Trust

I had to work fast, and then make peace with Don Vincero, who would be far from pleased that I had used his name in vain, no matter how good the cause.

And he would find out. Because he always found out.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

But first, the bad news. In Bradley Square, walking up to the new multi-million-dollar Courthouse, I found Molly Cohen polluting the fresh morning air with a Marlboro and her presence, respectively.

"Good morning, Ms. Cohen," I said.

"Oh, it's Mr. Civility Rules. Now I remember. The Chief MILF says we must treat even the garbage with civility. OK, please go fuck yourself, Mr. Shitface. Please go to Hell."

"I'll let Chief Justice Kovacs know how well you've complied with her rules, Molly dear," I replied.

We were the first to check in with Bernie Bastard's clerk, Margarita Echeverria. Margarita is like the Judge, insofar as she is ugly, abrasive and obnoxious, but she is not brilliant. In fact, my colleague Jason Whittaker calls her "Necessity", because, like necessity, she knows no law. Jason suspects she got the job with Bernie Bastard because Mrs. Bernie Bastard, the formidable Consuela, couldn't imagine Bernie Bastard cheating with Margarita, or maybe because Margarita has digital snaps of Bernie Bastard getting off with a broad (or two, or three).

Margarita snarled at me, grinned at Molly Cohen, and had us sit for two solid hours as Bernie Bastard proceeded to denigrate and insult every attorney who had the misfortune to show up. Young ones were often reduced to tears.

Then it was my turn for Bernie Bastard as the Grand Inquisitor: "So, Mr. Bascom, what excuse is it today? I hope for originality as well as prevarication."

"He's good at that Judge," chimed in dear Molly, "prevarication and procrastination are all he's good at."

"Your Honor, my client was caught in the recent spiral of delays caused by Southwest Airlines. He's spent the last three days trying to get out of Lubbock, Texas, where he'd gone on business, he can be here tomorrow morning and we can start picking the jury and have the trial...."

"Has Avis stopped trying harder, Mr. Bascom? Are the highways closed? Could not your client have rented a car and driven here in three days? We have a trial, Mr. Bascom. I issued a pre-trial order specifying today as the trial date. We have jurors who have interrupted their lives, we have opposing counsel and her client and her witnesses, all of them ready to proceed, to say nothing of a certain Judge who has more than enough to do beside reminding oblivious counsel that my orders are not suggestions, counselor, nor little hints, nor yet sweet nothings whispered in your unheeding ear." He raised his voice so that his microphone (all proceedings are recorded) shook, "THEY ARE ORDERS, MR. BASCOM! DISOBEDIENCE OF MY ORDER MEANS CONTEMPT MR. BASCOM! IN CASE YOU WERE ASLEEP IN LAW SCHOOL WHEN THEY TAUGHT THIS, I CAN FINE YOU OR HAVE YOU HANDCUFFED AND JAILED, MR. BASCOM! NOW GO PICK THE JURY!"

"Yes, Your Honor, thank you, Your Honor."

"Thanks, Judge," said sweet Molly. "Haha, fuck you, asshole, civilly" she whispered to me as I slunk, and she pranced, out of the courtroom.

We picked. I'll bet sweet Molly was sorry we did. That jury we picked gave my client everything he asked for. But that's another story.

I took enough time picking the jury so that we didn't start the trial until the next day (viva procrastination!). My client, when he showed up next morning, tried to play his usual stolid self, even under a Molly Cohen cross-examination (and I once saw Molly reduce a six foot four, three hundred pound State Trooper to quivering jelly with a breathtaking cross). Still, Molly burned my client good; I bet he wished he'd stayed in Texas. The fucking bitch is a lawyer. But my five foot one, one hundred eight pound witness gave as good as she got, and finally left Molly speechless. The jury loved her. A day of infamy turned into a lawyer's orgasm: One day trial, verdict by five-thirty.

Meantime, I had to get to Althea Beauregard MacMurtry. I avoided the client's magnanimous offer to buy me a drink (and I knew it would be "a drink", not drinks; he isn't a "drinks" kind of guy, especially when he's buying), and went to Menno Street.

There was a brand-new, nicely-equipped Cadillac STS in the street in front of Ali and Jere's rowhouse. Menno Street, in the old Germantown neighborhood where Jere and Ali and I live, is not a brand-new, nicely-equipped Cadillac STS kind of street. More like five-year and older F150s and beat-up last-century Honda Civics.

The tags, of course, told the story: "HOME-2". Mrs. Althea Beauregard MacMurtry's, bought for her, in grateful appreciation for her ministry, by the congregation of Home in the Rock Baptist Church, and owned and registered (thanks to my pro bono advice) by said Home in the Rock Baptist Church.

I avoided looking into the car, but made sure the driver saw me as I walked to Ali's door.

I didn't hear the window going down, but I heard Mrs. MacMurtry's call, "Mr. Bascom".

