Yes, we do, I thought but didn’t say. His notion of what the problem might be was highly unlikely to agree with mine.

  We had a meeting of the Executive Committee last night.

  He paused. I waited.

  Revenues are down, he said, giving me a Look.

  He was concerned, the Look told me, that I had been insufficiently attentive to the problem of declining revenues.

  So I understand, I said, trying to fill the conversational space. But it’s a cyclical business. Things will pick up soon.

  It’s a cyclical business, he repeated, with a small impatient shrug. Yes. But we have obligations to the firm.

  Yes, I said. Of course we do.

  And we can’t permit these fluctuations to get out of hand. Everyone here depends on that. We can’t have big peaks and valleys.

  I would think the peaks are okay, I said with an innocent smile.

  Valleys aren’t, he said grimly. So we have to smooth out the valleys. And when downtrends occur, the Committee must act. That’s our fiduciary responsibility. To the partners. To the firm.

  I was waiting to hear what all this had to do with me.

  In ’98, when things were going bad, we managed to find Gibson. To fill the gap. His billings were a boon to the firm.

  Yes. I recall.

  This year, there’s no Gibson on the horizon.

  That’s too bad, I commiserated.

  Yes, it is. So we need to take other measures.

  I see.

  We’ve drawn up a list.

  A list.

  A probation list.

  Ah.

  Yes. Now, Redman, I don’t want you to take this personally. We go back a long way. And we all appreciate your abilities. You’re a terrific trial lawyer. But that’s only one part of being a successful partner. We expect everybody to carry their weight around here. And you do have to admit that you don’t bring in the kind of business that your talents would indicate you should.

  My gut clenched. Something with small sharp teeth was chewing on my gall bladder.

  So we’ve put you on the list.

  Warwick pushed out his chest. Gave me an imperious look.

  He seemed to be expecting a response.

  What was I supposed to say, exactly? ‘Thank you, oh wise one, for tripling my psychiatrist bills and giving me less income to pay them with’?

  What exactly does that mean? I managed to croak.

  We’re not asking you to leave, he said. But we’re going to ask you to prove yourself. Over the next six months to a year. Probation, like I said, in a sense. We need you to work up to the level of your abilities, Redman. Get out there. Beat the bushes. Rustle up some business. Show the flag. Go to lunch with someone other than Dorita Reed.

  That last was a low blow.

  I see, I said.

  And please, Redman. Start getting in to work at a reasonable hour. I personally don’t care if you come in at midnight. But it makes a bad impression.

  Yes, I said. Morale.

  Exactly, he replied smugly, pleased that I had so efficiently imbibed that morning’s earlier lesson.

  Listen, Redman, he continued, look on it as an opportunity. We’re not singling you out. There are eight others on that list.

  I knew it wasn’t my place to ask who my fellow probationists were. But I had an idea. List the partners with personalities. Multiply by those with interests beyond the profitability of the firm. Shake well. Don’t stir. Might rock the boat.

  If it works out, great, he went on. Welcome back. If it doesn’t? Well. I think we can both just agree that your heart’s not in it. Because I know you can do it. If you want to.

  Yes, I said. Of course.

  Why did I feel like a delinquent high school student?

  Ah, I answered myself. Because I was being treated like one.

  Though it was true, that last bit anyway. I could do it. If I wanted to. But it was a goddamn big ‘if.’ I’d never been a natural at the schmoozing game. The cocktail party chatter. Inviting prospects to lunch. ‘Hey, keep me in mind, buddy.’ It always seemed a bit too much like begging. I preferred to let my trial work speak for itself. Apparently it hadn’t been speaking loudly enough.

  Redman, Warwick then said jovially, as though none of the previous had occurred, as though we were all just good old buddies again. You have some criminal experience, don’t you?

  I hesitated. Criminal experience? What now? My adolescent shoplifting career? Weren’t those records sealed? The pain in my lower back made a sharp comeback.

  You do some pro bono stuff, don’t you? he prodded.

  The pain receded.

  Sure, I replied. Mostly appeals. Death penalty appeals. The Case of the Red Car Door. I’ve done a couple of trials too. Manslaughter. Aggravated assault. Nothing special.

  Well, I guess you’re the best I’ve got, then, he said.

  I refrained from thanking him for the vote of confidence.

  FitzGibbon’s son’s in some kind of trouble, he said.

  This gave me pause.

  I want you to handle it, he said.

  What kind of trouble? I asked.

  Never mind what kind of trouble. Bad trouble. I don’t know. Drugs. Murder. Grand theft auto. I couldn’t make out FitzGibbon’s voice mail. He sounded disturbed. Anyway, it doesn’t matter what it is. Find out. Get on it. Handle it. Make it go away. Make him happy. Get some more business from him. It’ll be the first step on the way to your rehabilitation.

  I nodded obediently. Fine choice of word. Rehabilitation.

  You’ll be a hero, he said.

  Warwick turned his chair to the window, signaling the end to the audience.

  I turned to leave.

  Oh, Redman? Warwick said.

  I turned back.

  Yes? I asked.

  Lose the sneakers.

  I got the hell out of there. I asked Cherise for the FitzGibbon particulars.

  She gave them to me with a wink.

  I had no idea what it meant.

  3.

  I went back to my office.

  I called Dorita.

  You won’t believe this, I said.

  Oh, shut up, Ricky. You already said that. I’ve got a client meeting in ten minutes.

  Put it off. FitzGibbon’s son’s in trouble. Something serious. Warwick wants me to handle it. Oh, and I’m being
fired.

  Jesus, she whispered. I’ll be right there.

  In less than a minute she was at my office door.

  Come in, I mumbled.

  She flounced onto the couch. Lit a cigarette with her blowtorch.

  You know, there’s a rule about smoking in the office, I said.

  Right, she said, tapping some ashes on the carpet. So what’s this all about?

  I told her about my audience with His Portliness. At the mention of probation, a moment’s shock passed across her face. She quickly brushed it off.

  Did they issue you an ankle bracelet? she asked breezily.

  Listen, I said, I appreciate the effort, but this is too big for a joke or two. Let me digest it for a while. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.

  My, my, Ricky. You’re getting soft in your old age.

  Tomorrow, I repeated, with unusual resolve.

  Okay, have it your way. So, what’s this FitzGibbon thing?

  I don’t know anything more than I’ve told you. FitzGibbon’s son, what’s-his-name. He’s in some kind of trouble. Not a speeding ticket. Something serious. I don’t know what.

  Jules. His name is Jules.

  Right. But the thing is, why me? It’s not like I’m a top-flight criminal lawyer. I’m a civil litigator, for Christ’s sake. I just do the stuff on the side. Do my bit for the social fabric, all that.

  My poor little paranoid bunny. Warwick just wants to keep it in the house. You get the boy off, we get more business from Daddy.

  Yeah, well. That might make sense. But I can’t help thinking Warwick’s setting me up to fail. Rehabilitation. Jesus.

  Well, I can’t say that’s utterly beyond the realm of possibility. But what are you going to do about it?

  Do my best, darling. Just like always. Sad but true. Can’t help myself.

  That’s the ticket, Ricky. Anyway, you know the old man hates his guts.

  Who?

  Jules. FitzGibbon can’t stand him.

  I’ll ignore the fact that the ‘old man’ is in my age bracket. And I know. Or at least, so I’ve been told. But blood runs thick, darling.

  If blood it is, in that shit’s veins.

  Well, yes. To tell you the truth, I don’t know the guy very well. Met him at a cocktail party or two. Big red Irishman as I recall. Full of noise and spit.