10 comments/ 17087 views/ 1 favorites Go For Broke By: estragon "Do not write for the wrong reasons—marketplace reasons that crush your true identity. Give yourself permission to believe in the validity of your own narrative." William Zinsser. My deepest thanks to SA PennLady for her editorial comments and suggestions. Of course, any errors, misstatements or stupidities are solely my responsibility. Some background for this story will be found in my stories "Easter" and "Trust". However, this is a stand-alone story. * Shortly after I had gone back to work, ribs healing and head no longer hurting from the Second Degree Dope-Slap administered by my nephews, my landlord finally told me to get out of my 300-square foot office, the one next to the fragrant Papa John's, in his strip mall. I had already reviewed, and he had signed, the lease for what had been my office with a major recipient of TARP. Now the beneficiary of taxpayer largesse, hereinafter the "Tenant", could put in a couple of ATMs and overflowing wastebaskets...with the obligatory out-of-ink ballpoints chained to the counter. No problem, as there wouldn't have been any deposit slips or envelopes in the place for days. They make money from the fees other banks' customers pay to use the TARPooner's ATM machines. I had stored my files and what minimal office furniture I had (in flagrant violation of all the fire laws, of course) in the basement of my house. I was going to order new cards and change my e-stationery when Jason Whittaker told me there was a vacant office in his suite downtown. The rent was only mildly extortionate, and the main lease had five years to go, so I took the sublet for three years with an option for two more, with a six-month good-guy clause, so if I paid six months' rent I could leave. Hugh Casey, an old-time lawyer who had leased the entire suite years ago, agreed and got the building owner to consent. Hugh charged me a reasonable fee for same; my heart could barely stand the shock, as good old Hugh had the first nickel he ever made, and all the others that followed. And they said he didn't like Italians. A fuckin' prince is good old Hugh. I moved again, after I swore I wouldn't ever move again. I wore a suit to the new space on my first day there, as I had sworn I would never do again if I moved. As my files and Salvation Army specials came over from my basement (making me legal again), I wound up having to get my suit dry-cleaned the next day from the dust. But to hell with the dust! I got down to business. I settled down in my dusty chair, eager to begin in a nice, new location, with colleagues I liked. My cellphone rang. Not even bothering to see who was calling, I answered with an anticipation I hadn't felt in years. "Lou Bascom." "Hey, fuckface, I hear you got a new office. Don't go anywhere, I got an OSC coming over in five minutes." "Molly, my dear, thank you, it's always a pleasure." "Tell that to Bernie Bastard at four-thirty, and tell your rat-fuck clients to get their filthy asses over there too." Molly Cohen hung up. Molly was the most obnoxious, abrasive, uncivil, nasty, brilliant lawyer I knew. We had beaten each other to pulp and back again on numerous occasions. The Honorable Bernardo Barcelona, Judge of the Court of General Sessions of our wonderful county, known to us and all our colleagues at the Bar as Bernie Bastard, had presided over many of those beatings. To each such encounter he added his own inimitable mixture of disdain and abuse, as he uniformly did, regardless of the race, color, creed, sex, sexual preferences, national origin, or ancestry, of any and all of the attorneys unlucky enough to appear before him. His Honor is an equal opportunity motherfucker. He also has the lowest rate of reversal of any judge in our little corner of Our Great State. Our revered Supreme Court of Judicature loves his wrinkled old ass. And, oh yes, Bernie Bastard knows the law. I sat back, wondering upon which client I should bestow the gladsome news. My cellphone rang again. With no anticipation, but with a mild dread, I answered, "Lou Bascom." "My fucking sister, that filthy fucking cunt, she should die and rot in hell! She won't give me or Joey the statements, and she threw me out when I went to see her. Call the cops." "Peter," I replied, "we won't need the cops. I expect we'll be in court this afternoon. Are you free at four-thirty?" "I'll be free when that fucking bitch that fell out of Momma's ass is fucking dead!" he screamed. "Peter," I said, striving to stay calm, "is Joseph available? You should not worry yourself...." "I shouldn't worry myself, when that miserable cunt is robbing me and my brother blind...." Peter Capaldi was in the fast lane to becoming a customer of his family's business. Capaldi Funeral Home was the last one to let you down, if you were Italian, and even if you weren't. Many members of our town's African-American community had been served by the Capaldis. The Capaldis had done more than one twenty-four hour, plain pine box special for our Jewish neighbors. All the local clergy, and a lot of local atheists, were