I turned and walked back to the car. "Good evening, Mrs. MacMurtry. May I help you?"

"Git in, so we can talk." She must be upset to talk that way. She'd always say "Please get in".

I did, without comment. "What are you doing here?" she asked. Ignoring possible breach of client-attorney privilege (Hell, they can disbar me! Maeve will give me a job sweeping out and tending bar, and now that I can sign up for Social Security, I've got it made), I answered "Trying to save your daughter's marriage."

"Whut business is dat of yawz?" I told you she was upset; I just didn't realize how upset until I heard her talk that way. The Garden Club wouldn't believe it. She prided herself on her crisp diction and clear speech; she was really upset.

"None; except I don't want to see two people I love get hurt."

"Neither do I," she said and began to cry.

"Mrs. MacMurtry, then it's five people who shouldn't get hurt--you, the Reverend, the Speaker, Ali and Jere."

She nodded, but kept on crying. So I connected the dots: "You heard from Kay Battersby that Ali's wife was working with Chrissaundra. You know everything that goes on in this town, especially when The Garden Club didn't invite Chrissaundra to Flowerdew Day this year because of those rumors about her. So you cooked up this anonymous letter to Ali, accusing Jere of adultery (and yes, they are married, face it, even if not at Home in the Rock). And you hoped Ali would divorce her and you could get Ali back."

Shit, I sounded like fucking Perry Mason. Earle Stanley Gardner, thou shouldst be living at this hour! I could have my own TV series--if I was still alive at this time tomorrow. I still had to see Don Vincero.

"Yesh," said Mrs. MacMurtry, "God forgive me, I want mah baby! Ah waited here, night aftuh night, tryin' to git the guts to walk ovah thayah and knock on th'dooah...."

"Mrs. MacMurtry, you can have your daughter Altowiese, but she isn't a baby any more. I'm sorry, but you can't have her except as she is, not as what you want her to be."

"The Reverend will be so unhappy. I can't bear to see his face. I gave him five babies, and I can't stand to lose any...."

"Then let's walk to her house, and you can talk."

We did. Jere and Altowiese were starting supper. Altowiese came to the door, opened it, and I turned away.

I was most of the way down the block when my cellphone rang.

It was Jere. "Come to supper, please come, Lu. We have a very special guest and we all want you."

I did. It was a great end to a great day.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

As I walked home, I made the call I didn't want to make.

"Yes?" said Giulio Cesare Reitano.

"Giulio Cesare, it's Luigi. I need to see Don Vincero."

"Why?"

I went into Italian. From now on it's my translation.

"I need to confess a misdeed to him."

"Indeed? Another one? How is it you visit Don Vincero [yes, even his sons call him that] only to confess, or to have a small espresso with him at the Sons of Italy? Is he become a priest?"

"Giulio Cesare, with the deepest respect, it is a matter between myself and Don Vincero."

"Very well, you tedious person. I believe Don Vincero will deal with matters of lesser importance tomorrow morning, at ten, in the parlor. Why you would be admitted there now, after the death of my beloved aunt Rosabella, I do not know, but Don Vincero is generous to a fault. Be there, and do not waste his time."

"My deepest thanks, Giulio Cesare." He hung up, of course. Back to English.

My nephews-by-marriage, Giulio Cesare and Amerigo, and I, do not get on very well. They loved my Rosabella, and were annoyed when she married me. They deemed me an unworthy mate. When she died, they blamed me, although if I could have cured ovarian cancer, believe me, I would have done so, for her sake even if not for the millions of others, equally beloved, who died, and will yet die, of that terrible disease.

Don Vincero blamed me for not giving Rosabella children. He never was told, nor would he ever have believed, that it was she, not I, who could not.

From the day of her funeral, I was never invited to their house, except to receive orders or corrections. A correction was coming, and it was due.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Again, this is my translation from the Italian. I stood before Don Vincero in his parlor, on a deep red carpet. He eyes drove into me like a bayonet, his thin pencil mustache quivering.

"So," said Don Vincero. "Tell me the story."

I did.

Don Vincero summoned Giulio Cesare and Amerigo.

"Do you want to hear a funny tale from a buffoon, yes, from my court jester?"

Both my nephews assented. If they were amused, I was about not to be.

Don Vincero said, "He smeared our name to save what he calls the 'marriage' of two female perverts," and told my story.

"Father, with respect as always," said Giulio Cesare, "the limit has really been reached. This clown should be thrashed thoroughly and thrown out. It was only because of your sister, our poor aunt Rosabella, and your generous mantle, wrapped around his worthless shoulders like St Martin with the beggar, that my brother and I tolerated having this swine underfoot. But to traduce the Reitanos, not merely my brother and me, but yourself, and Donna Mafalda [yes, they referred to their mother that way]--that cannot be borne!"

