“What would you do?”
I thought for a moment. “I’d like to try my hand at being a foot model. I’m told I have very lovely feet.”
“Who told you that?”
“A very nice Vietnamese woman who was giving me a pedicure.”
She sat back, stared at me for a long moment. “You never fail to astonish me.”
“You want to see?”
“God, no.” She turned to look out the front window for a moment, stared at the still-closed metal door. “So what should I be apologizing for?”
“I don’t know. I don’t do the whole accept-apology thing very well. I always want to say, ‘Forget the apology and just give me cash.’ ”
“For doubting you,” said Beth.
“Okay,” I said. “I accept.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“You were taking care of me the whole time. Even playing those tapes in court. They were as much for me as for the jury, weren’t they?”
“Can lawyers plead the Fifth Amendment?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s what we do, Beth. We take care of each other.”
“I don’t know where it came from, but I was just overwhelmed. I don’t remember ever feeling so emotionally fragile, so emotionally invested. I don’t ever remember feeling something that strong before.”
“Oh, no?”
She laughed. “You think different? When?”
“Think about it.”
“Victor, I don’t-”
“Hold on,” I said. “There’s the door.”
The big gray door opened a sliver. A guard walked through the opening. He took off his guard hat, wiped his brow with a forearm, put the guard hat back on just so. And then out stepped François Dubé.
I could sense Beth beside me, holding her breath.
François was dressed in a white shirt, open at the collar, and the pants from one of the suits he wore at the trial. He carried no suitcase; I suppose there was nothing inside worth taking with him. He shook the guard’s hand, looked around for a moment, waited for the guard to go back inside and close the door behind him. Then he took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, tapped one into his mouth, flicked a match to life, cupped his hands around the flame. He cut quite a dashing figure, did François, almost as if he were posing, like something out of a Godard film, Jean-Paul Belmondo in Breathless, rubbing his lower lip with his thumb.
And it didn’t take long for his Jean Seberg to arrive.
The black limousine turned in to the parking lot, passed right by us, slid to a stop in front of François. The back door opened from the inside, before the chauffeur could do it himself, and out popped – who else? – Velma Takahashi.
“I guess the papers got signed,” I said as François tossed away his cigarette and the two embraced.
“I don’t understand,” said Beth.
“Her divorce papers with Takahashi,” I said. “I suppose, after the verdict, she agreed to a quick settlement just to get it over with. Now there’s no more reason to hide in the shadows. She loves him. She always loved him. She gave him to Leesa to keep him for herself while she married Takahashi and his money. And everything’s worked better than she could have hoped. She’s free of Takahashi, she’s loaded down with Takahashi money, and Leesa’s out of the picture. She can spend the rest of her life with François, at least until she gets bored again.”
“That’s why she tried to set up the fake story with Sonenshein.”
“To get François out,” I said. “Even though she thought he really had done it, she missed the big galoot.”
“And he loves her,” she said softly.
“So it appears, or her new bank account. It’s hard to tell when looking into the lifestyles of the sick and self-absorbed.”
We watched quietly as the two, still embracing, maneuvered themselves into the open door of the limousine. Doors slammed with resonant thunks, the limousine pulled away. Beth wiped at her eye.
“I still feel something. Is that crazy?”
“Yes. He has our bill, but it’s her money, so I don’t expect we’ll see any of what he still owes us. Nothing has a lower priority than paying yesterday’s lawyer.”
“What about his daughter?” she said.
“You figure it out. His first call was to Velma. He’s not the type to hang around for his daughter.”
“The poor little girl.”
“Remember Gullicksen, Leesa’s divorce attorney? I sent him to the Cullens, along with copies of the tapes. They’re going to fight for custody.”
“Is he going to fight them back?”
“Let’s hope not.”
“Victor, you don’t know. It’s her father. She’ll miss him forever.”
“Probably, yes. I’ve spoken to the Cullens. They said the daughter is going to need some support. The Cullens were looking at the Big Sister program. I gave them your name.”
“Victor.”
“You stuck me with Daniel Rose. I’m returning the favor.”
“I won’t be able to help.”
“Sure you will.”
“She’ll miss him forever. It will never go away.”
“But you’ll still be able to help.”
“I don’t think so. I’m all wrong for it.” She paused for a moment. “Before, you asked about my father.”
“Did I?”
“I don’t think I ever told you about him.”
“No.”
“I don’t think I ever told anybody.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I do.”
“Want to go somewhere?”
“No, this is fine,” she said. “We might be a while.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “But first, it’s sort of hot. Do you mind if I take off my pants?”
79
Tommy’s High Ball.
I suppose I had become something of a regular, because as soon as I poked my head in the door, the bartender shouted out, “Yo, Pork Chop, your factotum is here.”
I looked at Whitey, standing stoop-shouldered behind the bar. “Factotum?”
“I call it like I see it,” he said.
“I’m not even sure if I know what it is.”
“You don’t need to know,” said Whitey. “But you sure is it.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I think.”
I turned to the booth closest to the door. Horace T. Grant was deep into a game of chess with his usual whipping post. He looked up from his board.
“I’m in the middle of something here,” he said. “Can you wait a minute?”
“We’ve got to go,” I said.
“Simpson,” he said to his opponent, “we’ll have to resume this exercise in controlled mutilation when I return.”
“Oh, no, we won’t. You play or you resign.”
“Resign?” Horace sputtered with indignation. “I have you on the ropes, old man. If you didn’t take so long to plot your foolish moves, I’d have beaten you twenty minutes ago.”
“Just taking my time, setting my traps. My position’s got possibilities.”
“And all of them calamitous,” said Horace.
“Play or lose,” said Simpson.
Horace looked up at me. I nodded to the door. His shoulders slumped as he tipped over his own king.
Horace’s opponent let out a yap and raised his hands high. “I got you, Pork Chop, yes I did. Got you clean and fair. You surrendered to the overwhelming possibilities of my position.”
“Enjoy it,” said Horace as he stood. “It’s going to have to last you another twenty years.”
On the way out of the bar, Horace said to me, “This better be good.”
“Oh, it’s good,” I said.
My car was parked outside. Isabel Chandler, the Social Services caseworker, sat in the front passenger seat. And in the back, in a car seat Isabel had provided, sat Daniel Rose.
When Horace was seated beside Daniel, I leaned in the car door. “Horace, do you know Daniel?”
“I’ve seen the boy in the neighborhood,” said Horace. “How you doing there, son?”
“Okay,” said Daniel.
“I haven’t seen you around much lately,” said Horace.