Читать книгу Bluff Walk - Charles R. Crawford - Страница 8

2 _____________________

I was in Amanda’s office in a Front Street high rise the next morning at ten, eager to get rid of the videocassette.

“That was quick,” she said, “and you thought it would be hard.”

“I got lucky. At least I think I did,” I replied.

“What do you mean? Didn’t you get the proof?”

“Oh yeah, I got it,” I answered. “But there is such a thing as too much information.”

“Look,” she said, “if you’ve got the proof I want on that tape, I’ll send it over to Morrie Friedlander, Jack’s lawyer, this afternoon and we’ll settle this case tomorrow. Betty Jo can live comfortably and Jack can go on with his lifestyle. All it will cost Jack is some money, and he’s got plenty. For that, we can both see some things we’d rather not.”

“Hey,” I said, “I don’t do domestic relations anymore for anyone but you, and I never did it because I like to see other people have sex.”

“Okay, I’ll bite,” she said. “Why do you do it?”

“I like working with you, the money’s good, and I enjoy setting up the shots. I guess I’m just getting where I don’t like pulling the trigger on that kind of subject matter,” I replied.

“As long as you’ll at least mention the money, I’m willing to accept the other bullshit, maybe even believe it,” she said. “But I think you’re leaving out part of the reason. Now let’s watch a movie.”

“I saw the live production,” I said. “That’s more than enough.”

I walked out of Amanda’s office building on to Front Street and past the bums and winos in Confederate Park. An old man who looked like one of my great uncles gone far out of control stood behind a tree, holding a bottle in a paper bag in one hand and his penis in the other as he watered the grass. A hot, dry wind blew across the river from Arkansas, swarmed up the bluff that kept out the floods and riffled the leaves of the cottonwoods in the park.

I went south, past the old courthouse and the fire station, the river visible on my right as I came to streets that ran across Front and dead ended into Riverside. The river was low in late summer, with sandbars sticking up here and there and barge traffic carefully picking its way through the channel.

I crossed Beale into the old warehouse district where I keep my combination office and apartment. A brass sign at head height was screwed into the hundred year old brick at the corner of the street and the alley that was my official address. It read “John McAlister, Investigations.”

I turned right down the alley that ran perpendicular to the river, the walls of the buildings looming close on either side. Fifty feet down the alley, I climbed the outside metal staircase the three stories to my door, past the potted plants and barbecue grills of my neighbors. Another brass nameplate beside the only door at the third and last landing proclaimed my business address again. I don’t get much walk-in traffic, but the signs help people find me once they’ve called for an appointment. The location is pretty obscure, but my clients generally see that as a plus.

I let myself into my office, an 18 by 22 foot rectangle with a 14 foot high ceiling. The walls on three sides were solid brick, with a door in the back wall that led to my living quarters. The west wall was a long series of windows that started three feet up from the floor and ran almost to the ceiling. The shades on all the windows were up, and the river was visible over the tops of the magnolias that grew along the bluff. If I leaned out over the balcony off my living quarters, I could see Cybill Shepherd’s house perched on the bluff to the south. I knew, because I had done it more than once. I still hadn’t seen Cybill, though.

I checked my answering machine, but there had been no calls since I had left an hour before to see Amanda. I pulled my active files out and flipped through them, but I didn’t have the energy to make phone calls or do much of anything else. I was physically and emotionally drained from the night before. I took the phone off the hook, lay down on the old leather couch across from my desk, and was asleep in less than a minute.

I didn’t wake up until four o’clock, when the westering sun began to heat up the room despite the air conditioning. I pulled the shades, then went into my apartment and put on workout clothes.

I ran the mile over to the YMCA, and put in a hard hour with the free weights, working my chest and shoulders. I had hit a plateau on the bench press, and wanted to go up at least ten more pounds. It didn’t happen this time. I jogged back to my place, and noticed that the light on the answering machine was blinking on the office phone as I went back to my living space. The nap and the workout had made me feel almost human again, but I decided that I would wait until the next day before I even listened to the messages.