"My dear son, 'your zeal for my house has eaten you up', to misquote the Psalms," said Don Vincero, "but still, he may have his uses. Remember, he helped me devise the plan whereby I shall profit enormously from the apparent defeat of the Wal-Mart shopping center on the old Avelline property. All the careful negotiations, evaluations, that magnificent lease, all of Wal-Mart's expertise, establishes the value of the land I shall donate to our dear little town as a public park, reserving to myself only to name it for my father Don Girolamo and my mother Donna Elisabetta. The tax deduction I shall obtain, and the carryforwards thereof, will put me, the son of a penniless immigrant, on an equal footing with General Electric--I shall pay no taxes. I need this clown to fight the IRS when they challenge my experts' valuation. Apparently this fool can convince them, or if not, he might even convince the Tax Court judges. And watch the television tonight. At noon I go to City Center, to deliver the deed of gift, and receive the heartfelt homage of my old foe that pervert bitch Carothers, and we will embrace like lovers."

He laughed. His sons laughed. I laughed--it might be my last laugh for a while.

"Still, dear father, with all respect," said Giulio Cesare, "however brilliant his scheme, and we won't know that until the last judge signs the last decree, has he earned perpetual plenary indulgence to excuse slandering our name?"

"My son, of course not. We need waste no more time on that. I have my television appearance and you have Tre Fontini. Amerigo, I am sure, has matters to which he must attend."

Tre Fontini is Giulio Cesare's restaurant, the most expensive in our town and the best for fifty miles; add to your bucket list his Linguine Five Ways, and let him choose the wine. After you have dined at Tre Fontini, declare bankruptcy and die happy.

Do not ask to what matters Amerigo must attend. If you knew some of them, you might be eligible for no-cost interment in a lesser-frequented corner of Girolamo and Elisabetta Reitano Park.

"A dope-slap [this phrase in English] then? Or even better, a Severe Admonishment?" This came from Amerigo, who would not be left out of the fun.

"A dope slap of the Second Degree," said Don Vincero.

"My father," said Amerigo, "your generosity is a byword. I hear everywhere about the generosity of Don Vincero Reitano. Truly, you are generous to a fault. And while no son should ever criticize his father, it is nevertheless a fault, your generosity. Those unworthy of it, like my uncle-by-marriage here, presume upon it, abuse it, and think to evade their just punishment. Only a Second Degree dope-slap? Very well, but I must most respectfully insist upon two ribs, at least."

"Giulio Cesare?" asked Don Vincero.

"My father, if I may quote the Psalms, 'how pleasant it is when brothers live in harmony'. I agree entirely with my dear brother."

"Then there remains nothing more than to bid my sons a good day, and regret I cannot wish my former brother-in-law the same." We bowed as Don Vincero left.

"Right or left?" Giulio Cesare asked.

"It doesn't matter; as you wish," I replied.

"Remember he had two brain surgeries," said Amerigo.

"I know. I take it the second was to verify there was nothing there, as they found the first time."

"True, but it was a pity they did not remove the quixotic urges to help dyke bitches on either occasion."

Giulio Cesare went on, "Amerigo called Doctor Katherine New. She will be expecting you. Benno, take my dear uncle's car keys and deliver his car to his home after you leave him at St Francis. He won't be driving for a while."

Benno Respighi (yes, he is related to the composer) took my car keys.

"I trust," said Amerigo, "you don't leave coins in cupholders or cash in gloveboxes. Benno is a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles."

"No, Amerigo, I am a poor man."

"Well, let's get on with it," said Giulio Cesare, and, stepping behind me, drove a good hard right jab just behind my right ear. As I staggered from the punch Amerigo punched me (I could not tell with which hand) right over my left kidney.

I was lying on the floor. Someone was gasping and moaning with pain. I wondered for an instant who it might be, and then found out it was me. With the realization came Amerigo's kick to my left side.

"How many ribs, uncle?" asked my nephew.

"Two, nephew," I gasped, as fresh pain roiled me.

"Excellent, although three or four would have been better. Good day, uncle."

Benno, who measures five feet in all directions and has the muscular development of a middle-aged gorilla, lifted me to my feet. He deposited me in the emergency room at Saint Francis Hospital, where trauma surgeon Katherine New eagerly awaited me.

Amerigo got a half-case of the rarest and most expensive monovitigno grappa every Christmas from Doctor New. At first I thought it was a thank offering for all the patients he referred to her. However, I learned much later that Doctor New liked more than a little slap with her tickle, and Amerigo was just the man to provide it. So he combined business with pleasure. And Doctor New enjoyed the combination.

Dr. New treated me and sent me home with Benno.

I had to decline another invitation from Jere and Ali for drinks and dinner the next night. The pain pills Dr. New prescribed were accompanied by warnings of the possibly fatal results of mixing them with alcohol. But I promised to join them at my earliest opportunity.