friends of the late Pasquale ("Patsy") Capaldi. Now daughter Genevra ("Jenny") Capaldi Mastrantonio, who ran the business and held the essential undertaker's license, was fighting with her younger brothers, freezing them out of the business, not giving them operating statements, in breach and derogation of the written partnership agreement Patsy imposed upon his battling offspring from his deathbed. I represented Pete and Joe. They weren't the easiest of clients, but they weren't outright villains. After one stormy attempt at mediation by Don Vincero Reitano, my ex-brother and pillar of our community, Don Vincero washed his hands of the family, and consigned them all to a circle not even Dante had visited, with the finest, purest Italian cussing-out I had ever heard. So hi-ho, hi-ho, it's off to Court we go.... ***** Earlier in the week, I had run into Marty Haimowitz, who represented Carlo Mastrantonio, master butcher and purveyor. Carlo, for his sins, had been married to Jenny for nearly forty years. I heard through the grapevine Jenny had just fired Marty, because he is intelligent, hard-working, honest, and worst of all, told Jenny she was going to lose in court. "Marty, what's new?" "Free at last! Jenny fired me!" Marty was smiling like he won the lottery. "How much did she burn you for?" "Carlo sent me a check, but I can never tell her he did." "Carlo is a saint. I don't know how he put up with her all these years." "Maybe for the kids." Their three sons were wonderful men. I couldn't believe they were Jenny's. If I had a daughter, she could marry any one or all three, if she could promise me that none of my grandchildren would get any of Jenny's genes. "Maybe, who knows? Anyway, wanna have a drink this evening? I'm celebrating." "Sure. Who's your lucky successor?" "Don't know, don't care. See you at six at the Scales." The Scales of Justice is a dive across Bradley Square from the courthouse. Marty was so happy he bought two rounds. He should get fired more often. ***** I had a sinking feeling I knew who was Jenny's new attorney. This might be a giggle ... or a royal pain. The papers arrived. They were from Molly Cohen, of course. She was representing Defendant Genevra Capaldi, a/k/a Genevra Capaldi Mastrantonio. My clients were forthwith and pending the hearing of the within motion, and until further order of this honorable Court enjoined and restrained from entering upon premises occupied by or belonging to; or impeding, obstructing, interfering, disparaging or in any way fucking with; the said Defendant Genevra Capaldi et cetera, her agents, servants, or employees; or the operation or conduct of her business, known as and by the designation, style, or trade-name Capaldi Funeral Home, Inc., a domestic corporation (hereinafter the "Corporation"). Sufficient cause appearing therefor, let the Plaintiffs Joey Jerkoff and Pete the Prick show cause before the Honorable Bernie Bastard at four-thirty why they should not be castrated, and may God have mercy on your souls, because Bernie Bastard won't. I cleared my computer of the latest Literotica story I was reading (a writer called PennLady was just having a nubile young lady thunderously fucked by a center on the Stanley Cup-winning Washington Capitals, and I was remembering ... just as well I didn't have time to remember too much), and started my cross-motion and affidavits. ***** As I walked into the courtroom, papers in hand and clients trailing behind me looking like the Angel of Death and his brother, in came Molly. She had lost some weight. Although she still resembled a barrel with breasts, she was now a few gallons less than a whole keg. Physically, that is. She had changed from her usual navy blue pinstripe suit with the wide skirt and black pantyhose to a softer, lighter blue pantsuit, which actually disclosed she had a waist. Her heels were at least an inch higher, and her hair was down at her shoulders, not pinned back in its usual bun with a chopstick through it, and washed, not its usual neglected condition. My initial thought was, "My sweet Saviour, is someone actually fucking Molly? And when is the awards ceremony where whoever it is gets combat pay and the medal for bravery?" My reverie was interrupted as Margarita Echeverria, Bernie Bastard's clerk, greeted me with her usual gentility. "Sit down, shut up and I'll tell the Judge you're here." Margarita smiled. "Hello, Molly, how are you? Just wait one second." Bernie Bastard was an equal opportunity bastard. Margarita had her favorites. As we sat down, Jenny entered, looking like Lord Voldemort on a bad day. She sat down next to Molly, baring her teeth. Margarita ushered us into the Judge's chambers. Bernie Bastard was not pleased that we were keeping him from his cutthroat bridge game. "Molly, you don't need to say anything. Mister Bascom, you have twenty seconds to tell me why, if your clients set foot in Capaldi's, I can't have them arrested." "Your Honor, it's all in my papers." I handed copies to the judge and to Molly. They made a show of skimming them; Bernie tossed his on his desk after less than ten seconds. "My