The cases came and went.
Late in the morning he had already called twenty-nine cases and he asked the bridge — his court officer, in her crisp white shirt — if there was any news on the case of the tightrope walker. The bridge told him that it was all the buzz, that the walker was in the system, it seemed, and he would likely come up in the late afternoon. She wasn’t sure what the charges were, possibly criminal trespass and reckless endangerment. The D.A. was already deep in discussion with the tightrope walker, she said. It was likely that the walker would plead to everything if given a good enough deal. The D.A. was keen on some good publicity, it seemed. He wanted this one to go smoothly. The only hitch might be if the walker was held over until night court.
— So we have a chance?
— Pretty good, I’d say. If they push him through quick enough.
— Excellent. Lunch, then?
— Yes, Your Honor.
— We’ll reconvene at two-fifteen.
THERE WAS ALWAYS Forlini’s, or Sal’s, or Carmine’s, or Sweet’s, or Sloppy Louie’s, or Oscar’s Delmonico, but he had always liked Harry’s. It was the farthest away from Centre Street, but it didn’t matter — the quick cab ride relaxed him. He got out on Water Street and walked to Hanover Square, stood outside and thought, This is my place. It wasn’t because of the brokers. Or the bankers. Or the traders. It was Harry himself, all Greek, good manners, arms stretched wide. Harry had worked his way through the American Dream and come to the conclusion that it was composed of a good lunch and a deep red wine that could soar. But Harry could also make a steak sing, pull a trumpet line out of a string of spaghetti. He was often down in the kitchen, slinging fire. Then he would step out of his apron, put on his suit jacket, slick back his hair, and walk up into the restaurant with composure and style. He had a special inclination toward Soderberg, though neither man knew why. Harry would linger a moment longer with him at the bar, or slide up a great bottle and they’d sit underneath the monk murals, passing the time together. Perhaps because they were the only two in the place who weren’t deep in the stock business. Outsiders to the clanging bells of finance. They could tell how the day was going in the markets by the decibel level around them.
On the wall of Harry’s, the brokerage houses had private lines connected to a battery of telephones on the wall. Guys from Kidder, Peabody over there, Dillon, Read there, First Boston over there, Bear Stearns at the end of the bar, L. F. Rothschild by the murals. It was big money, all the time. It was elegant too. And well mannered. A club of privilege. Yet it didn’t cost a fortune. A man could escape with his soul intact.
He sidled up to the bar and called Harry across, told him about the walker, how he’d just missed him early in the morning, how the kid had been arrested and was coming through the system soon.
— He broke into the towers, Har.
— So … he’s ingenious.
— But what if he had fallen?
— The ground’d hardly cushion the fall, Sol.
Soderberg sipped his wine: the deep red heft of it rose to his nose.
— My point is, Har, he could’ve killed someone. Not just himself. Could’ve made hamburger of someone …
— Hey, I need a good line man. Maybe he could work for me.
— There’s probably twelve, thirteen counts against him.
— All the more reason. He could be my sous chef. He could prepare the steamers. Strip the lentils. Dive into the soup from high above.
Harry pulled deeply on a cigar and blew the smoke to the ceiling.
— I don’t even know if I’m going to get him, said Soderberg. He may be held over until night court.
— Well, if you do get him, give him my business card. Tell him there’s a steak on the house. And a bottle of Château Clos de Sarpe. Grand Cru, 1964.
— He’ll hardly tightrope after that.
Harry’s face creased into a suggested map of what it would become years later: full, sprightly, generous.
— What is it about wine, Harry?
— What d’ya mean?
— What is it that cures us?
— Made to glorify the gods. And dull the idiots. Here, have a little more.
They clinked glasses in the slant of light that came through the upper windows. It was as if, looking out, they might’ve seen the walk re-enacted up there, on high. It was America, after all. The sort of place where you should be allowed to walk as high as you wanted. But what if you were the one walking underneath? What if the tightrope walker really had fallen? It was quite possible that he could have killed not just himself, but a dozen people below. Recklessness and freedom — how did they become a cocktail? It was always his dilemma. The law was a place to protect the powerless, and also to circumscribe the most powerful. But what if the powerless didn’t deserve to be walking underneath? It sometimes put him in mind of Joshua. Not something he liked thinking about, not the loss at least, the terrible loss. It brought too much heartache. Pierced him. He had to learn that his son was gone. That was the extent of it. In the end Joshua had been a steward, a custodian of the truth. He had joined up to represent his country and came home to lay Claire flat with grief. And to lay him flat also. But he didn’t show it. He never could. He would weep in the bath of all places, but only when the water was running. Solomon, wise Solomon, man of silence. There were some nights he kept the drain open and just let the water run.
He was the son of his son — he was here, he was left behind.
Little things got to him. The mitzvah of maakeh. Build a fence around your roof lest someone should fall from it. He questioned why he had bought the toy soldiers all those years ago. He fretted over the fact that he’d made Joshua learn “The Star-Spangled Banner” on the piano. He wondered if, when he taught the boy to play chess, he had somehow instilled a battle mentality? Attack along the diagonals, son. Never allow a back-rank mate. There must have been somewhere that he’d hard-wired the boy. Still, the war had been just, proper, right. Solomon understood it in all its utility. It protected the very cornerstones of freedom. It was fought for the very ideals that were under assault in his court every day. It was quite simply the way in which America protected itself. A time to kill and a time to heal. And yet sometimes he wanted to agree with Claire that war was just an endless factory of death; it made other men rich, and their son had been dispatched to open the gates, a rich boy himself. Still, it was not something he could afford to think of. He had to be solid, firm, a pillar. He seldom talked about Joshua, even to Claire. If there was anyone to talk to, it would be Harry, who knew a thing or two about longing and belonging, but it wasn’t something to talk about right now. He was careful, Soderberg, always careful. Maybe too careful, he thought. He sometimes wished he could let it all out: I’m the son of my son, Harry, and my son’s dead.