Firm Ambitions Page 4

  Benny is my best friend and soul mate. We started off together as junior associates in the Chicago offices of Abbott & Windsor. A couple years after I left Abbott & Windsor, he left to teach law at De Paul. Last December, he was offered a faculty position at Washington University’s School of Law. I told him he was an idiot not to accept the offer. Although I had pretty much decided by then to move back to St. Louis, I still meant what I told him. Benny took the job and moved to St. Louis two months before I did. Now he jokingly claims that the whole thing was a ploy to find Ozzie a home in St. Louis.

  Meanwhile, I was missing Ozzie terribly. With my work and other commitments, I wasn’t able to see him anywhere near often enough. So Benny and I had decided to try our hand at matchmaking after softball practice.

  “I didn’t have time to pick up any food,” I told my mother as I lifted the bag of softball equipment. “I’ll take you out to dinner after Benny leaves.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’ve got stuffed cabbage in the refrigerator.” She now made her stuffed cabbage with ground turkey meat. “It’ll take a minute to heat it up.”

  “Mom, it’s my turn tonight, and I’m taking us out to dinner.

  I took the duffel bag of softball equipment down the stairs to the basement and lugged it into one of the back storage rooms. Our basement had terrified and tantalized me as a child. A creaky wooden staircase with handrails on either side descended into what seemed, at least back then, a haunted house of blue pilot lights, spiderwebs in the corners of low ceilings, and camphor-scented clothing hanging in garment bags like cadavers. Each of the three prior owners had expanded the house, and each time a new foundation had added yet another basement hallway and set of storage rooms. I spent hours as a child back in that maze of little rooms beyond the staircase, poking around and opening up and peering into the foot lockers and storage boxes in each room. In fact, I knew my way around so well that even now, so many years later, I didn’t need a light to find my way back to the storage room.

  As I stashed the bag of equipment in the corner of the room and turned to go, my foot bumped against something. Reaching overhead, I found the pull string and turned on the light. I stared down at my father’s battered shoe-shine kit. I smiled as I kneeled beside it. Father’s Day. Back when we were in elementary school, Ann and I would sneak down to the basement early on that special Sunday morning, unload the black Kiwi polish and the brushes and the rags from that wooden shoeshine box, and shine our daddy’s shoes. Then we’d carry them proudly into our parents’ bedroom with shouts of “Happy Father’s Day!” And now, more than twenty years later, I opened that same battered box. There was still a tin of Kiwi polish inside the box, along with a worn-out brush and a couple of stiff rags stained black. The black polish inside the Kiwi tin was dried and cracked. My eyes watered as I closed the lid.

  I must have been in the basement much longer than I realized, because as I came up the stairs I heard Benny’s voice. I reached the top stair and opened the door to the kitchen.

  “I cannot believe this,” I said in amazement.

  Benny was at the kitchen table with my mother. There was a steaming bowl of stuffed cabbage in front of them. He gave me a big smile. “Hey, gorgeous.”

  He was wearing baggy khaki slacks, black Converse Chuck Taylor high-tops, and a red T-shirt with the white-lettered message PLEASE HELP ME—I AM AN ENDOMORPH. His black curly hair was at least a month overdue for a trim.

  “Mom,” I said in exasperation, “he has a dinner date to night, and he’s already had a grilled Polish sausage and milkshake on the way over here.”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “He’ll have room,” she said. “The boy has capacity.”

  “Extra protein,” he said. “I might need my strength tonight.”

  “Oh?” I asked, eyebrows raised.

  “Some women seek me out because of my charm, others because of my devilish good looks, and a few for my expertise in, shall we say, certain rare techniques perfected in the boudoirs of the Far East. My companion for this evening, however, at least according to rumor, places a high premium on sheer physical endurance. That means that tonight, God willing, I may need some extra lead in my pencil.” He turned to my mother. “And anyway, who could pass up Sarah Gold’s stuffed cabbage?”

  My mother smiled.

  Benny Goldberg was fat and crude and gluttonous and vulgar. He was also brilliant and funny and thoughtful and ferociously loyal. I loved him like the brother I never had.

