Simple Intent (16 page)

“Should have known? Shit! Fast Eddie was one of King’s investors.”

“Investors?” Sailor said. “So, he knew about the drugs?”

Ray laughed, “Knew about them? The man was buying there. Sent his boy to do his deals. Yeah, Eddie was always slick like that. Wanted to play in the mud, but didn’t want to get his pants dirty.”

Deluca, doing drugs? Sailor couldn’t see it. The guy was too much of a control freak. But acquiring the drugs for someone else, or moving them? That she’d buy. Fast Eddie was slick like that. But, something was missing. 

Then she heard Banning ask, “Where’s this Maria now?

They split up and the rest of day passed uneventfully. Each of the subsequent cases was handled quickly and efficiently with hardly a blink between assault and divorce. The inmates seemed less interested in talking about their case and more interested in scoping out the new sights in the visitation room. Most of the women seemed to have missed the paragraph in the visitor’s manual about proper apparel. They wore lace bras and tiny panties under boxy trench coats. Promises were made for a flash of the coat, a shift of fabric. In the back of the room, some inmates stood back-to-back forming a circle around one of their own and his old lady. The couple fucked standing up while the cons glanced over their shoulders murmuring words of appreciation. The COs pretended not to notice.

Reilly finished earlier than Banning and Sailor. He collected the car keys and hauled his file box out to the parking lot.

In the backseat of the Jag, Reilly checked his cell phone. One message.

“Hi Reilly, it’s Gina. I was just cleaning out my purse and found your card. I must say I’m rather impressed with your sleight of hand. Remind me to keep an eye on my wallet next time I’m around you.” 

Reilly smiled. 

“Anyway, I was hoping you’d come by the diner this week. You still owe me that cup of coffee. Call me, or better yet, stop by Nana’s. Bye.”

Before she disconnected the call, Reilly heard a doorbell ring. He played the message back twice, would have played it a third time if Sailor and Banning hadn’t showed up.

Banning slid behind the wheel. “Come on, I’m buying lunch.” 

He drove the Jag out of the dusty lot. Vivaldi streamed from the speakers, cool air flowed from a whispering system. Part of Sailor wanted to take off her pumps and pantyhose, curl up on the seat next to Reilly and sleep all the way back to the city. A greater part of her wanted to make notes while the day was fresh in her mind, her head full of ideas, her heart bursting with hope. She rubbed her neck, glanced at Banning, then at Reilly with his phone to his ear.

“Ry?”

“Yeah?”

“I think we need to tell Banning about The Ritz.” 

Banning looked at Sailor, then in the rear-view mirror at Reilly. 

Reilly yawned. “Sure, Sailor. Why don’t you start, with your escort.”

BANNING dropped the interns at the MDB&S building and drove to meet the realtor, thinking this was the perfect time to move. There’s nothing like spending the day in prison to make a man think of acreage, lots and lots of space. Hell, the way his day was going, he ought to be thinking about another move. He’d always appreciated the view from Fast Eddie’s corner office.

In the elevator, Sailor watched Reilly rub his eyes then yawn behind his hand. She wondered how he was going to make it another five hours. She said, “What have you got for the rest of the day?” 

“Oh, let’s see. There’s work. More work. Or, maybe I’ll just do a shit load of work.”

“Okay, grumpy. I was just asking.” She’d never seen Reilly like this. He was always so up. So on. 

Reilly felt Sailor’s eyes on him. He forced a smile and an apology. “Sorry.” He affected a bad German accent and said, “Prison does strange things to a man.”

Sailor laughed. “Hey, did you see the trench coat mamas?” 

Reilly looked serious, and again with the accent, “Ah. Prisoners do strange things to a woman.”

They were still laughing when the elevator opened onto MDB&S. As they passed the reception desk, Paris waved two pink message slips to Sailor. One was from Deluca. He wanted to see her.

Reilly dropped the files in Banning’s office, told a few jokes to Helen who laughed politely, though she had no idea what a banana hammock was. Halfway to the cubicles, he felt the drain. He was coming down, hard. Reilly turned the corner, almost ran into Victoria.

