Nathan looks at him. "You tell me."
"That fat fuck," Schreck says, spraying pretzel. "Fuck him. We don't need him. It's you and me, Nathan. And Milton. We all have better things to be doing now."
Nathan halfheartedly raises his glass. "Okay, Oliver."
"So who are you meeting?" Schreck asks.
"Some bad guy is threatening to pay my retainer."
Schreck turns, elbows cocked on the bar, and surveys the room.
"Which one is it?"
"He's still in the Tombs. He's sending someone."
"Last week Johnny tried to get me out to Rikers by promising me a pair of tickets to a samba fest. That or ten pounds of veal from his brother the butcher." He drinks his drink. "But hey, who cares. Screw Johnny and his family. With Milton doing that rape case now-"
Nathan raises his head. "Rape?"
"What do you mean? That Riverside Drive thing."
"What's Milton got to do with-"
"You know, that advertising exec getting snatched jogging along the river, pulled into the trees. They banged the shit out of-"
"I know the-"
"What do they call it? Whupping? Whipping?"
"Wilding."
"Good term. Fits them. Fucking animals." Schreck's masticating jaws pause at their work, and his eyes, studying Nathan's face, betray the rules of a new game. "And where's Isabel by the way? Shitty time to disappear. She's not answering her beeper. "
A silence between them. Nathan believes Schreck is examining him out of the corner of his eye. He is sure of it. Or is he? Selfconsciously he covers his wrist with his hand. Schreck is waiting. Schreck, he is certain, is calculating.
"Isabel-" Schreck begins.
"But what does Milton-"
"What are you talking about? Don't you talk to your own father? It was two days ago. It's been all over the news for over forty-eight hours. Milton Stein of Stein and Stein and-"
"Forty-eight hours? Where have I been?" "A good question."
"And what do you mean Stein and Stein and-?"
Schreck throws back his head and dro s in a handful of pretzels. "Look, you need to expand your horizons. I'm telling you that store-front office in Washington Heights is a great idea.
You need fresh blood."
Nathan, smiling strangely, looks past Oliver into the middle distance.
"You should really listen to me, Nathan."
"I'm listening. Who asked him?"
"Who asked who?"
"My father, Oliver. Riverside Drive. I thought those kids all signed lawyers already."
"Did. They did all sign lawyers. But which lawyers, Nathan. The question is did they sign the right lavryer."
"Which one, Oliver, which one is it?"
Schreck beams with mischief. He throws in another fistful of pretzels and chews slowly, savoring the moment. He swallows, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and lifts his glass. "Williams," he says, throwing back the shot.
"Williams. Jesus. "
Schreck lifts his hand for a high five, but Nathan's arm is stayed by his drink.
"Fucking A," Schreck says, his hand chopping the air. "I mean wouldn't you know it? The fucking ring-leader. Christ, Nathan, today the answering service had to give a whole operator to our line alone. The Today show. Charlie Rose. Ted Koppel himself called to get him for Nigbtline. They all think Milton's some vault of knowledge about the seething rage in Harlem, the war between the races, the continuous pulse of violence and greed undercutting urban America. What did Koppel say? Martin Luther King's true legacy? So this poor advertising chick goes logging one night to blow off steam, she blew a multi-million-dollar account, whatever, she gets on the walkway in the eighties, not so smart maybe, but hey, it's America, why shouldn't she? And they sweep down on her at 102nd like a pack of wolves and drag her kicking and screaming. Christ, Nathan, one of them jammed a fucking Coke bottle-"
"Oliver." Heads are turning down the bar. Though it is, Nathan realizes, a pot of gold. All this will be, he himself will be, very public.
Schreck lowers his chin but not his voice. "I mean, just think about it for a minute, Nathan. Some fat Jewish lawyer driving around in his Rolls rising to the defense of some poor, abused, fatherless, fifteen-year-old walking time bomb, a vacuum of power venting his rage on some young white advertising-exec prodigy, the symbol of the white marketing establishment. Can't you see it, Nathan? Oprah. Donahue. The Daily News wants your father to write a running column during the whole thing. But of course he can't. It's client-attorney privilege. It's conflict of interest."
Nathan is looking at him. "You have it all figured out."
"Me?" Schreck says, his hands spread on his chest in fake humility. "What's to figure? The animals went down like a line of dominoes. They tripped all over themselves to confess. One of them was still wearing the girl's Harvard sweatshirt, her panties practically hanging out of his belt. I mean, come on. Even Milton agrees. "
"You talked to Milton?"
"Of course I talked to Milton. Didn't you talk to Milton? Don't you talk to your own father?"
Nathan, lifting his drink, hides behind his glass.
"I've never seen him so excited. Who gives a shit what they do to Williams. It's what Milton's going to say. It's what he's going to look like. It's the exposure, Nathan. It's all about exposure."
The barrage of thoughts incites red patches high on Nathan's cheeks. He sets down his glass and touches, again, the wound on his wrist, as if to connect the worry itself, news of Isabel hitting the streets, the papers, with his base instinct: he is, after all, still Milton's son, territorial and protective. The timing is bad. He knows this rape case will turn out to have been everything. The old life will have ended here, and the new life will have begun. Isabel will be a bad coincidence.
Schreck has rested a hand on Nathan's shoulder. "About that storefront. I was talking to someone today-"
"Give it a rest."
"No pressure or nothing, Nathan, but it's a guaranteed gold mine. Got people working on things already. Especially after they see your dad on the tube, they'll flood that office thinking Stein and Stein and Schreck are direct emissaries from the Vatican wangling truth and justice and green cards for all. I need you. I need your Spanish."
“You need."
"I'll give you a cut. A percentage off the top. Right off the top. In or out?"
"A percentage. Stein and Stein and Schreck, and you're going to give me a-"
At the faint, almost reluctant bleat from his beeper, Nathan peers into his jacket:
I knew you'd be late. You promised. You
– falls off the edge of the screen Just as the beeper vibrates again for the second installment, but Nathan, not bothering, rebuttons his jacket.
Schreck jabs the air. "Was that Johnny?
"What? Yeah," Nathan says, holding his beeper still.
Nathan shrugs.
"You've spent the money." Schreck looks at him. "Am I right? Tell me, am I right or what-?"
"Their boy has ten kilos of coke under their floor, Oliver. What are they going to do, sue us? Sue the big-shot law firm of Stein and Stein and Schreck? Sue the Pope's epistolary saviors?"
"I don't think-"
"Oliver, when they get to the part where they say they want a lawyer, just give them your card."
Pretzel dust rimming his lips, Schreck laughs and lifts his hand in a gesture of concession to Nathan's parting volley, allowing the matter to be put to bed where it belongs, save a last shot of his own, "I don't think they'd bother, Nathan. Because I'll tell you, between you and me," he says, and pokes Nathan in the ribs, "I think they'd rather just kill you."
Turning and pointing, as though at a passing plane, or a shooting star, Schreck waves down the bartender.
Nathan watches him, sober, suddenly. Suddenly, not even tired. “Oliver, what did you come down here for? Why did you want to see me? What couldn't wait?"