  “So,” I said, “how’re the matchmakers doing?”

  “This boy is a meshuggener,” my mother said.

  “Your mother thinks I’m a pervert,” Benny said with a grin.

  “So do most people,” I replied as I turned to her. “What did he suggest?”

  She shook her head, smiling against her will. “Crotchless panties.”

  I glanced at Benny. “For the cat?”

  He shrugged, running his thick fingers through his hair. “Well, an outfit like that would certainly put me in a conciliatory mood.”

  “Ozzie’s already in a conciliatory mood,” I said. “The problem is that damn cat.”

  “Rachel,” my mother warned, “don’t talk like that about my little Gitel.”

  At the sound of her name, Gitel materialized at the kitchen door. In a haughty manner, she padded across the room and jumped into my mother’s lap. As my mother kissed her on the head, Gitel gave me a smug look.

  “Well,” I said wearily, “I guess it’s time. I’ll go get Ozzie.” I looked at Benny. “Is he in your car?”

  Benny nodded. “The door’s unlocked.”

  As I stepped out onto the front porch, Ozzie started barking and jumping between the front and back seats of Benny’s car. He was scrabbling against the car door as I opened it.

  “Hey, Oz,” I said happily. “How you doing, pal? How you doing?”

  He jumped up, placing his paws on my shoulders, and started licking my face. I laughed as I rubbed his head and scratched him behind his ears and gave him a hug. He sat down in front of me, his tail flopping wildly, and barked three times. Then he jumped up again and licked my cheek.

  “I know, I know. I miss you, too, Oz. We’re going to see if Gitel will let you move in this time.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” Benny said. He was coming down the front walk. “Did you see the look that fucking cat gave you? In cat talk, I think it meant ‘Don’t even think about it, bitch.’”

  I nodded with resignation. “I know. If this doesn’t work, I’m going to have to find a place to live.”

  “What’s your mom think of that?”

  “It’ll be hard. On both of us. But we both know it’s got to happen sooner or later. She’s got her life, and I’m starting to feel like an old maid.”

  “An old maid? What are you talking about, woman? You’re a total babe.”

  “Benny, look at the facts. I’m thirty-two, I’m single, and I’m living at home with my mother. And my mother’s cat. This is not normal. I’ve got to get my act together.”

  “Jesus, Rachel, you’ve got your act more together than anyone I know. Come on, let’s see if Ozzie and Gitel want to get it on.”

  We started up the walk.

  “And then this divorce case.” I shook my head glumly.

  “Your sister’s friend?”

  “I should never have taken it.”

  “Not another Tommy turd?”

  “No, thank God.”

  A week ago I’d filed the petition for dissolution of marriage in the case of In re the Marriage of Thomas A. and Eileen Beth Landau. I filed the day after Eileen dropped the news on Tommy. She told him on Sunday afternoon when he returned from eighteen holes at Briarcliff Country Club. The children were at her parents’ house at the time. She told him she had packed most of his things and wanted him out of the house by dinnertime. S
he had feared that he might become violent; at the very least, she expected screams and curses. At my insistence, the Ladue police were on standby, so that if anything happened they could respond quickly.

  But Tommy seemed to take the news in an eerily passive way. He nodded, tugged at his mustache, and told her he’d get his stuff. He was upstairs finishing packing when Eileen left to go to her parents’ house. He was gone when she returned with the children after dinner. She had expected to find a note from him. He didn’t leave a note. He did, however, leave a message, which she discovered when she got ready for bed that night: an enormous fresh turd nestled in her lingerie drawer. God, I hate divorce cases.

  “No,” I said to Benny, “not another Tommy turd. Almost as bad. His attorneys filed their appearance today.”

  “His father’s firm?”

  I nodded. We were on the porch. “I expected them. I even sent a courtesy copy of the petition to his father. But when I received the respondent’s entry of appearance today, there were two signature blocks on the court form: one for the firm of Landau, Mitchell & McCray and the other for—you ready for this?—Abbott & Windsor.”

  Benny looked at me with surprise. “In a divorce case? Who signed the appearance?”

  “L. Debevoise Fletcher.”