“Hey!”

“Hey, Sweden.”

“Don’t forget. Harry wants to see you before the meeting.”

“Yeah, no problem.” 

“You okay?’ 

“Sure. Just need to get my second wind.”

She was about to say something about the bags under his eyes when Missy came around the corner. Reilly tipped his head in her direction.

Victoria said, “Okay, then,” and walked away. She looked back, saw Reilly and Missy whispering, saw him pass her something. Missy smiled and giggled. Victoria pursed her lips and kept walking. That was his business, not hers.

Missy waited until Reilly left, then opened the paper and read: Top Ten Reasons to Avoid Hotdogs. She laughed. 

Instead of waiting for the elevator, Reilly went straight for the stairwell and took the stairs two at a time. By the time he reached the lobby he was dripping sweat. 

On the street he headed south, removed his tie and turned east. Soon the sounds of chattering shoppers, executives on cell phones and purring imported cars were replaced by blaring TVs, shouting men and crying babies. Every block the buildings seemed to sag more, their stoops piled with trash bags and boxes. 

Reilly stopped at the corner shop, a dilapidated clapboard building with blackened windows. He looked left, right, then entered AAA Pawn and Collectibles.

“No problem, Eddie. I’ll be fine. We’ve got the supporting affidavits, and I can write the motion and file it in the morning. Sailor pointed to the clock. “Don’t want to keep the client waiting, now do we?’ She helped Deluca into his jacket then shooed him out the door. A moment later she opened the door a crack and peeked out. Mimi’s desk was empty, her computer screen black. It must be after five.

Sailor closed the door and kicked off her heels then danced over to Fast Eddie’s sprawling desk and plunked down in the massive leather chair. Right where she needed to be.

By the time Len Banning returned to MDB&S, there were only a handful of cars in the parking garage. A pale blue Mercedes convertible was in his assigned stall. It was parked too close to the pole and hanging too far out. Meaning only one thing. Tiffany.

He pulled in next to it and glanced at the crystal beads hanging from the rearview mirror, then counted seven shopping bags in the back seat. Just what he needed. 

After the realtor lost the bid on the Craftsman and broke the news that there was a bidding war on the other property, Banning was in no mood for his soon to be ex-wife.

The elevator doors opened to an empty lobby. Most of the partners left before the traffic got bad. The administrative staff was usually next, then the associates. Banning had been staying late since the marriage went sour. He felt more at home here than at the white castle Tiffany had created. He enjoyed rehashing the day’s events with Helen and was disappointed when he turned the corner and saw her empty chair. Preparing himself for the worst, Banning opened his office door. 

Tiffany reclined in the leather chair with her feet on his desk, giggling into her diamond-studded cell phone. She heard Banning enter and whispered something to her caller then snapped the tiny phone shut and sat up. “Honey, I’m home.” She flashed him a smile, shiny collagen-enhanced lips and capped teeth. 

“Tiff. I don’t know what you think you’re doing here. You signed the papers last week, remember?’ 

He hung his jacket on the peg behind the door, loosened his tie and went into his private bathroom. Tiffany followed. She posed in the doorway and watched him splash water on his face, then handed him a towel. She traced lazy circles around her breast.

“Lenny?’ she said, moving her circling hand lower. “Honey? I’m not wearing any panties.”

“Jesus, Tiff. I just got back from the prison.”

She sighed, dropped her arm and let him pass. 

Banning brushed by. “What do you want, anyway? Where’s ‘What’s His Face?’ Does he know you’re here?”

“He’s in Vegas. Without me.” She began to cry. “I think he’s seeing somebody. Oh, Len!” 

She flopped onto the leather couch, hair falling over her face. Banning watched the drama unfold from a safe distance. Pure Tiffany. He grabbed a box of tissues from his credenza and sat beside her on the couch. He put his arm around her shoulders and patted lightly, offering the tissues. 