temporary order remains in effect. Stay out of Capaldi's, unless you're dead, or you'll wish you were dead. Molly, serve and file any reply papers by noon tomorrow. I'll have a written decision in forty-eight hours thereafter. Now get out of here." I knew I'd won. Molly smiled, as if she'd won. That meant she knew she'd lost. When we got outside and Molly and Jenny turned their backs on us and walked away, I told my clients we won. Of course, they thought I was full of shit and said so. I didn't care; A, I knew we won, and B, I still had money left over from the retainer they gave me. **** In fact, we won so big that Jenny tried to burn down the funeral home right before Thanksgiving, but I'd warned Harry Swenson, our fire chief, to watch the place, and his guys and gals hosed it down. Unfortunately, they were so thorough in stopping the fire that any evidence of arson was washed away, so poor Jason Whittaker's client, the biggest insurance company in our part of Our Fair State, had to pay. Before Molly even served him with papers. I'm sure Molly didn't know in advance about Jenny trying to burn down the business. Molly may be a bitch, but she's definitely honest and not stupid. When I asked Dom DiBlasio, our rough-tough DA, about the fire, he told me Swede Swenson's people hadn't left him enough evidence to convict Jenny for jaywalking. His best assistant DA was Jenny's middle son Romie (ADA Romualdo Mastrantonio), and even if Dom had evidence he couldn't have Romie anywhere near the case. "So, anyway," I asked, "will I see you Saturday at the function?" "How can I not go? I gotta give a speech and introduce Justice Oliviero." "Of course, Dom, I forgot." Our branch of The Sons of Italy was giving our new Supreme Court Justice an award, and it was a command performance for the local Bar. I even sold Marty Haimowitz a ticket, after I bought us a round or two at the Scales. His wife Hannah refuses to attend any Bar functions; she says she is allergic to lawyers, and even Marty makes her itch (where, she didn't say). **** Since I was going solo, as usual, I was sitting with the rabble. That was Marty, Jason Whittaker, Maria Urbino O'Callaghan the healthcare specialist (she's counsel to every nursing home in the county), Margarita (Mrs. Bernie Bastard, the formidable Consuela, wouldn't let ol' Margarita get within ten feet of Bernie Bastard without ten witnesses and an armed guard present), and Betsy Fifield from the Messenger (our daily freebie paper). There was an empty seat, and I was surprised because I had heard we'd sold out, for once. I was even more surprised when, just before the eight-thirty kickoff, in stalked Molly Cohen and sat down next to me. "Buona notte, Luigi," she hissed in my ear. She had skipped the cocktail reception, which was not surprising; I'd heard (bless the grapevine, well stocked with chirping little birdies) that Molly had cut down lately, which explains some things, but not all. "Buona notte, signorina," I responded. She had lost a little more weight. I had heard she joined the spa where my client Jere Pavelitch worked, and enlisted Jere to perform her celebrated airborne-ranger training program. It reduced many a woman to tears, but Molly hung in like a tiger, cursing a streak but working hard. And cutting down on the food and drink. When I ran into Ali MacMurtry, Jere's generously-proportioned spouse, at the Church we attend, Ali told me that Jere was impressed. Molly had acquired an evening gown to go with her waist, which also did the impossible by flattering her boobs. Molly now looked like a semi-desirable woman. Well, well. We were almost civil to one another during the dinner, which was excellent. Guilio Cesare Reitano, elder son of Don Vincero and owner of Tre Fontini, the best restaurant for fifty miles, catered this affair, and the food was worth the stiff ticket price. And the wine? By the second bottle (cash bar), I had mentally drafted my bankruptcy petition and the creditor matrix and was ready to file. And I must have been drunk out of my skull, because I looked at Molly. And she was smiling. At me. And I smiled back. Gaetano Donizetti, brother, where art thou? Had Guilio Cesare concocted a new Elisir d'Amore? I decided not to have another glass, lest I burst into Una Furtiva Lagrima and be ejected from The Sons of Italy on the grounds of blasphemy. Dom DiBlasio made a clever but respectful speech introducing Her Honor Maggie Oliviero, and spared us the "needs no introduction" cliché. Her Honor, the daughter of a Guatemalan mother and an Italian father (who died when she was a baby), recited her up-from-poverty story (and this time we knew it was true), from public housing in the poorest town in Our Fair State to Yale Law School, to a US Court of Appeals clerkship, to a white-shoe, country-club law firm and then to a legal services clinic back where she started, all the while maintaining impeccable political credentials. Now she sitteth at the right hand of the Honorable Chief Justice Ludmilla Hedwig Kovacs, also known as The Chief MILF, who had sent her regrets. The Chief MILF had taken