Practice to Deceive (3 page)

“Oh, hell, Taylor. I don’t care … about that.”

“Are you upset that your clients caved?”

“No … They were anxious to get on … with their lives … I don’t blame … them.”

“What’s wrong, then?”

“
Nothing’s
… wrong.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“I’m rich,” she said. “I’m filthy … stinking … rich.”

TWO

I’
VE NEVER HAD
much luck with Cynthia Grey’s office manager. Her sensitivity is well organized and alert to offense, and she always finds something in my speech or actions to protest, no matter how carefully I monitor myself. Not to mention she holds me personally responsible for the killing of one of Cynthia’s clients. I had nothing to do with his death, but he was involved in a case I was working on, so she blames me just the same. It’s not that she cared for the guy. I doubt she ever spoke to him beyond, “Ms. Grey will be with you in a moment if you care to take a seat.” But clients getting killed is bad for business, especially if they haven’t settled their accounts first, and she is opposed to anything even remotely bad for business. Besides, she is the keeper of Cynthia’s schedule. Part of her job is making sure every court appearance, every deposition, every meeting, happens when it’s supposed to happen, and whenever I come around, usually unannounced, well, there goes the schedule.

Yet despite her animosity toward me, she seemed genuinely thrilled when I walked into the office suite, like I was a high school pal she hadn’t seen since the last reunion.

“Taylor!” she cried, coming to the door, wrapping her arms around me, hugging me to the very marrow of my soul. “It’s good to see you,” she announced. Her eyes were moist and blazing with light, her smile was bright enough to read by. Scared the hell out of me.

“What’s going on?” I asked, my hand moving instinctively to my right hip where my gun would have been if I had been carrying it.

“Same old same old,” she sang back. “How are you?”

I set my suitcase on the floor; I had come straight from the airport by cab. “Same old same old,” I said.

“How was Florida? Sunny?” The woman was practically giddy.

“That’s why they call it the Sunshine State,” I replied.

“I bet you’re here to see the lovely Miss Cynthia. I’ll buzz her,” she said and fairly skipped to her desk. She picked up the telephone receiver, punched two numbers, waited, and said, “Hey, Cynthia, guess what. Taylor is here.… I sure will.” She replaced the receiver. “Go right in,” she said, waving toward the door. I walked slowly to the door, never taking my eyes off of her.

“What’s with Miss Efficiency?” I asked when I was safely inside Cynthia’s office. “She high on some new designer drug?”

“No,” Cynthia said, “just the usual thing: money.” Cynthia’s smile was dazzling. If you could read by Miss Efficiency’s newfound smile, you could signal ships at sea with Cynthia’s. I leaned in, turning my head to peck her cheek. But she met my lips with hers and kissed me long and hard. There was no hunger in her kiss, only a deep affection that often frightened me.

She broke the kiss. “Good to see you,” she said.

“Good to see you. What money?”

Cynthia seemed puzzled.

“You said Miss Efficiency was high on money,” I added.

“She has a name, you know. Desirée.”

“I had a home economics teacher named Desirée.”

“You took home economics?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I bet.”

“What money?”

“I gave her a bonus this morning.”

“Must have been some bonus.”

“Twenty-five thousand dollars,” Cynthia said casually, circling her desk.

“Say what?” I was genuinely amazed.

“It’s no big thing.”

“Apparently Desirée disagrees.”

“Apparently so do you,” she said, settling into her chair. “You’ve received twenty-five thousand dollar bonuses before. I read about it in the paper. That company you helped, August-Crane.”

“I helped save August-Crane from a hostile takeover.”

“Yes, well …”

“How much money did you make on this case, anyway?” I asked, sitting in the large wing chair in front of Cynthia’s desk.

Cynthia smiled some more, looked down at the desk blotter, and drew a little circle with her fingernail. “Twenty-seven percent,” she said softly.

“Twenty-seven percent of what?”

“Sealed,” she replied, shaking her head.

“Does Desirée know the amount?”

“She keeps the books.”