Tiffany took one and snuffled into it then leaned into Banning’s chest, hiccupping softly. “I think I made a big mistake.”

Banning lifted her chin and wiped tears from her cheeks.

“You’ll be fine, Tiff. You always win, remember?”

It was something she used to say during every disagreement in their first year of marriage. He’d learned to accept that she needed to get her way and he was happy to give it to her—at least where furniture, clothes and vacations were concerned.

“Maybe you just need to decide what you want to win.”

“Oh, Len. You know just the right thing to say.” She kissed him, her salty trembling lips on his own surprised ones. 

Banning gently broke off the kiss and stood with his back to her. He shook his leg and adjusted his pants. He didn’t want her to see how she affected him. She’d hurt him enough already. 

“Tiff, I have a lot on my mind. This case is pretty big.”

“Is it worth a lot of money?” Tiffany reached into her top, adjusted her bra strap.

“No, Tiffany. It’s a pro-bono case.”

Seeing her face, he began to explain, then broke off. “Look. I really have to get to work. I—”

“It’s okay, Lenny. I’d better get home and see if, well…I’d just better get going.” She pushed herself upright and tugged her skirt into place, then retrieved her purse from the desk. 

Banning watched her sashay to the door. He smiled thinly when she blew tiny kisses from pink fingertips. Sitting at his desk, he saw the doodles on his calendar, the un-capped pen, the half-open door, and reminded himself to never marry another woman like Tiffany. 

Helen returned, glad Tiffany had given up, though she could still smell her cologne. Helen reached to pull Banning’s door shut when she heard something. She poked her head into the office.

“Mr. Banning! What are you doing here?”

“This is my office, Helen. Where else would I be working?” 

“It’s been a long day. I thought you would have gone home by now.”

“I know, it’s crazy, isn’t it?” he said. “But I’m not even tired and I’ve got all this to keep me busy.” He pointed to the files from the prison. “This is just where I need to be.”

Helen smiled. “How can I help?”

Reilly looked at his bare wrist, then at the clock on the wall. He tugged his sleeve down, covering the tan line of the missing Cartier. I’ll get it back next payday, before I see my folks, he promised himself. His right leg bounced under the desktop, his fingers flew across the keyboard. Two more paragraphs and his brief would be finished. He could go home. He could get high. He could have some fun. 

As the printer spit out his brief, he slipped his phone out of his pocket and called the first number on the top of his list. He spoke for a few minutes more, then hung up and checked the next cubicle to see if Sailor had appeared. Her chair was empty.

Reilly dropped the brief on Victoria’s desk on the way to the elevator. 

At his apartment, Reilly headed straight for the bedroom. He rummaged around on the floor and found what he was looking for. Sandwiched between yesterday’s socks and last week’s comics was a small mirror. He dumped a white chunk of cocaine from a tiny baggy and crushed it with the side of a razor blade. He chopped the smaller pieces with the blade and when the powder was fine enough, he made lines, drawing the blade across the mirror.

Reilly surveyed his work, then sat back. When his mouth began to water, he rolled a ten-dollar bill into a straw, stuck the end in his nose and snorted all four lines. Eyes watering, nostrils burning, he tipped his head back and snuffled. He cleaned the mirror with his pinky, then rubbed it over his gums. He stashed two more baggies of coke in his underwear drawer and checked the clock. Just enough time for a quick shower before his date.

The study was stuffy and warm. Antique furnishings and a rare collection of books set the stage for the room design. No one knew posh like the current resident, Salvatore DelliCompagni, the Philadelphia Inquirer’s silent partner and all-around money mogul. A true Italian, he had most of his home furnished in Tuscan style, giving up only three spaces to modernity: a theater room that seated twenty-five comfortably, a fully equipped gym and a sleek restaurant-style kitchen.

Deluca sipped his glass of Port, drew on the Cuban cigar. 

“What do you think, Eddie? Do you want in?”

Deluca turned to the gentleman on his right, then looked back at the old man behind the desk. “Throw in a box of these.” He held up his cigar. “And you’ve got a deal.”