Go For Broke

I decided to play the host and for time, in that order. "If you like it, the Guinness on draft is the best in town. If that's not your thing, try the Knappogue Castle 1951. It's only the best Irish whiskey around, and they invented the stuff, although this one was assembled by an American. As for food, gourmet dining is not Maeve's thing, but she's got a decent bangers-and-mashed, or corned beef and cabbage. She can do a really good Reuben, that doesn't even need mustard."

"Give me the Castle thing, I want to celebrate."

I was going to offer to treat, but something (beside my inner cheapskate) held me back. There was a catch here, but what was it?

Molly ordered the whiskey, "Castle Whatever". Maeve served it with eyebrows at an appropriate angle to recognize a connoisseur, and I started on my Guinness and my mental Google.

'We don't have a case to fight or settle,' I thought (sip sip), 'at least not that I know of, now that Capaldi is finished, and the funeral home is on the way to being rebuilt. We don't owe each other money. We have almost no friends in common. Neither of us is running for office or looking for endorsements or raising money for any cause or candidate; I don't even know what her politics are. We've not been asked to any of the same weddings, funerals or anything like that (sip sip). She can't be angling for a Judgeship, not with me; I have zero props in that department. And the thought of Judge Molly, after Bernie Bastard retires, makes my blood run icy (big swallow and another big swallow--God help me!). As for President of the Bar Association, she can have that with my blessing but it isn't mine to give and I also have zero props there. I can't figure it out, so I'll let it ride (sip sip). Next!'

Molly took a sip of the whiskey. "It is good," she said.

"Surprised?"

"No. I thought you'd know all about this place, you spend enough time here."

How does she know that? Had she fallen for the discreet charm of Luigi Bascom? If you buy that I got a cheapo bridge to sell you, over the Grand Canal in Venice.

"Well, yes, I do, it's friendly and there's nobody waiting for me at home."

"Me neither."

I remembered my short-circuiting vibrator thoughts and wished I hadn't thought them. Was Molly Cohen actually a human being? Did she have a life? I thought, 'Holy Saint Ursula and the Eleven Thousand Virgins of Cologne (barely refraining from making the Sign of the Cross), is Molly Cohen actually a...a woman?'

There is a moment at the track, or in the courtroom, when you know you have to take the chance, and bet it all. Even if you hate the race, the track, the horse, the trainer, the jockey, or the case and the client and the judge...and yourself for doing it. Go for broke.

You know it could blow up in your face, and get you a couple of broken ribs, as with Jere and Ali and Don Vincero Reitano. Worse, you could look like a fool. Worse yet, you could look like a fool and people would remember it for years; you would see it in their eyes or feel it in a handshake or in an omitted pat on the back. And still worse, the ultimate worst, even if nobody remembered it, or remembered you, you'd remember it, and remember it and remember it.

But you had to do it, or spend the rest of your life wondering "what if"? And I didn't have that much rest-of-my-life, and whatever rest-of-my-life I did have, I wasn't going to spend wondering 'what if'. No-fault is for cars and divorces. Fuck it. All fucking in.

"Want to have dinner?" I asked her. Now let's see if she folds or calls.

"Sure."

"Maeve," I said, "two Reubens and boiled potatoes, please. Also please give Ms. Cohen a draft Harp with her dinner, and me another Guinness. Thank you."

"Do I get to order my own dinner?"

"Molly, please trust me, just this once. It'll work out."

"I always did trust you. I might call you every name I know, but I trust you. You never broke your word to me, or anyone else that I know of. You won't lie, and you won't hurt anyone who doesn't deserve it. But let me order my own dinner."

"O-kay. Maeve, we have a request for a change."

Maeve came over. Molly said, "Just what he ordered. It's fine."

Maeve smiled. Molly actually smiled. Dammit, Molly Cohen is a woman. She communicated with Maeve the way women do, with a smile and a look in the eye, which no man can ever understand, so that means she's a woman. Molly Cohen, I can't stand her. I think I love her.

But I'm not crazy. Though I picked up the check for dinner (she wouldn't let me pay for the whiskey, so maybe she likes me), and got her a cab to go home, I did not go home with her. No, I'm not that crazy. Molly could be the trouble I definitely don't need.

****

"This is really unbelievable. Even though with you, my dear uncle, nothing should astound me any more." The word uncle dripped with enough venom to keep every rattlesnake in North America coming back for a fresh supply.

