Tower of Babel Page 12

  A swell of raucous laughter rolled from the bar, drowning any chance of communication. As the roar subsided, Kasabian sat back and shot a glance at his partner.

  “My partner thinks you’re telling the truth,” Kasabian said. “I don’t. I think Mr. Rubiano was a punk, only one step up from people like you. But it’s my job to find out who did him. And I think it’s you. I don’t know whether the wife is involved or not, but I’m going to find out.”

  It felt good to have the issue stated so bluntly. There was no further need to be polite. Or to stick around. “Then we’re done, aren’t we? Unless you’re going to arrest me. No? I didn’t think so.” Ted turned to Duran. “This is the last time we talk without my lawyer.”

  Duran didn’t like it. Ted didn’t care.

  -25-

  Ted had a mouth full of Listerine when the downstairs door buzzed. He was already running late. He spat and hustled.

  “Who’s there?” He spoke into the device with no expectation of anything resembling communication. As expected, the answer from the street door was unintelligible, though the tone was authoritative and insistent. Not the cops. Not the Russian mob. Though he had not been confronted by a Jehovah’s Witness, process server, or magazine subscription salesperson in years, Ted was reluctant to let his guard down.

  He checked his phone. His Uber was eight minutes out. “Speak up. Who the hell are you?” he yelled.

  Through the crackle and distortion, he made out the faint words “Con Fitzmaurice.”

  Jill’s grandfather. His Honor Cornelius Fitzmaurice.

  Ted buzzed him in and opened the door.

  At the rehearsal dinner twelve years earlier, Ted and the Judge had found themselves alone together for a moment. Maybe it had been planned that way.

  The dinner was winding down. It had been of necessity a small affair—ushers, bridesmaids, family, and assorted plus-ones. Ted had manfully picked up the tab, despite the pain to his bank account. Jill’s mother had ungraciously agreed to limit the count to fifty, and with only minor emotional bruising, they had made it. Ted was the sole representative of the Molloy clan. His mother had been gone before he’d finished law school. Ted was the last survivor of a line distinguished by the absence of their mark on history.

  The ushers were a mixed lot of Jill’s brothers and Ted’s friends, the best man, Carter Harken, a gentle soul who had rejected an offer from Whyte & Pace to join a tech start-up in London as lead counsel. Despite knowing next to nothing about the Internet, international law, or stock offerings, he was already worth mid eight figures—but had never learned to hold his liquor. He’d been shit-faced before the salads were cleared. No matter. Judging by the frowns from the Fitzmaurices, they had been anticipating something like this. They were in mufti; the formal wear would not be brought out until the next day. The Judge, in a rare show of good cheer, was sporting a paisley bow tie with his blue suit and spit-shined wing tips.

  “You surprised me, Teddy. I never saw you for the kind of sycophant who married solely to advance your career.” It was a joke. The Judge signaled this by smiling for a split second after delivering the line.

  Ted had learned not to fear the Judge’s humor. The wounds could sting but rarely required stitches. They were each holding flagons of cognac, aged for half a century in French caves. The Judge treated it like the house wine. Ted would have preferred a beer. He generally avoided spirits and was all too aware that a bottle of this stuff cost as much as a month’s rent. Most of Jill’s family lived as if they were blind to cost. They did not despise money—they worked hard at acquiring it—but they spent it freely.

  “I love your granddaughter, sir. She loves me. It’s that simple.”

  The old man chuckled, honestly amused at the sincerity. “Simple? Teddy, I have failed you. Nothing is simple.”

  “No. I know that. The Jesuits beat that into me my freshman year of high school.”

  “And you believe that the two of you will be happy together?”

  The Judge was digging. The only defense was a strict adherence to an appearance of openness. Sometimes it worked. “I hope that I can make Jill happy. I think I can.”

  “Jill. My favorite. You know that? Of course you do. I make no secret of it. She’ll upset the applecart someday or severely disappoint me.” He looked away as he said this so that Ted could not read his eyes.

  “Sir?” He decided that the Judge had already downed more than a few of these after-dinner treats—and more than a few pre- and during-libations as well. But drunk or sober, he was equally devious.

  “I wish you both the best, Teddy. And I hope to hell you know what you’re getting yourself in for. Forgive me. I’m sure you do. I think the world of both of you, but never forget that I’m the damned patriarch of this clan. You are marrying Jill, but you will need to earn a place in the clan. Nothing personal. It’s our way.”

  In the end, Ted had failed to find his place.

  The Judge was now retired from the bench and looked a generation older than Ted remembered. He’d read that the governor had offered a two-year exemption from the mandatory retirement age but Con had turned him down to “spend more time with his family.” Knowing the Judge’s distaste for any family member other than Jill, Ted had written an entirely different scenario in his mind, one in which the stench of backroom favors, promises, and sellouts had hung about the old man like a malodorous fog. The Judge had left when he still had the chance of having a courthouse named after him in some upstate county rather than being pilloried by some muckraking young reporter who had not yet learned that dealmaking and corruption were the yin and yang of life in Albany.

  “May I come in?” the old man asked.

  Ted realized that he’d been staring.