  “Deb Fletcher? Oh, shit,” he groaned.

  I nodded grimly. “Exactly my reaction.”

  L. Debevoise Fletcher had moved to St. Louis a year before to head up Abbott & Windsor’s beleaguered branch office after the suicide of its first managing partner (Stoddard Anderson) and the hushed resignation of its second (Reed St. Germain). In an effort to stop further erosion, the executive committee of Abbott & Windsor decided to send one of its own to head up the St. Louis office.

  According to my friends at A&W, Deb Fletcher had actually volunteered. Most assumed that he wanted a change of scenery in the aftermath of his extraordinarily bitter divorce from Tricia Fletcher. She had been his second wife—the so-called trophy wife. By the end of the divorce trial, however, she had a few trophies of her own, including, went the joke around Abbott & Windsor, Fletcher’s bank accounts and testicles.

  “So now I not only have a complete jerk for an adversary,” I said to Benny, “but one who has a personal incentive to turn someone else’s divorce into a nightmare.”

  “And don’t forget your delightful personal history with that dickhead.”

  “I know. It’s going to be an awful experience.”

  “Well, if anyone can handle that pompous sack of shit, it’s you.”

  Ozzie nudged my hand. I kneeled down beside him and scratched his forehead. “Okay, Oz,” I said as I kissed him on the forehead. “Get psyched.”

  Poor Ozzie. Gitel greeted him in the foyer with back arched, hair on end, hissing and spitting. Ozzie practically clawed his way through the screen door trying to get back out of the house.

  I had an extra key to Benny’s place, so while he headed off for his dinner date with the stamina sultana, I drove Ozzie back to his temporary quarters. On the way over we stopped at a park to play fetch.

  When I got back home there was a message from Ann.

  “It’s about the claims adjuster,” my mother explained.

  During her long weekend in Las Vegas, burglars broke into my sister’s house after first disconnecting the alarm system. The police were called by a neighbor who, unable to sleep, had gone for a walk at two in the morning and noticed movement in my sister’s house. The burglars were gone by the time the squad cars arrived. The police called the alarm company to find out whom to contact. I was the first name on the list and got the call at three in the morning. I went over to her house and told the detectives not to disturb Ann and Richie, who still had two days left on their holiday. I hung around the house to help them put together a preliminary inventory of stolen items, which included Ann’s silver, Richie’s baseball card collection (appraised for close to $20,000, including Sandy Koufax and Lou Brock rookie cards), all of the video and stereo equipment in their “home entertainment center,” two paintings, three pairs of Richie’s shoes, and all of his X-rated videos.

  I filed the initial notice of claim with Richie and Ann’s insurance company and had them file a supplementary claim when they returned from Vegas. Although the insurance company seemed to be acting responsibly, there were a few legal hurdles that I was helping Ann and Richie get over. I returned Ann’s call, listened to her questions, and offered some advice on how to deal with the claims adjuster. “If he still has a problem,” I told her, “give him my number and tell him to call me.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Rachel.”

  “Sure. Hey, you want me to give you a ride tomorrow night?”

  “What’s tomorrow?”

  “Firm Ambitions. The aerobics class.”

  Her tone quickly shifted. “As far as I’m concerned, that bastard can go straight to hell.”

  I paused, startled by her bitterness. “I assume that means no,” I said.

  “It means hell no,” she snapped.

  “What happened with Andros?”

  “It’s not worth talking about.”

  “Tell me what happened,” I said.

  “Nothing. Just forget it.”

  I asked my mother the same question before I went to bed. She shook her head. “Ann hasn’t told me a thing.”

  “That’s odd,” I said. “The guy has been calling me practically every day for two weeks, and he’s never even hinted there was a problem with Ann.”

  “As far as I’m concerned,” my mother said firmly, “if she’s done with him and that class, that’s fine by me.”

  ***

  I went anyway. The rest of Silicon Valley was in position doing stretching exercises when I arrived at 7:20 p.m. The class was supposed to start promptly at 7:30. According to Ann, Andros was obsessed with punctuality. As the rare latecomer learned, his rage over tardiness was dreadful to behold.