It was Wednesday morning in Don Vincero's parlor, where I was summoned, in the immortal words of Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, "to get my fair share of abuse." Of course, my dear nephew Amerigo was always generous with that item, so I got more than my fair share.

I know he loved his aunt, my late wife Rosabella Reitano Bascom. He was furious when she married me. Although still quite young at the time, when we said our vows I could feel his eyes boring into my back. If he had some arrows, he would have made me odds-on in the Saint Sebastian stakes. He blames me for her death from ovarian cancer, which hurt me as much as it did him, if not more. I couldn't unravel his psychological kinks then, and I gave up trying long ago.

"What Don Vincero (yes, he refers to his father that way; always has, must be hereditary) will say, I do not wish to think of. What kind of flowers do you like, dear uncle? As we shall need to supply them for you only once, we can afford to be lavish. How fortunate that our dear friend Genevra has so quickly rebuilt Capaldi's after that unfortunate accident! You may wish to make the appropriate arrangements promptly."

However, his expression turned from granite to mush when Dr. Katherine New Reitano walked in, holding young Girolamo ("Jerry") Antonio Reitano against her delightful bosoms.

Soft kisses. Happy family. What I was never going to have.

"Grandpa wanted to see him, so I came right over."

"Certainly, Katy. Everything else can wait."

I gave up my seat on the sofa, and went to sit in the corner.

All rise! In came Don Vincero. More kisses, more happy family. Grandpa provided necessary tickle to belly of grandson, who emitted the obligatory giggles, thus assuring himself a free ride through college, medical school and beyond.

Dr. Katherine New was the best trauma surgeon in our little county, but her reputation crossed State lines. Her co-authored paper on fetal trauma had attained the status of gospel, and her expertise in BDSM injuries made her everybody's expert witness. Some of us think her expertise comes from personal experience. With her husband.

Dr. Katherine departing for home and emergency room, Don Vincero turned to me. His glare was enough to reduce the threat of Global Warming.

The following is a translation from the Italian.

"So. The maledictory Internal Revenue Service has decided not to appeal my deserved income tax deductions for the gift of Reitano Park. And I hear you wish to remarry."

"Don Vincero, with respect, with the deepest respect, the latter is not so. I have no idea whence comes this story...."

"Have the goodness not to insult me. I do not spread, nor credit, idle gossip."

"I had not the slightest intention of breathing a word against you, Don Vincero."

"Good. My darling daughter-in-law no longer wants you as a patient."

"But, Don Vincero, will you condemn me unheard?"

"Ah yes, the usual lawyer's plea." A deep sigh was followed by a quick gesture of long fingers through his silver hair. "And I suppose I must listen to you, despite the effects of your blattering upon my digestion. Go on. Spoil my lunch. And make me spoil Benny's day off by giving him work." Benny Respighi (yes, he is related to the composer, but don't ask him. Asking annoys him, and you do not want to annoy Benny Respighi) does certain work for the family, about which the less one knows, the better off one is.

"Again with deep respect, Don Vincero, I am not 'seeing' or courting any woman. I live alone, as is well-known. As a childless widower with no great fortune, I am hardly desirable as a husband, and I will not have anything to do with an already-married woman. Who spreads these tales about me?"

"Luigi, thou (here the dialect familiar is used as a sign of contempt, not affection) knowest I do not reveal my sources, even if I needed to rely on sources in this case. If thou paradest thy Jewish whore about at Maeve O'Refferty's, to say nothing of the ultimate insult thou didst so generously bestow upon The Sons of Italy before strangers when my dear friend Magdalena Oliviero was guest of honor, dost thou expect to be invisible? I could barely contain my fury."

"B-b-ut, D-d-on Vincero," I actually stammered, out of shock (if you can believe it), not fear, "p-p-parade? I bought the lady one dinner at Maeve O'Refferty's, I did not 'parade' her at The Sons of Italy. I didn't buy her ticket, and had no idea she was to be seated next me...."

"Omitting the 'lady', which is a further insult, and taking into account your services to me in connection with Reitano Park, which touches the family honor, I must consider what to do with you. For the present, you are discharged as counsel to the Reitano family. You are also discharged as counsel to The Sons of Italy. I will send Benny to collect, tomorrow morning at 10 o'clock, all documents in your possession relating to either. Have them ready, and omit nothing. You may go."