her utterly delectable but happily married ass to a conference someplace expensive, and was now, with other similarly exalted personages, engaged in solving the problems of the Universe, while discreetly sipping Piña Coladas. The Honorable Maggie waxed philosophical, then magisterial; told a tasteful joke about a former Justice we all remembered (whose seat she now was taking), and sat down to a good round of applause. Jason Whittaker, urbane as always even after a bottle of Guilio Cesare's Elisir, whispered to me "She can start a new category, JILFs, Judges I'd Like to Fuck." "Not bad, Jason," I replied. There was no Mrs. Jason; Jason said he needed variety, and no kids. Rumor said he got plenty of the former, and narrowly avoided any of the latter. The espresso made the rounds. Molly refused hers so I had two, and we all got up to leave at once. As we walked to the door, Molly said, "It was a really nice evening. I should go to more of these. It was nice talking to you, Lou." She walked toward the parking lot, leaving me standing still, stunned. Marty and Jason walked up to me. "Are you ok?" Marty asked. Jason chimed in. "You look like you're having a stroke." He held up the obligatory three fingers. "How many?" "Jason, I'm not having anything; you're holding up three fingers. But Molly Cohen was nice to me for the first time in my life. She must be the one who's sick--or crazy." "I noticed she didn't tell you to go fuck yourself even once, but maybe that's because we aren't in court," Marty offered. "I doubt it," I said. "Neither time nor place ever deterred Molly. Well, doubtless she'll recover by morning and be her old dear sweet self again." And I expected Guilio Cesare would have run out of Elisir by morning, too. **** I didn't see Molly for a month. She was on a major case against a Big Pharma in US District Court, where she had fought the Wall Street Brigade lined up against her to a standstill, and she was prepping for trial big-time. I occupied my time trying to make a living; I was defending two mortgage foreclosures and trying to settle a four-car pile-up that left my client paralyzed from the waist down. I finished the month two for three. I got one foreclosure tossed out, but Bernie Bastard found for the bank in the other and my client got tossed. Need I say they didn't pay? Then the insurance company gave us a takeable offer as we finished the second day of trial in the pile-up, after Juror Number Three, the lady in the front row, was staring daggers at defendant's counsel (not Jason; this was the next-biggest insurance company, which always used high-priced, out-of-town counsel--big mistake). She was a pip, that one; I'd love to see her again--in the jury box, in my case. I made enough to finish in front in the office rent, gas bill, taxes and groceries stakes, with a trifle in hand for wine, beer and other necessities of life. In fact, I was so flush I stopped into Maeve O'Refferty's for two Guinnesses and a look at Maeve. "When are you gonna dump the Sarge and run away with me?" I asked as I finished the first. Maeve grinned. "Hell hasn't frozen over yet, has it?" "Guess not. Oh well." The Sarge was Police Sector Sergeant Dolan, her husband, and father of Megan, now the sophomore. "I'll have the second Guinness now, Maeve, if I can't have you." Maeve was carefully building the second Guinness when Molly Cohen walked in. If ever the Wicked Witch looked radiant, Molly looked radiant. "Hello, Lou," she said, smiling. "Hello, Molly, how are you?" I prepared to duck off my barstool if she turned violent, or run for the Fire-and-Rescue if she had a fit. This was not the Molly I knew. Guilio Cesare's Elisir d'Amore should have worn off by now, no? "They settled. We had to sign a ten-page confidentiality agreement, so I can't say anything." "Congratulations. Great job." "Thanks. What's good here?" This proved what I already knew, that Molly had never set foot in O'Refferty's before; she probably had never been in Germantown before. I wondered how she found the place. Then the light went on. She was looking for O'Refferty's. To celebrate? She was looking for O'Refferty's because she was looking for me, to celebrate with me? You gotta be kidding! I should explain. I am no girl's dream. I am an elderly widower. Since my darling Rosabella had died two years ago, I had not been with a woman. There was little prospect I would be with any woman, ever. Yeah, I go work out at a cheap gym, not the high-priced place where Jere tortures Molly, but I'm no Mr. Universe, more like Mr. Outer Space. And my economic prospects are far from brilliant. So why was Molly here? 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 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?" Go For Broke "Yeah. They won't miss us, and if they do, well ... fuck 'em if they can't take a joke." "When?" "I'll get on-line tonight and make the reservations for the day after tomorrow, that's February 14." "Hey, that's Valentine's Day." "It's some kind of holy day you can't travel on Valentine's Day?" "You buy, I'll fly." "Deal." I paid, and we went home. Together.