8
I don’t usually care much about the package in which money comes. Give it to me in a fancy embossed envelope, a brown paper bag, a check that doesn’t bounce, give it to me any way you want, so long as you give it. But I have to admit that when I returned from family court and found a package of money waiting for me in my office, it was the package itself, rather than the cash, that really caught my interest, being it was five foot eight and blond.
She was waiting in the little waiting area in front of my secretary’s desk, sitting like a mannequin from Nordstrom. Her back was straight, her ankles crossed, her handbag matched her pumps matched her pearls, oh, my. In her beige linen suit and freakishly unfurrowed brow, she looked cool as cash, even in our overly warm offices, even on the rickety plastic chairs we left out for those waiting to meet with us. Her hair was done the way they do it in only the best cutting joints, as if each strand had been individually washed and colored and trimmed. In all my life, I’d never been as pampered as one lock of her hair. And her lips were plummy.
“Mr. Carl,” she said in a soft, breathy voice, standing up when I entered the offices.
“That’s right.”
“Do you have a minute?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Could I meet with you,” she said, glancing toward my secretary, Ellie, “in private?”
“Yes, you can,” I said, and then I gave Ellie a raise of the eyebrows, a look-what-the-cat-dragged-in look.
The woman’s big blue eyes took in the whole of my office as she sat in one of my client chairs. There wasn’t much to see. The walls were scuffed, the large brown filing cabinet was dented, piles of files teetered in the corner. Behind where I sat, the small framed photograph of Ulysses S. Grant was askew. In front of me, my desktop was its usual haphazard heap of paper. My first impulse was to apologize for the state of my office, but I stifled it. A woman like this would have been welcome in any lawyer’s office in the city, no matter how ritzy the digs or high the hourly fee. She had chosen mine to step into, and it wasn’t because of the décor.
“Mr. Carl, you had a meeting two days ago.”
“I had a number of meetings two days ago,” I said.
“This was one in which a sum of money was discussed.”
“You’ll have to be more precise, Miss…”
“Mrs.,” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “Of course.” The ring was the size of a small dog. “But I didn’t catch your name.”
“No, you did not,” she said, and as she said it, she crossed her legs and smoothed flat her linen skirt. That’s when I noticed the tattooed vine of thorns that wound around her ankle.
I liked it, yes I did. I should say that I was more than impressed by the whole package, even if it was obviously out of my league, but it was the tattooed vine of thorns that really got me going, and not just because it was quite the nice slim canvas on which the artist had worked. That it was still there, for me to see, amidst the rest of her high-priced look, was a statement in itself. The tattoo was from an earlier, wilder time, but she hadn’t had it removed. It was her way of saying to the world that her voice might not be naturally breathy, her hair might not be naturally blond, her lips might not be naturally puffy, her eyes might not be naturally blue, there might not be an inch of her body that wasn’t varnished and buffed to perfection, but there was still some part of her untamed by money.
“You had a meeting two days ago,” she said, “in which you agreed to represent a certain party on condition of the payment of a retainer.”
“You’re talking about François Dubé.”
She pulled the handbag onto her lap, opened it, lifted out a rather thick envelope, and plopped it onto my desk. “I hope this is sufficient.”
While restraining myself from grabbing the envelope and dancing a jig as I threw the money up in the air so that it fell gaily all about me like confetti, I said, “Is that the ten thousand?”
“Nine thousand nine hundred.”
“My price was ten.”
“I didn’t think a hundred mattered.”
“Oh, it matters,” I said.
She let a trace of amusement curve her lips and then reached into her handbag for her wallet. From the wallet she pulled out five new twenties as if she were pulling out lint and gently tucked them inside the envelope.
“Although, to be honest,” I said, “I’d prefer a check.”
“Really? I thought you’d be a cash-and-carry type of fellow.”
Suddenly I wasn’t so entranced. Some people act like they’re doing you the favor of your life when they pay you what you’re owed.
“You thought wrong,” I said. “Cash creates all kinds of accounting problems, cash deposits and withdrawals make the bank uncomfortable, as you surely know, since you withdrew only as much as you could without triggering the bank’s reporting requirements. But whatever you might have thought, we run an honest business here. We like our funds accounted for. I’ll need a check.”
“Will a cashier’s check do?”
“Personal check.”
“That won’t be possible.”
I sat back, lifted a foot onto the edge of my desk, looked at her very carefully. She had been rude to me, and I didn’t like that, but she wasn’t enjoying herself. There was something wrong. “Who are you to François Dubé?”
“It’s not important.”
“For me to accept the funds, I need to know why you are paying his retainer.”
“I have my reasons.”
“You’re going to have to tell them to me.”
She lifted the envelope off the desk. “I’m not here to talk. Here’s the money, Mr. Carl. Take it or leave it.”
“I think I’ll leave it.”
She threw her head back as if she had smelled something repugnant. Me, I supposed.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Whatever,” I said, dropping my foot down, turning my attention to the mess on my desktop. I pulled out a piece of paper, some meaningless letter, and took a pen to it. “My secretary will see you out.”
“But what about your client?”
“He’s not my client until I get paid.”
“And I’m trying to pay you.”
I looked up. “But you’re not trying hard enough. Why don’t we start with names? Welcome to the firm of Derringer and Carl. I’m Victor Carl, and you are…”
“Velma Takahashi,” she said.
I leaned back. “Very good. Takahashi, huh? How do I know that name?”
“My husband’s deals are often in the papers.”
“Samuel Takahashi, the real estate mogul?”
“Not quite a mogul.”
“Quite enough. And you don’t want to pay with a check, which means you don’t want a record of the payment that might get back to your husband.”
“Did someone beat you in the face with a clever stick, Mr. Carl? Is that why your cheek is swollen?”
“This is fun, isn’t it, communicating like human beings? I ask pertinent questions, you give me reasonable facsimiles of answers along with your insults. Next thing you know, we’ll be square-dancing together.”
“I don’t do-si-do.”
“People do all sorts of things they never expected. Your being in my office, for one. Now, Mrs. Takahashi, what is your relationship with François Dubé?”
“I have no relationship with François Dubé. He’s the worst type of scoundrel.”
“But you’re paying ten thousand dollars to get him out of jail.”
“My feelings for him, however bitter they may be, are beside the point. I was a friend of Leesa’s since well before her marriage.”
“And you think it a friendly gesture to pay for the defense of the man convicted of her murder.”
“I think it’s what she would have wanted.”
“Now, that’s a lie. I don’t half believe a word you’ve said from the moment I laid eyes on you, Mrs. Takahashi, including the Mrs. and the Takahashi, but this I know is a lie. Leesa Dubé was in a bitter custody fight; she was making brutal accusations against her husband. The one thing that would have cheered her about her own murder was that because of it her husband was sentenced to spend the rest of his life behind bars.”