  “Is Jill all right?” he said, not able to imagine another reason for this apparition being on his doorstep.

  “I should have called. Forgive an old man; I was afraid that you might avoid meeting with me.” He peered over Ted’s shoulder at the meager expanse of his living quarters.

  “On the contrary. Curiosity would have won out over anger and resentment. Come in. I can spare you a few minutes. But I warn you, I have to leave soon.” Formal, nonconfrontational, but with limits. His ground, his rules.

  “I could drop you somewhere. We could chat on the way.”

  They were negotiating turf—home advantage—Ted realized. As humble as the squalor of his abode was, he did not want to have a conversation with this formidable figure in the padded luxury of the back of a chauffeured Mercedes. There were neighborhoods in Queens where a vehicle like that could be stripped for parts while waiting for the light to change. Neither did Ted want the Judge to know enough of his personal business to see where Ted was going or whom he might meet there.

  “Maybe next time,” he said. He wanted to know why the Judge had come but would not give him the satisfaction of having to be asked.

  The Judge hesitated. “I hope I don’t make you late,” he said finally, and stepped over the threshold. “Once you hear what I have to say, you may have some questions.”

  First round to Ted. The discussion would be held across his IKEA table.

  The Judge took a chair and angled it so that he was sitting with his back to the wall, facing the room. Ted took the chair opposite and angled it the same way, forcing the older man to uncomfortably turn his head to speak.

  “I can offer you water or seltzer. There might be a beer.” Despite his time as a part of the Fitzmaurice clan, Ted had never developed the family appreciation for brown-colored spirits. And his budget would not have supported cognacs distilled before he was born.

  “Nothing, thank you. How have you been?”

  “I get by.”

  The Judge had helped Ted land his next job after he was given the boot but had warned him that was as much as he could do. Ted blamed only himself for making a dog’s breakfas
t of that opportunity. As far as he was concerned, they were even. Neither owed a favor or expected one.

  “Yes,” the Judge said. “I knew you were resourceful.”

  Ted fought the urge to check the Uber clock. The Judge would like him to be distracted.

  “I know that you and Jill have kept in touch,” the Judge said. The lightness of his delivery was a warning in itself.

  This had to be a feint. His Honor hadn’t come all the way out to bucolic Maspeth to chat about family.

  “We’re friends,” Ted said.

  He nodded. “Has it ever crossed your mind that what happened between you two was, in a way, inevitable?”

  “Are we talking about sexual orientation? Or family interference? They think I turned Jill off from men.”

  “I thought you were aware of her preferences. Before the marriage, I mean.”

  “You knew?” Ted had been taken off guard and had revealed an iota of his ignorance. The old bull had succeeded. The lunch Ted had been anticipating for twenty-four hours was forgotten. He wanted to stay home and fight.

  “Oh, yes. Jill has always talked to me. Confided in me. It was painful. I wanted to believe that the two of you could find a better solution.”

  “You could have helped.”

  “I thought I did.”

  Ted shook his head. “Only when it cost you nothing. You got me an interview. Thank you. But you did nothing, said nothing, to the family when it counted. One word from you would have meant a lot.”

  “My duty was to the family. I don’t agree with all they do, but I can only lead where I know I will be followed. Family politics are as complex as any other kind. More so, in fact. And don’t be so sure that interview cost me nothing. All favors have a price. That’s the world I live in.”

  “Is that how you explain it to yourself?” Ted wanted to smash the Judge’s patrician reserve—and maybe his nose, too. He pulled himself back from that abyss. “And why are you here?”

  “What exactly is your complaint? You landed on your feet.”

  True. He wasn’t homeless, hungry, or destitute. But neither was he living the life he had imagined when he first worked for the Judge, fifteen years before. “They hated me and made every day that I stayed around after the divorce pure torture. When they offered to keep me on—it was in a way that would ensure I would be even more miserable.” He stopped. Rehashing the past was a weak man’s play. He was allowing himself to be baited like a lawyer with his first case.

  The Judge’s eyes lit up. The advantage had swung to him and he knew it. “What do you expect from them? A family is a pack. To wrong one is to wrong all.”

  The whole conversation so far had been jousting for position. The point would be revealed only when the Judge held the high ground. Ted knew he was being manipulated but could not resist. “And they hounded her after the annulment. They couldn’t live with an amicable divorce. They had to push on Jill until she stopped speaking to me.”

  “In the end, Jill went along with their wishes,” the Judge said. “That was the price they demanded. She paid it, until she didn’t have to any longer.”

  “That’s a cold-blooded perspective,” Ted said.

  “You think? I would imagine perspective is all, isn’t it?”

  Ted was done. He knew the one chink in the old warrior’s armor—Jill—and Ted would not attack there, no matter the provocation. Screw it. He had a lunch date. He made an elaborate show of checking the time on his phone.

  “Why are you here?” Ted asked.

  “I’m taking too much of your time. Again, my car is at your service.”

  Ted’s phone pinged. A text. Uber. “I have a ride. They’ll be outside in four minutes.”

  “Then I had better get on with it, hadn’t I?”

  All the fuss had been preamble. The ancient history had all been distraction.

