Cold fingers and a dull headache and cramped limbs. And the smell of coffee. I opened my eyes as a hand set a mug on the table
in front of them. Mick’s hand. He said, “Wake up—it’s after eight o’clock.”
I struggled to sit, flailed, and watched a stack of papers slither off the couch and across the carpet like my childhood Slinky
toy. I’d fallen asleep here in the sitting room. Mick must’ve covered me with this quilt, an old one made by my sister Patsy
in her artsy-craftsy phase.
Mick started picking up the pages; the slick fax paper slid neatly into order. I disentangled myself from the quilt, set my
feet on the floor, and reached for the coffee mug. After taking a swallow, I asked, “What time did I doze off?”
“Don’t know. You were still reading when I went to bed around midnight. I got up to take a pee at five, and you were sacked
out good, so I covered you.”
“Thanks. And thanks for the coffee.” I warmed my fingers on the mug and looked toward the window. The light that filtered
into the walkway between my house and the Curleys’ next door was drab, promising another foggy day. Ralph was perched on the
back of the chair again, hungrily eyeing W.C. “Don’t even think about it,” I told him.
The cat regarded me with slitted eyes. When he did that, I could never be sure whether he was glaring or just near-sighted.
In case it was the former, I added, “And don’t give me that look.” Ralph jumped to the floor, stretched nonchalantly, and
sauntered toward the kitchen, batting my leg with his tail as he passed.
Mick was putting on his down jacket. “You off to work?” I asked.
He nodded. “I want to get cracking on those DataBase apps and the Blessing skip trace.”
“Well, if you have any questions and can’t locate me, ask Rae.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted me and hurried down the hall, a jaunty bounce to his step.
Oh, to be seventeen again and have such enthusiasm for small tasks. …
* * *
When I got out of the shower, I found a message from Suits on my machine: “I’m off to Long Beach today, got to talk to my
number two choice for terminal manager. Sherry-O, I
like
it here at All Souls. Reminds me of the old days.”
Terrific, I thought grimly as I rewound the tape. He’ll want to live there and pester me for however long this investigation
takes.
I went to the kitchen, poured another cup of coffee, and noticed a stack of mail on the table. Yesterday’s: phone bill, white-sale
notice from Macy’s, reminder that the cats’ shots were overdue. And a postcard from Hy.
Just a few words in his bold hand: “Dinner and dancing at Zelda’s on your birthday?” I turned the card over and examined the
postmark. Zurich. Good God! He was back in Europe.
Zelda’s on my birthday. It wasn’t until September twenty-eighth. That meant he’d probably arrive in the Bay Area the day before
and expect me to meet him at Oakland Airport, where the Citabria was tied down, for the flight to his ranch in Mono County.
Zelda’s was a big old-fashioned roadhouse on the shore of Tufa Lake in the high desert country. We’d first danced together
there, and I assumed sentimental reasons had prompted Hy to suggest it for our celebration.
But what was he doing in Zurich? I turned the card over and over, fingering it as if it could provide some tactile answer
to the question. What had he been doing in Miami, New York, and Taipei? These trips were costing plenty. Who was paying for
them? Hy had money—a great deal, made in those nine missing years—and he’d inherited even more from his wife, Julie Spaulding.
But still, there were limits.
God, the man could be exasperating! There were times—such as today—when I wished him out of my life for good. No matter that
he was tall, lanky, and handsome in a hawk-nosed, shaggy way. No matter that he had a lively mind, lively interests, and a
lively manner in bed. So what if he possessed a wonderful off-the-wall sense of humor and could fluently speak English, French,
Russian, and Spanish—and was currently getting practice in all of them, as far as I knew? He was also frequently secretive,
occasionally violent, and sometimes emotionally stingy.
It didn’t help my mood any to remind myself that I, too, was frequently secretive, occasionally violent, and sometimes emotionally
stingy. …
I balled up the postcard and hurled it across the room. It came to rest in a puddle next to the cats’ water dish. Lay there
as sodden as my hope of ever figuring Hy out.