I got a Samuel Adams beer out of the refrigerator and put it in the freezer to really cool off while I took a shower. After I got out, I put on a t-shirt and shorts and rescued Sam from the icebox. I had just taken the first swig when the buzzer on my door sounded. I looked through the peephole and opened the door. Amanda had a strange look in her eyes. “Where the hell have you been?” she asked. “I’ve called at least three times and gotten no answer.”

“I’ve been at the Y,” I said, “but tell me again when it was that we got married.”

“What are you babbling about?” she asked.

“Look, you’ve never even been to my office, and all of a sudden you show up acting as if I’m supposed to share my schedule with you,” I answered.

“Then you don’t know?” she asked.

“Know what?” I responded.

“Jack Jones is dead.”

“You’re kidding me!” I said.

“No,” Amanda said slowly as if I were a child, “I am most definitely not kidding you. He died at three forty five this afternoon at Morrie’s office while watching your video. Morrie called and told me after the ambulance had left.”

“Good God,” I said. “Did he have a heart attack?”

“Morrie said he grabbed his head, then fell over on the floor. He thinks it was a cerebral hemorrhage.”

My throat had closed up, and my bowels were churning. I sat down on the couch and stared at Amanda.

“John, did you know who the young man was with Jack last night?” Amanda asked.

“No, did you?”

“Not until Morrie told me. It was Chip Blakeney, Sam Blakeney’s son,” Amanda said.

“Sam Blakeney, the banker?”

“Sam Blakeney the banker,” Amanda answered. “Also Sam Blakeney Jack’s roommate at Virginia, and Sam Blakeney Jack’s regular golf partner.”

“No shit?”

“No shit,” Amanda said.

“So what happens now?” I asked. “I mean to Betty Jo’s case?”

“Jack and Betty Jo were still married at the time of his death, so she’ll take a spouse’s elective share and get something like ten or twenty percent of his estate regardless of whether he cut her out of his will,” Amanda replied. “I’ve got to look at the statute. Her percentage depends on how long they were married.”

“What about you,” I asked, “what do you get since there wasn’t a settlement or award?”

“I could tell you that’s none of your business, but I won’t,” Amanda said. “My fee arrangement covers this possibility. I’ll get a third of whatever Betty Jo gets.”

“Congratulations,” I said. “You’re a rich woman. Or maybe I should say a richer woman.”

“Fuck you,” she said. “I didn’t come over here to be congratulated.”

“Then why did you come?” I asked.

“I really don’t know,” she answered. “I guess I’ll leave. I’ll send you a check when I get my money And there’ll be a lot for you. It was your tape that did it.”

I had never before seen Amanda looking anything but calm and professional, with a slight air of useful bitchiness. Now, inspecting her more closely, she seemed different. Her blonde hair, usually perfectly coiffed in a shoulder length pageboy, was sticking out here and there, and her makeup was smeared.

She turned to go back out the door.

“Sit down for a minute,” I said. “Let me get you something to drink.”

“Like I said, I didn’t come over here to be congratulated, and I don’t feel like celebrating. This isn’t that kind of a case,” Amanda said, as she turned back to me.

“Look, I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to be an asshole. I just don’t know what the appropriate response is here. I mean, I’m glad Betty Jo is going to get some money, and I’m glad you’re going to get some money. Hell, I’m glad I’m going to get some money. On the other hand, I’m sorry Jack died. It wasn’t what any of us intended.”

Amanda sat down on the couch and ran her fingers through her hair. That explained part of her appearance. “I’m sorry, too,” she said. “I don’t know how to react, either. But I’m trying to fight this overwhelming feeling that I’m responsible for his death. It’s been eating at me since Morrie called. Don’t you feel that way, too?”

I looked down and noticed the forgotten Sam Adams bottle in my hand. I took a long pull, decided there was no point in confessing the wave of guilt washing through me, and said, “I’m not sure what I feel, but I know in my head that neither one of us is responsible for Jones’s death. Your head is better than mine, so you must know it, too. You were representing your client, and I was doing a job. Jack stroking out over the tape is not a foreseeable effect of that.”

“I don’t know, John, I’m having a hard time going with my head on this one.”

“Your head has gotten you a long way,” I said. “You ought to stay with it.”