  “Make it quick,” Ted said.

  There were two red pencils in a coffee cup on the table. The Judge took them out, examined the points, and replaced them, aligning them in precise parallel. He smiled grimly when done. “I was sent here today with a request. From Jill. She would not presume to ask you herself, but believe me—I do speak for her.”

  “She doesn’t need you for that. Jill knows that she can ask me anything.”

  “It has to do with Jacqueline.”

  Ted acknowledged that he could be difficult on that subject. But there was no need for Jill to have sent the old man.

  “I’ve got no fight with Jackie,” Ted said. “We don’t get along, but I wish her no harm.”

  “Ah, Teddy. You never were a good liar.”

  “Time to go.” Ted stood.

  “You can tell me whatever you like, but don’t lie to yourself.” The Judge remained seated.

  “My ride is here.”

  The Judge held up his index finger. One minute. “You’re working on a surplus-money case. I’d like you to withdraw your filing.”

  Damn. Ted should have known. All that smoke about family had been there to keep him from thinking. And it had worked. So who was really behind the Judge’s visit? Not Jill. Who in this mare’s nest of players did the old man represent?

  “Not a chance,” he said.

  “Jill is afraid that if you prevail, Jacqueline will take a fall.”

  Another realization hit. The Judge knew that Jill was Ted’s chink, too. “Is that what you told her?”

  “It’s true—Jacqueline may have been overly aggressive in pursuit of an outcome and will now suffer some embarrassment for her actions. And it will be embarrassing for a great number of other people. Powerful people who would rather owe you a favor than punish you after the fact.”

  “Who? Give me names.” And let’s get this game over with.

  “It’s not that simple. Tell me what you want, and I will get it delivered.”

  “I told you what I want. Names.”

  “You want the money? The million or so, whatever it is? It’s yours.”

  Ted held back a laugh. How far would they go? “How about five mil? Why not ten?”

  “How about you get to practice law again?”

  He was a cunning bastard. With a phone call or two, Cornelius Fitzmaurice could reopen those gates for Ted. He wanted so much to say yes. And so he didn’t. “And Miss Miller? It’s her money. And she’s owed a lot more.”

  “She’s being well provided for. What does she need anyway? A better wheelchair? Two scoops of vanilla on her dessert? She’s in one of the best assisted-living homes in Queens, for which she pays nothing. She’s got twenty-four-hour care. The best doctors. How much longer has she got? Months? A year?”

  The old man was miles ahead of him. Of course, he had come prepared, but who had prepped him? Where had he come by this detailed knowledge? How much more did he know that was still hidden from Ted? Ted chose the all-encompassing question: “How do you know so much about this?”

  The Judge smiled as though from on high. “People talk to me. That’s how these things get done. You know that.”

  Ted’s phone pinged again. The car was waiting. There was no reason to stay any longer; the Judge had delivered his message and would offer no more information of use. Ted stood and walked to the door. “It’s time for you to leave.”

  “Think about it, Teddy. I’d like to help.”

  Ted opened the door and made a show of getting out his keys.

  “You will have some important people beholden to you. People who don’t forget. This isn’t just some local pissing match. It goes to Albany. To the top.”

  Ted was shocked—not only at the revelation itself, but also at the fact that the Judge had presented it so casually. But Ted also understood that this was as much threat as inducement. He let none of this show in his face but jiggled the keys. He needed to give this some thought. And he needed to get a
way before the Judge saw that he may have scored a hit.

  The Judge sighed and rose to his feet. He stopped in the doorway, blocking it. “Do it for Jill.”

  They both knew that Ted would not let her be harmed. But would that protection extend to the family? No. To Jackie? Jacqueline. Ted wasn’t so sure. He needed to shake the old man. A thought flashed through his mind, and he gave it voice before he had the chance to temper it. “Answer me one question. Why did Richie have to die?”

  “Who?” For the first time, the old man appeared to be genuinely confused. Maybe he was a great poker player.

  Ted pushed further. “Who saw him as a threat? Christ, you could have bought him off for pennies on the dollar.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Was he lying?

  Nothing Ted could say or do would crack that Fitzmaurice carapace. There was nothing more to be gained by talking with him.

  “Leave,” Ted said. “You couldn’t tell the truth to save a life.”

  “Teddy. Hate me if you must, but understand this. There will come a time—and we are swiftly approaching that time—when I will no longer be able to control events. Do you understand what I’m saying? Think about this. Take the offer. Cut a deal. It’s the only wise move.”

  -26-

  “I could make a meal of this,” Kenzie said over an appetizer of chicken wings with taro fries.

  “It’s not too late to change your order,” Ted said.

  “Yes it is. Besides, I really want the bun cha. I’m hungry.”

  He laughed. “It wasn’t the words ‘pork belly’ that got you?” She had taken some care in prepping herself for what was ostensibly only a business lunch. Her hair was tamed into a swoop that cascaded over one shoulder. She had on a white silk blouse with the barest hint of pink in it, black slacks cut in a way that made her long legs seem even longer, and sandals—no socks, matched or otherwise. She had also dabbed on a touch of makeup.