“You’re wrong, Ma,” Max mumbled as his eyes shut. His brain wanted to visit a different part of the galaxy; a place with fewer bomb craters. “Women and children need a man—” he called back to earth.
“A good man, Max,” his mother said. “You rest. But if they don’t have a good man they’re better off alone.”
“No,” he told her as he launched into cool black space.
“We agree to disagree, Maxy,” she said. He fell toward the stars.
Max woke up with a clear head and a nosebleed. He phoned Brillstein, but the lawyer was out; Max left a message. He dozed lightly during the rest of the night replaying yesterday’s conversations; by dawn, he was convinced that Debby and Brillstein were up to something.
On his morning rounds the resident told Max he was better, ready to go home tomorrow, although he’d have to take it easy for a while. A psychiatric resident came by half an hour later and said he had to ask some routine questions because of the head trauma. It sounded like a lie. Max pretended his head was aching and asked him to come back later. The psychiatrist left.
Within five minutes Brillstein appeared in an excessively tight brown suit. The lawyer entered with his usual bustle. He scanned the room, obviously empty except for Max, and said, “You’re alone. Good.” Brillstein moved to the foot of the bed. He shifted his weight from one shoe to another restlessly. From his still position on the bed, Brillstein seemed to Max to be a skittish brown bird. “They want a meeting. About you, Mrs. Gordon and Mrs. Fransisca.” Brillstein’s head had been down while he searched for something in his breast pocket. The jacket was drawn so tight across the chest that his sleeve rode up nearly to the elbow and the right vent billowed like a skirt. “I just want to get a feel for what kind of numbers we might consider acceptable,” Brillstein said as he produced a small spiral notebook and a ballpoint pen. He looked at Max expectantly, a waiter ready to take his order.
“It’s what you’re going to get Nan and Carla that’s important,” Max said. “I’ve got plenty from the partnership insurance—”
“Shh! Shh! Shh!” Brillstein hissed with vehemence. He scolded Max with the ballpoint pen, shaking it at him. “Don’t talk like that. You’re not a well man. This whole experience has been horrific for you. We don’t know how long it will be before you’ll be able to earn a living again even leaving aside the loss of your firm’s key man.”
“Key man…?” Max pictured a fat man in medieval dress; and around his creased neck, he imagined a dazzling golden key dangling from a chain.
“Key man — Mr. Gordon. He brought in the clients and you did the designs. Maybe ‘key man’ is the wrong term from your point of view, but he did bring in the business. Obviously there would be no business to bring in if you weren’t doing the designing.”
Max remembered Jeff vividly: in his chair at his desk, swiveling at Max and then away, talking cheerfully to the phone, “We can do it — no problem. You’ll be as happy as Mr. Ben-David,” rolling his eyes at Max as he turned in his direction, then smiling at the ugly FIT buildings across the avenue as he swung away, always coaxing, always talking, keeping the clients busy with their greed for more space, more plumbing, more closets, more things…
“It’s so simple to you,” Max commented.
Brillstein wrinkled his pale forehead and comically raised his skinny eyebrows up to the lines. “Simple…?”
“Jeff brought in the business. He died. So I had to close the business.”
“Mr. Klein, I know you’re a sensitive and honest man. But those are the facts. No matter what other reasons there may be, the fact is: the plane crash brought an end to your business. Under the law you’re entitled to be compensated for such a devastating consequence. ”
“I have been compensated. I got the insurance money.”
“That isn’t admissible to a jury. As far as they would know you lost your partner and your business and that’s it.”
“It’s all a lie.” Max smiled wanly. His head no longer hurt. He noticed the absence of pain and then he realized that his sight, which had been doubled for two days after the accident and blurry since, was suddenly clear. He could see distant objects well. He sat up with excitement. He scanned the low buildings near the water and saw them first as shapes: rectangle, square, triangular lot; then in height: five stories, four, double-height warehouse; then the details of their condition: bad, bad, bad. Nothing to look at. If only his room faced Manhattan he could enjoy its variety of size, and at night, wonder about the life of its lights.
“It’s not lying,” Brillstein said, flitting back and forth along the foot of Max’s bed. “I don’t want you to think that there’s anything dishonest about your compensation. That’s in your head. I don’t know about your head, I’m not a psychologist. In fact — speaking of psychologists — I need you to do some psychological testing to strengthen our case. I need you to take a simple test, it’s really just answering a questionnaire. I can have the hospital psychologist do it if you like.”
“Sure,” Max said. He was up to this struggle. He looked at Brillstein and smiled.
“Good, good, good.” Brillstein flipped his notebook shut. He put a finger on his bare forehead; the skin crinkled around it as he frowned. “Did we discuss a figure? I don’t think so. It probably isn’t important, but I just need to know when I talk with them. Does a two-million-dollar settlement seem low to you?”
“You’re kidding,” Max said.
“Too low?” Brillstein said fast.
“Low!” Max chuckled. “It’s ridiculously high.”
Brillstein relaxed. “We’re talking about your expected after-tax earnings over your prime earning years. The Nutty Nick stores deal alone was a million-dollar loss.”
“We didn’t have that job.” Max grunted. “Aren’t they laughing you out of their offices with this stuff? I mean, my share of Nutty Nick wouldn’t be a million-dollar net.”
Brillstein had brought his forefinger down to his lips and he nibbled at the nail. “No?” he mumbled and then flipped his notebook open. “In his deposition the CEO of Nutty Nick says your and Mr. Gordon’s fee would have been two million dollars over the course of the years of work he had planned. You were a fifty-fifty partnership, correct? ”
“But we didn’t have that job. He hadn’t seen—”
Brillstein shook his pad. “In the deposition he says he planned to hire you, but he couldn’t because of the accident.” Brillstein smiled so widely he showed teeth. A calm happiness raised his lips. His eyes sparkled. “It’s a strong case,” he said without bluster.