The hell with it, I thought, and went to get dressed. Afterward I sat down and finished reading and making notes on the stack
of papers I’d started in front of the fire the night before. I thought for a while, went back over all my notes, then made
several phone calls. My day arranged practically to the minute, I set off for downtown and the Transamerica Pyramid, where
Charles Loftus, one of Suits’s major financial backers, had his offices.
* * *
Six in the evening, and Suits still hadn’t returned from Long Beach. I called his office, was told that the JetRanger had
taken off some fifty minutes ago but was delayed by unseasonably bad weather off the central coast. Maybe that was just as
well, I thought. It would give me more time to prepare for the conversation I needed to have with him. I’d just finished going
over the tapes of the interviews I’d conducted during the day and had come to a disturbing conclusion.
Outside my office’s bay window the fog had thickened to a heavy mist, almost a rain. I swiveled and stared at the peaked roofs
of the buildings across the triangular park out front. Two of those buildings were now leased by All Souls; what had begun
as a renegade band of idealists out to aid their fellow humans had evolved into the largest legal-services plan in northern
California. Fortunately the concept of quality representation regardless of income level had not died with the installation
of the 800-number hot line. To one degree or other we all still …
Not we.
They
. I was only a tenant here.
The thought made me feel a little disconnected, but not for long. On its heels came other, more pleasant ones: I no longer
drew a pitifully small salary for the extensive hours my investigations entailed. I would no longer fall victim to the often
unreasonable whims of the partners. And should a complicated case come their way, they’d call me in. I still had the support
and friendship of the people I cared about most.
I turned back to the desk and began replaying selected passages of the tapes, getting my facts straight so I could present
a strong case to Suits.
Charles Loftus, billionaire venture capitalist and real-estate developer, who had backed Suits on two previous turnarounds:
“I don’t know of a single developer who was whoring after that Hunters Point base. Too many problems there. Too many hurdles.
You’ve got the federal and the city governments to deal with. Even if they like a project, you’ve still got to go up against
agencies like the Bay Conservation and Development Commission. T.J. is the only one who’s willing to work with all of them
and
put that land back into maritime use. Frankly I think they should give him a medal for his vision.”
Dana Wilson, Suits’s liaison at the city’s Port Commission: “No one, absolutely no one, is opposed to Mr. Gordon’s plans for
the mega-terminal. They fit perfectly with the current mixed-use scheme for the port. Both the city and federal governments
are grateful to him for coming up with a solution for Hunters Point. … Enemies? I’m sure he has plenty, but not where this
project is concerned. To tell you the truth, I’m a very nosy woman; if anyone wanted to stop him, I’d have found out.”
James Lewis, Oakland Port Commission: “Let’s face it, our port’s in trouble. Nobody wants to see GGL leave. But if Gordon’s
successful with the Hunters Point project, it’ll mean a boost for the whole Bay Area economy. If the new mega-terminal draws
business from other West Coast ports, we’re sure to siphon off some of the overflow.”
Noah Romanchek, Suits’s chief counsel: “I don’t think that what’s been happening to T.J. has anything to do with GGL or either
of the ports. … Why? Because the person knows too much about his organization: how much to offer a guy to go back on what’s
practically a done deal, which moneyman’s on shaky enough ground to be bribed. Hell, he even knows T.J.’s personal habits:
where he stops in for a beer at night, how to get into the place where he lives. You look closely at T.J.’s associates and
you’ll find your man.”
Russ Zola, Suits’s organizational strategist: “Noah’s right, but I’ll take it a step further. What’s going on doesn’t have
a damn thing to do with this current turnaround—or maybe with business at all. … I can’t say why; I don’t have that good a
grasp of it. But whoever’s doing this to him has put a lot of energy into it. It feels personal, like you said. A grudge that’s
been nurtured a long time. You go back into his past, his personal life, and then you’ll be on the right track.”
Carole Lattimer, Suits’s chief financial officer: “What Noah and Russ told you strikes me as right on target. You’re going
to have one tough time shaking anything out of T.J., though. He’ll protect that sacred privacy of his to the grave, and there’ll
be hell to pay for any of us who violate it.”