“Desirée!” I shouted. The door to Cynthia’s office opened a moment later, and Desirée peeked in. “How much did Cynthia—and you—make on the sexual harassment settlement?”

Desirée glanced up at Cynthia and smiled. “Twenty-seven percent,” she said.

“Fine, fine, fine,” I repeated, admitting defeat.

“You’re kinda cute, you know that?” Desirée giggled. “You kids should go home. It’s almost closing time,” she announced and shut the door.

“The woman has gone goofy,” I told Cynthia.

“She’ll get over it,” she said, putting her feet up on her desk. She was wearing black slacks and a white turtleneck under a black linen jacket. Those were the only colors Cynthia ever wore: black and white. She had hired a woman to choose a wardrobe for her, to devise a “look,” and this is what she came up with. She had hired another to do her hair and makeup; another to teach her poise, elocution, and what books to read; and another to decorate her office and home. She was a self-made woman, my Cynthia.

Our eyes locked. She smiled at me and I smiled at her. As is becoming increasingly frequent with us, we found ourselves thinking the same thing at the same time.

“You’ve come a long way since the psychiatric ward at Lake Memorial,” I told her.

“Seems like a long way.” She paused a moment and then added, “Sometimes I wonder why I’m not dead.”

“Divine intervention,” I told her.

“Think so?”

“Either that or the old saying is true: Only the good die young.”

“Then I should live forever.”

“God, I hope so.”

That’s when Cynthia went serious on me. It was like someone flipped a light switch. “I’m worried,” she said. “I’ve been worried ever since we accepted the settlement.”

“About what?”

“Is my … wealth … going to affect our relationship?”

“Absolutely.”

“It is?” She seemed frightened.

“I expect to be entertained at a much finer class of restaurant for one thing.”

“Oh?” she said. “Will you wear a tie?”

“If you’re buying, I’ll wear a tie.”

“And dress pants and shoes instead of jeans and sneakers?”

“You’re becoming awfully demanding.”

“I can afford it.”

“Sure, dress pants and shoes.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” I said, only I wasn’t and she was. It’s a failing of mine, not taking seriously what others deem terribly important. Her sigh told me that our conversation wasn’t going the way she’d hoped, and the hurt look in her eyes … I had put it there. The moment called for a show of sincerity, and I wasn’t very good at that. But I tried.

“Listen,” I told her, “you’re good at your job, one of the best in this market, maybe the entire country. And you’re paid accordingly. Sure, you could make more money working for one of the bigger law firms, get yourself a corner office, but you’d lose your freedom. Me? I’m also good at my job, one of the best in this market, maybe the entire country. And I’m paid accordingly. Sure, I could make more money working for one of the bigger PI firms, but I’d lose my freedom.

“What I’m trying to say is, you and I are a lot alike—professionally, I mean. We both enjoy what we do, we both care about what we do. The only difference is that the practice of law is more lucrative than my chosen profession, at least for those who do it well. I’m happy doing what I do. I wouldn’t be happy doing what you do. Money doesn’t enter into it. I’m saying this badly, I know,” I said.

“No, you’re not,” Cynthia told me.

“I don’t care about the money; I never have,” I added. “You know how I live. I drive a 1979 Monza, for God’s sake. It’s not the money, it’s the caring that matters to me. If you became just an empty suit chasing bucks, that would make a difference. Getting rich? Who cares? Well, I care; I’m really happy for you. It’s great. It’s just that …” I paused. “If the money doesn’t change you, it won’t change us. OK?”

“OK,” she said. She seemed relieved. “Anyway, what I said last night about being filthy, stinking rich isn’t exactly true, what with taxes.…”

“And bonuses,” I volunteered.

“Yeah, and bonuses. I’m not so much rich as I am really, really, really well off.”

“So instead of being stinking rich, you’re merely smelly rich.”

“Exactly.”

“Not going to retire?”

“Not until I can afford to support myself in a style to which I intend to become accustomed.”

“That brings me to why I’m here. I’d like to talk to you about a client.”

Cynthia came around the desk, knelt next to my chair, took my hand, and kissed my index finger. “Let’s talk later.”

“This is important,” I told her.