I went, counting my teeth and ribs, delighted to find all present and accounted for. Next, leaving all other business aside as the subpoenas say, I went to my house to get the big file boxes I'd saved from my past moves (you never can tell, no matter how often you swear you'll never move again), and off to rent a panel truck, drive to Britton's warehouse, collect and pack boxes full of years of Reitano and Sons of Italy files, and truck them to the office. Box in-office files. Tape them all shut. Return rented truck.

And wait.

Benny showed up at quarter past ten next day with two extremely large and unpleasant young men. I was waiting at reception. The suite's receptionist, Dawn Ferrier, was a slight young woman of a delicate disposition, convent-educated. She didn't need to deal with Benny. Neither did I, but I led him and his acolytes to my office, which was wall-to-wall with boxed files. I pointed.

"That's all?"

"All, Benny."

"Get out of the way." I did. Benny and Friends made quick work of the files and left. Ms. Ferrier's pleasant smile returned slowly.

"Were they bad people?" she asked, hesitantly.

"Jesus died for them, too," I replied, while thinking, 'but I can't guess why He did.'

Benny came back with a message from Don Vincero. "You're through. You can stay a member of The Sons of Italy. Stay away from the family. But you can still eat at Tre Fontini--if you pay." And he left, dropping an envelope on the floor.

Inside was a check, marked, "Final Payment." It would cover my office rent for a year. The private Don Vincero had wrestled with the public Don Vincero. It was a close contest.

****

At first, after Don Vincero cut me loose, my office had been very quiet. While he didn't try to injure my practice, word got around fast that he would prefer not to have me as his attorney, for personal reasons not connected, of course, with my professional competence or discretion. If not exactly the Kiss of Death, it was the Embrace of Life-Threatening Illness. In our little community, Don Vincero's almost-unnoticeable, tight-lipped expression when my name was mentioned said more than five paragraphs of Betsy Fifield's best on the front page of the Messenger.

I seriously considered sending a resumé to the local Jackson-Hewitt franchise. I could always prepare tax returns. Or ask Maeve for a job sweeping out O'Refferty's.

But then Bobby Mitchell got sued again. Bobby never took the high road, when she could fuck someone around. And she regarded lawsuits as amusements, win or lose, like going to Vegas or acquiring a new boyfriend or girlfriend, and paid accordingly. Unbelievably, Pete Fortuzzi, who hated Don Vincero and wouldn't talk to me for years after I married Don Vincero's sister, much less refer any of his clients to me, ever, discovered I'd been excommunicated, and sent me his clients in droves.

Pete is a CPA with clients who, like Pete himself, regard the Internal Revenue Code and the State Tax Law as "guidelines" and "aspirational goals", like their soul-mates the Pirates of the Caribbean. The IRS and the State Tax Department regard Pete and his clients as lunch. I was so busy I considered taking on an associate. But my natural Anglo-Saxon cheapskate (thanks, Dad) curbed my Latin enthusiasm (sorry, Mama), and I remained swift, light and unattached.

So I actually had a life after the Reitanos.

***

With all the changes and the new business, it was after Christmas and a couple of weeks into the New Year before I got the phone call.

Molly called. "Can we talk?" she asked, in her best Joan Rivers.

"Sure. Public or private?"

"Scales, six-thirty tonight."

"OK."

She hung up. "Goodbye, Ms. Cohen," I said into the disconnected line.

***

"How are you doing?" I asked her.

"OK."

"It's your invite, so talk."

"I just wanted to see a friendly face."

"Mine? Why me?"

"Because you're a decent guy, we have no matters together, and I have nothing else to do. I never have anything else to do besides work."

"Molly, I accept compliments gladly, but this is quite a change, so I have to ask again, why me?"

"Because I went home for the holidays, so I knew when I got back I'd need a friendly face. My sister stopped asking me when was I gonna get married, like she gave up, and my mother has the Big A and doesn't know who I am any more. And I don't have any friends, real friends, and I don't know who I am any more."

"Oh. I'm sorry, really I am."

"Yes, you are. You do really mean it, even after all the names I called you."

"Molly, being called names doesn't matter...."

"No, I guess not; not after the Reitano boys worked you over and now I hear The Boss threw you out."

"You know about all that?"

"I have friends at the hospital."

"They never heard of the Healthcare Insurance Portability and Accountability Act of 1996? They could be fired and fined."

"I gave them a lecture about it. They're good friends."

"I don't want to know any more."