  So we all knew something was wrong when 7:30 p.m. came and went without the usual warm-up music. By 7:40, people were getting agitated. At 7:55, a flustered temporary receptionist came in to announce that the class had been canceled. She offered no explanation.

  The explanation arrived the following morning on the front page of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, beneath the headline

  AEROBICS INSTRUCTOR FOUND DEAD;

  POLICE SUSPECT FOUL PLAY

  The article stated that Ishmar al-Modalleem, a Saudi national better known in St. Louis by his professional name, Andros, had been found naked and dead the prior afternoon in a hotel room in the St. Louis suburb of Clayton. According to the article, he had spent several years with the Gateway Health & Racquet Clubs before leaving to open Firm Ambitions. While police had not yet received the autopsy results, the preliminary evidence, according to the article, “strongly suggested that his death was caused by poison.”

  I read the story twice and put the newspaper down. I took a sip of coffee as I stared out the breakfast-room window. I glanced down again at the headline with a queasy feeling.

  Chapter Four

  An hour later, I was flipping through the deposition exhibits in one of my trademark cases and glancing at my scribbled outline as I asked the court reporter to swear the witness. We were seated around a conference table in one of the downtown firms. The deposition ended just before noon. I met a friend for lunch at the Media Club and headed back to my office around one-thirty.

  “Mrs. Landau’s in there,” my secretary told me as I walked through the front door.

  I paused. “Eileen?”

  “She called here five times this morning. I told her you’d be back after lunch. She’s been waiting in your office for an hour.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “She wouldn’t say.” My secretary leaned forward and lowered her voice. “She seems upset.”

  She was. Frantic, to be
more precise. Eileen was pacing back and forth in my office, a cigarette in her mouth. The room was thick with smoke. There were eight stubbed-out butts in the ashtray, each with a peach lipstick stain on the end of the filter.

  “Eileen,” I said softly, “I heard about Andros. I’m sorry.”

  She spun toward me, her eyes wild. “I was there.”

  “Where?”

  “When he died.” She took a long drag on her cigarette. Her hand was unsteady. “My God, it was dreadful.”

  “Sit down, Eileen. Can I get you some coffee?”

  “No more. I’m totally wired. I must have had three pots already. I couldn’t sleep last night.” She crossed her legs, uncrossed them, changed positions in the chair, crossed them again.

  “Tell me about it,” I said gently.

  She took a deep breath and exhaled. “It was horrible. Absolutely, totally horrible.”

  “The papers said he died in a hotel room.”

  She nodded. “We’d met there before. Several times. He called the day before yesterday. He said he had a personal fitness cancellation for Wednesday afternoon. I told him I’d meet him at the room at three o’clock.”

  “Did he show up?”

  “Oh, yes. We made love. Twice. It was fantastic.” She took a drag on her cigarette and turned to blow smoke toward the window. Her cigarette hand was shaking.

  I waited for her to continue.

  “What happened?” I finally asked.

  She shook her head distractedly. “I showered. Then Andros showered. I heard him singing in the shower as I put on my clothes. By the time he turned off the shower, I was dressed and putting on my makeup. And then…” She stopped and stubbed out her cigarette. I waited. She stared at the ashtray.

  “And then?” I prompted.

  She took a deep breath and exhaled. “He came staggering out of the bathroom. He was naked. He looked sick. His skin was gray. He wasn’t breathing right. I had him sit down on the edge of the bed. He said he was nauseous. I told him to take a few deep breaths. I went into the bathroom to put on my eye liner.” She looked at me with a helpless gesture. “I thought he just had an upset stomach. A moment later I heard him fall off the bed. I ran to him. He was on his side.” She shook her head. “God, it was gruesome. His whole body was shaking. He was making these gagging noises. I bent over him. He was frothing at the mouth. Literally frothing, Rachel. Stuff was bubbling out of his mouth. I thought he was having a heart attack. I called the front desk. I told them to get an ambulance. When I got off the phone—he wasn’t moving, he wasn’t breathing. Then something happened to his insides, because suddenly all this—I couldn’t believe it—all this shit and piss came out of him. I knew he was dead.”