“Later,” she repeated, standing and pulling my hand. “I want to go to bed with you. We’re ten minutes away from my house. Let’s go.”

“Can we eat first? I’m starving. All I’ve had today is peanuts on the plane.”

Cynthia was shocked. “If I live a thousand years I’ll never understand men,” she told me.

“Fast food. It’ll only take a minute.…”

C
YNTHIA SAT CROSSED-LEGGED
on her bed, using a spoon to shovel Kung Pao chicken into her mouth from a white cardboard container, marking her pleasure with a series of “hmm’s” and “ahh’s.”

“I love this stuff,” she said. “When I was dancing in Minneapolis, there was this Vietnamese joint across the street. Every day I’d go for a helping. I couldn’t get enough of it. It was better than mace, too. Whenever the patrons got a little too close, put their grubby paws on me, I’d give ’em one of these.…” She opened her mouth and exhaled sharply. “As long as the guy didn’t have a sinus condition, I had no problems.”

Cynthia was wearing my Christmas present to her, a silver silk nightgown trimmed with white lace that I’d bought out of the Victoria’s Secret catalog. She looked as delicious in it as the model, making me want to shout, “My girl! This is my girl!” But I was afraid she would disapprove.

“Now, aren’t you glad you waited to eat?” she asked.

“Man does not live by bread alone,” I answered from the love seat where I lounged, propped up against a few pillows, eating sweet-and-sour beef from an identical container. I was wearing the same clothes I’d put on that morning in Florida, having been sent into the cold, dark night in search of take-out after Cynthia had had her way with me.

Between bites, Cynthia said, “So, tell me about this client of yours.”

I did, leaving nothing out, even describing Mrs. Gustafson’s ancient hands.

‘“By hook or by crook’?” she asked. “Your father isn’t encouraging you to commit a criminal act, is he?”

“Amazing, isn’t it? This is the same man who took a belt to me for stealing a stick of Chum Gum from the corner store when I was a kid, then made me go back to the store and apologize.”

“What does he expect you to do? Shove a gun into Field’s ribs and make him an offer he can’t refuse?”

“That’s almost exactly what I asked him.”

“What’d he say?”

“Didn’t say anything, just shrugged.”

“Shrugged?”

‘“What’s that mean?’ I asked him.”

“And?”

“He shrugged again.”

“Eloquent man.”

I took another bite of the sweet-and-sour, speaking through it. “My Dad is interested in results. ‘Give me solutions, not problems,’ he tells his employees. He’s not much interested in how I go about it, just as long as I get the job done.”

“I know what I’d suggest if he wasn’t your father.”

“What’s that?”

“Tell him to go to hell.”

“I almost did.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“When I was in high school, I convinced him to send me on a senior class trip, a six-day cruise to the Bahamas. Only it wasn’t a class trip, it was just a bunch of us who decided it’d be fun to get out of the country during spring break.”

“He ever learn the truth?”

“He knew the truth before we left.”

“And he let you go, anyway?”

“He admired my audacity,” I said. “He said I reminded him of himself.”

“Really? If I’d tried to pull something like that, my grandfather would have whipped out that belt you mentioned.” She stopped eating for a moment and stared wistfully at some invisible spot above my head.

Cynthia had never met her father, and her alcoholic mother abandoned her when she was just six. Six years later, Cynthia’s grandparents did the same, dying within a few months of each other. Cynthia became a ward of the state, a number on a piece of paper that was often mislaid. She wandered aimlessly, unloved and unloving, between halfway houses, foster homes, and the street. Drugs and alcohol were her only friends, and to keep them—although she never admitted to it, and I never asked—I suspect she hooked. Finally, she quit on herself and swallowed a bottle of furniture polish. But she did not die. To her surprise and disappointment, she woke in a county hospital, her arms in restraints, not an angel in sight. Since she didn’t have insurance, the hospital quit on her, too, placing her in a security ward with a few dozen major-league crazies. And there, profoundly lost, amid chaos and catastrophic emotional and mental suffering that most of us couldn’t possibly imagine, she found sanity.