There was more, but those were the best-taken and most convincing points. I switched off the tape recorder. Lattimer’s voice
saying “to the grave” had put a chill on me. I got up and went downstairs, looking for companionship.
The first floor was deserted. In the foyer, Ted’s desk was tidy, his lamp turned low. The parlor was dark, the evening news
flickering soundlessly on the TV screen. As I moved toward the back of the house, past the law library and Hank’s and Rae’s
dark offices, I belatedly remembered this was the coop’s softball night. They were playing another firm down in San Mateo,
where the sun was probably shining.
In the kitchen I went to the fridge, poured myself a glass of jug wine, and marked my initials in the IOU column of the sheet
taped to the door. Then I sat down at the table by the window to wait for Suits, listening to the old house creak and groan
around me.
Softball night, I thought, and nobody’d reminded me. I’d never been a regular on the team—my schedule was too erratic for
that—but when possible I’d gone along and dusted off my high school cheerleading skills. But today there hadn’t been any reminder
notice of the game on my desk, and of course I no longer had a mailbox by Ted’s workstation for somebody to slip a note into.
Was it possible, I wondered, that the members of the coop harbored resentment because I’d turned down what they all considered
a handsome promotion? Did they take my need to be my own boss as a personal rejection of them? If so, the partners had masked
their feelings well when I’d appeared at their mid-July meeting and informed them of my decision; they’d seemed genuinely
pleased when I asked if I could rent office space. But now that I thought of it, tonight wasn’t the first time I’d been left
out of their activities: nobody had told me about last Thursday’s poker game; nobody had invited me to go in on the pizza
that several of them had ordered while working late last Friday; my office no longer seemed to be a stop on the route for
people collecting people for a trip downhill to the Remedy.
Maybe all these years I’d mistaken what were essentially business relationships for friendships. Maybe now that I no longer
worked for the co-op those relationships would cease. Sure, old friends like Hank, Ted, and Rae would still come around, but
what about the others—Jack, Pam, Larry, Gloria, Mike? I didn’t regret my decision to fly solo, but it saddened me that it
might involve such a big trade-off.
* * *
Suits arrived at twenty to seven; I could identify him by the sound of his odd gait. “Back here in the kitchen,” I called.
A few seconds later he appeared in the doorway, his bruised face drawn, his suit rumpled, his shoulders sagging.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“It’s been a long day.” He came over to the table and slumped into the chair next to mine.
“Drink?”
“I could use a beer.”
I went to the fridge, got one out, and again marked the IOU column. When I handed the bottle to him, I asked, “So how was
Long Beach?”
“A pisser. My second-choice guy blew me off.” He sipped beer, set the bottle on the table. “Believe me, I know what his deal
is down there. It doesn’t come close to what I’m offering. He has to’ve been bought.” He leaned back in the chair, massaged
his temples with his thumb and forefinger.
“Suits, I talked with a number of people today. There’s something of a consensus about what’s going on.” Then I set forth
the theories, quoted from the tapes. “I need to spend some time with you, go over the information on your associates and turnarounds
that Dottie Collier sent me. And I need to talk with you about your personal life.”
He shook his head.
“Suits, isn’t it worth talking if we can stop this person?”
He got up and went around the table to the window. Stood with his back to me, looking out at the misted cityscape. How many
times in the years I’d worked here had I done the same? I’d brooded, analyzed, planned, suffered, and rejoiced at this window.
Finally he said, “It’s not that I’m hiding anything.”
“I know.”
“But I’ve never been able to talk about personal stuff, except to …”
I waited.
He turned and stared at me, intense eyes moving over my face. After a moment he stepped toward me and touched my cheek. His
fingers were dry; their effect on me was nothing more than the brush of autumn leaves. When he withdrew his hand, he frowned
down at it, as if he’d experienced the same sensation—one that he hadn’t expected. Then he nodded, a decision made.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Where?”
“There’s somebody I want you to meet.”
“Who?”
“We’ll go to your place first. Pack a bag—weekend clothes. Better be prepared for rain and cold, if what we ran into coming
up the coast is any example.”