"Don't sweat it, you won't."

"So?"

"So let's have a drink and talk."

"OK," I said, and gestured. Larry the boss waiter came over. He saw everything, heard everything, and aside from drink and food orders, remembered nothing. For those talents, he probably made more than Molly or me.

I spoke first. "Jack D neat, ice water on the side."

"Twice. Separate checks." Turning to me, "Thanks for not doing the ladies-first routine. That's such bullshit."

"I hear you got Pleasant Grove away from Urbino. How'd you do it?" I asked her, trying for a neutral subject. It was one of the better nursing homes, and we were all surprised the specialist lost that client.

"Maria was conflicted out. The Board wouldn't waive the conflict."

"You have friends?"

"Damn right."

"I shouldn't know any more?"

"Asked and answered."

"You're such a bitch, y'know that?"

"You just found out? And since when did Mr. Civility Rules Bascom start using language like that to a fellow attorney?"

"You're not a 'fellow attorney', you're Molly."

We drank, and talked some more, and I made sure Molly got a cab (she'd had a couple more than I). I walked home. It was a long, cold walk, but I needed to think.

***

"I don't believe it," Jason Whittaker said. He was looking at the January rent bill from Hugh, delivered before New Year's Eve. As usual, Jason just opened it a few weeks later. I thought he was getting a discount. My bill was for the right amount, of course, and already paid.

"Hugh gave you a discount?" I asked, incredulous.

"No, you buying Molly Cohen drinks, getting her blasted and not taking advantage of her, as my Grandmama would've said."

"I did not get her 'blasted', to use your elegant expression, and taking advantage of her would have required me to have been a lot drunker than I was."

"Ah, the self-serving denials. I expected better from you, chum."

"Give me a break, Jason, huh?"

"Sure, just invite me to the wedding. I might give you a stainless steel condom as a present."

Matters were getting out of hand.

***

I couldn't do anything about it for a month, because Pete Fortuzzi's two best clients were in Tax Court over three years' worth of their returns. I managed to get them out of some of the penalties. They were vaguely appreciative, which means they pretty much paid my bill. Pete was gratified they weren't going to jail; he had two kids in college, and needed the money. And they had earned a place on IRS' Most Wanted Forever; I was gratified, because I needed the money.

As soon as I could, I called Molly.

We went to Maeve's. First, I didn't want Larry at the Scales to know, in case he forgot to forget. Second, we knew too many people, most of them who get paid to talk, at the Scales.

I ordered a Guinness. Molly ordered nothing.

I said, "You've been nice to me--why?"

"Maybe because you're a nice guy, maybe?"

'I was a nice guy before', I thought. "I'll be a nice guy even if you aren't nice to me," I said.

"Like Dear Abby, huh? 'If you're nice to some people, they'll kick you in the teeth; be nice to them anyway'?"

"Something like that."

Her makeup was professionally applied, even I could see that. The work at the gym was paying off. She was as tough as ever, but there was something here I hadn't seen before.

"I'm tired of kicking people in the teeth. I'm tired of Bernie Bastard, and the rest of the crowd, and this whole damn business. I had to be tough, as a Jew and as a woman in this town where I didn't grow up, and dammit I am tough enough."

"Right," I agreed. "Molly, you're not just tough, you're good. You got a restraining order out of Bernie Bastard in Capaldi that I don't know how you got him to sign without even a pre-motion phone conference. You kicked my butt any number of times. And that case against Pharma was a no-win for sure, but you brought it off. Maybe you just need a few weeks somewhere warm...."

"Are you telling me to go to hell?" She smiled, not a pleasant smile, a hurt smile to cover what she felt.

"No, the Islands, or a cruise, just relax, take it easy...."

"What I need I won't find on any island or any damn cruise. When you get to be my age, tough isn't enough, and you know it. And if you repeat what I say next, you'll regret it to your dying day, and I mean it."

"Client-attorney confidence?" I offered.

"Okay, bright eyes. I don't want to die a virgin."

"If that means what I think it means, give me a day to consider. And whatever, I will tell no one, never."

Maeve came over, looked at Molly, opened a new bottle of Knappogue Castle 1951 and poured her a double. "On the house," she said, nodded to me and walked away. Women know, they just do; I don't know how.

I decided I didn't need a day to consider anything.

"OK, maybe you will find what you need on an island, because I don't like cruises. How about the Florida Keys?"

"Yeah?"