I was more than familiar with the Right Honorable Judge Mandoski. Before the Suffolk Superior Court took up residence in the federal court building, His Honor was the ruling titan of the equity session held in the east wing of the olde Suffolk County Courthouse. I believe the first case pleaded in that courtroom was pleaded by Cicero personally-quite possibly before Judge Mandoski. He was a crusty old tyrant, who peered through glasses that looked like thermopane. He had an acerbic wit that could strip an argument down to its naked essence and leave counsel bleeding from lashes to the ego. I could show the scars.
Gene was wrapping up a plea for a preliminary injunction. His argument was pockmarked with craters created by scud missiles hurled from the bench. Defense counsel would have enjoyed the bombardment but for the realization that as soon as she rose to defend, the missile launcher would be turned in her direction.
At four o’clock precisely-and typical of the old boy-out of the clear blue, without a prior hint of which side was ahead on points, Mandoski, J., awarded the decision to Gene.
I caught Gene at counsel table, somewhat stunned but just beginning to realize that he’d won.
“Congratulations, Gene.”
“Mike. You got my message. What, were you in the courthouse?”
“Close enough. Hey, you had the old boy eating out of your hand.”
“Actually he was eating my hand. Let’s get the hell out of here before he comes back for dessert.”
We found a spot at the end of the corridor that leads to the world beyond the realm of Mandoski.
“What have you got for me, Gene?”
His voice came down to a lawyer’s whisper.
“This is the damndest thing, Mike. You wanted the names of the limited partners behind that apartment house in the South End. I sent interrogatories to the general partner, Robert Loring. He refused to answer. OK, I figure I’ll get him at the deposition. So, he refuses to answer the question at the deposition. I take him to court on a motion to compel him to answer. It’s a mail-in motion. I’ve got a right to the information. Get this. The judge denies the motion.”
“On what grounds?”
“No grounds. He just writes ‘Denied’ and scribbles his initials on the motion and calls the next case. I say, ‘I beg your pardon, Your Honor.’ He says, ‘You’re out of order, Mr. Martino. I’ve called the next case.’ This is crazy, Mikey. They’re guarding the names of these limited partners like the recipe for Coke.”
“So it would seem. Who was the judge?”
“Judge Montark. You know him?”
“I’ve been before him a couple of times. Very low-key. He’s always seemed straight.”
“He did to me, too, until this. I’m sorry I don’t have anything for you, Mike.”
“Thanks for trying, Gene. Actually, it helps. I owe you one.”
It did help. It told me that the usual channels of court procedure were, for some reason, closed. If I was going to get the information, it would have to be through less orthodox methods.
21
It was Wednesday evening about seven-thirty. I’d told Lanny Wells I’d pick her up for our first official date at eight o’clock, which was rapidly approaching. I’d fumbled through two shirts and four ties before coming up with the perfect combination. Then I threw the tie out altogether.
It was not in the least calming to realize that my current state of advanced jitters was my own fault. I’d spent what seemed like decades squeezing eight days into every week just to keep even with my self-imposed demands. The last thing on my weekly list, and the one that always got pushed off the list, was the kind of boy-girl mixing that keeps most people’s lives in balance.
The last serious date I could remember was with Emily Snipes. I’m not demeaning it. She was the cutest girl in kindergarten. It went nowhere, however. The ardor had cooled by first grade.
The clear result of an imbalanced social life was a case of nerves that for some reason beat my usual pretrial shakes. I was well beyond the age of acne panic, but I had so many razor cuts that I looked like I’d tried to kiss a pissed-off alley cat.
With the full and certain conviction that I would probably find a way to mess things up, I put the tie back on, took it off, and drove to Lanny’s apartment house on Commonwealth Avenue around Clarendon.
Without having much to measure it by, I had the feeling that Lanny and I had probably come as close to developing a feeling for each other, at least from my perspective, as two people can in casual meetings over a piano at Daddy’s.
I hit the button for apartment 603 at about eight, give or take four seconds. The warring hoard of butterflies in my stomach could have defoliated an apple orchard.
Then the door opened, and Lanny beamed a smile that blew everything out of my consciousness except the incredible thought that this angel had chosen to spend the evening with just me. The butterflies scattered. I burst into a grin that just seemed to bubble out of everything within me.
She gave me a little kiss on the cheek as I took her hand. I tried to remember the exact date-because I didn’t ever want to forget it.
She wore a deep-blue dress with some kind of glitter around the shoulders. It was the first time I’d seen her hair up, which to my untrained eye added a sweet sophistication to natural beauty. When we came together, her three-inch spike heels brought her just under my cheekbone.
I held her hand on the way down the steps, and I was still holding it while I opened the passenger door of my blue Corvette-my one excess in life. When she held my hand a little longer than necessary, I realized that the primary love of my life had been replaced. I apologized to my Corvette.
For some reason, God chose to remove the clouds and sweep the sky with stars. A new moon stayed ahead of us on the drive up the coast along the North Shore, above Boston. I realized by the time we passed through the chain of seacoast towns from Marblehead and Salem to Beverly and Beverly Farms that never had a stomachful of butterflies raised a ruckus more needlessly. We fell into conversation and laughs and the comfort of each other’s company as if all this had been waiting to happen.
We arrived in Manchester-by-the-Sea a little before nine. There was a little time to watch the waves spread white foam across Singing Beach before dinner. I mentioned that it got its name from the sound that particular sand makes when you walk on it in bare feet. We agreed to test it next summer.
Danny had held our reservations at the Circolo. We were a little late, but he welcomed us, as he did everyone, as if our presence had made his entire evening. He had a table by the fireplace for us, and insisted on choosing the wine himself.
I discovered through dinner that among the many loves we had in common, excellent food was high on the list. Calories and cholesterol played no part in our selections, guided by Danny’s intuitive suggestions, and every inspired opus of his chef brought unabashed smiles and raves from us both.
To improve on perfection, a pianist close by was giving the most tender, loving treatment to some of Jerome Kern’s and Cole Porter’s gifts to humanity. Before the final coffee, he smiled at us and nodded toward the small dance floor. There was no one there, but the lights were dim, and we had never danced together-until then.
It was midnight when he played “The Way You Look Tonight.” I think I was born knowing those beautiful Dorothy Fields lyrics, but I asked Lanny how it went. She sang it to me in a whisper. When she sang those moving lyrics, I could scarcely breathe. We danced the last chorus in a kiss.
It was nearly one when we bundled up and left the warmth of the fireplace. The main street of Manchester was vacant except for my trusty Corvette, waiting about fifty feet from the door. A light powdering of snow had brought back an almost Christmas softness.
I clicked open the doors of the car and let Lanny slide into the passenger seat. Just before I closed the door, she got that look that says “I forgot my…” In this case it was her sweater over the back of one of the chairs at the table. I said, “Stay there. I’ll get it.”