Suzy's Case: A Novel Read online

  3.

  I pump and turn, sparking the Eldo to purr and the music to blast. I don’t know how or why, but a different song is playing.

  I leave the lot, smoking another cigar to the blasting and repeated tune of “Play That Funky Music” by Wild Cherry. After driving a few miles, I find myself the first car at a red light on Clarkson Avenue, right in front of Kings County Hospital. Crossing the street before me is a black youth in a full leg cast, hip to toe. He’s got a mile-high Afro, seventies-style. I can tell his injury is fresh from the bright white color of his cast and the awkward way he’s negotiating his crutches. My bet is he was just discharged.

  Interesting.

  Mile High is with two friends. Both have dreads like Otis, neither with funnel. They’re making fun of their injured friend as he struggles with the sticks. The three stop near the front of the Eldo. “Yo, cool ride,” Mile High yells to me.

  “Thanks. Who fucked you up?” I point to his leg.

  Mile High hobbles over to the driver’s side as I put down my window. “Yo, check out the Rasta dog,” he calls to his friends.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “Got taken out by a limo up in Harlem in front of the Apollo the other night.”

  “Who’s your lawyer?”

  “Got five cards in my pocket. One of them.”

  “Get in the car. I’m your lawyer. I’ll take you to my office.”

  “You Jewish?” he asks.

  I respond to his question with a question, like any normal Jewish lawyer would. “What do you think?”

  He smiles. “Cool.”

  By this time the light has changed to green and the traffic behind is honking as Mile High hobbles around the front of my car to get in on the passenger side. “In the back, Otis,” I command. This time he obeys, knowing we’re going to have company.

  “Yo, I’m coming,” one of his buddies says as he opens the passenger door. “Me, too,” chimes in the second. They both get in the back, forcing Otis behind me. Otis doesn’t like the seating arrangement so he jumps over the guy next to him and takes the center seat. Mile High gets in the front and shuts the door. Otis jumps back into the front between us, startling Mile High.

  I make the introduction. “This is Otis. He’s friendly and been a victim of black dog discrimination his whole life.” The boys laugh.

  “What’s up, my man Otis?” Mile High says. It’s amazing how many people say that when they meet him.

  I start driving to my office on Park Avenue South at Twenty-Ninth Street with my new crew loudly singing, “Play that funky music, white boy …” They’re attempting to draw public attention and succeed. I weave the Eldo in and out of traffic, as best the Eldo can weave, attempting to make all the greens. I’m trying to avoid the spectacle of waiting at a red light with my attention-hungry passengers. Luckily, no other car in the world can cause traffic to divide like the Eldo and I make it all the way into Manhattan without stopping.

  Just before we enter the garage, my crew is putting the finishing touches on their new gangsta-style sample of “White Boy.”

  I enter the underground garage and resourcefully pull up to the sign that says PULL TO HERE. “Play that funky music, white boy” is echoing throughout the garage, yet is actually outdone by the screams of my trio. They’ve completely transformed this classic into a catchy sample, beat box and all.

  Oscar, my garage guy, appears entertained by my entourage. He opens my door and Otis vaults over my lap and out, causing Oscar to jump back. Otis shakes his funnel head and sneezes. “Hey there, easy, boy,” Oscar says, his hands making a “no closer” gesture. “I don’t like big black dogs,” he remarks.

  I look over to my crew. “There you go,” I say. “Black dog discrimination.” I turn back to my garage guy. “Oscar, meet Otis. He’s a licker not a biter.”

  Oscar gives Otis a cautious pet. “What’s up, my man Otis?”

  The boys and I walk out of the garage and begin our slow journey to my office, two blocks away. Going up the ramp, I realize it was insensitive of me not to drop Mile High off in front of my building, but truth be told, I didn’t want him out of my watchful eye and risk losing the case after getting him this far. At least I admit it.

  As we approach my building, there’s an old lady with three dogs coming from the other direction. Otis sees them and gives a slight tug. “Okay, Otis,” I tell him. “You can meet some city dogs if you want. But I got to warn you, they’re much more advanced and sophisticated than your typical canine from the boonies.”

  As we hit the entrance to my building, I turn and say, “Yo, go up to the seventh floor and wait in my reception area. My dog needs to take care of some business.” I realize at this moment I didn’t even ask that kid or his companions their names. All I saw was a bright white cast, dollar signs, and a mile-high ’fro. More insensitivity. They enter and I continue past, with Otis tugging forward.

  The old woman has two bulldogs and a boxer, all with stubby tails wagging in excitement. Our dogs make contact in front of Deli-De-Lite, and it’s an ass-sniffing bonanza. Their owner’s a cross between a bag lady and a Rockefeller. Disheveled with ratty old clothing and poor oral hygiene, she nonetheless sports diamond earrings, a big diamond ring, and chunky diamond bracelets.

  I recognize all of the pieces as contemporary Tiffany, having seen them in the catalog my wife likes to leave in our bathroom magazine rack. Every time she dog-ears a page for something she intends to buy, I rip it out ultracarefully so its absence can’t be detected. I check out the way-too-expensive price of whatever item she’s taken a fancy to, then fold the page and wipe my ass with it. I accept the discomfort inflicted by the sharp paper edge as preferable to the ache induced by the diminishment of my bank account, finding extra joy in the flush.

  I smile at Mrs. Bagafeller as our animals get acquainted. She smiles back. I can tell she’s real hip. We watch them sniff away. “Nothing like the smell of fresh doggy ass,” I observe.

  She widens her smile. “So true, young man. So true. Wouldn’t life be easier if it was socially acceptable to approach a nice young woman you found attractive and go right to the sniff without all the discomfort involved in initiating conversation?”

  I widen my smile, too. “That’s the way it should be. It would take the awkwardness right out of the equation.”

  “Yes,” she replies. “Talking only gets in the way. If things don’t smell right, why waste time?”

  “I can see you have a lot of wisdom stored up in that head of yours.”

  “As you get older, you realize what’s important.”

  “So share some of that wisdom before we go our separate ways.”

  “That’s easy. If you can’t sniff the duff of the one you love, then sniff the one you’re with.”

  “Would it be all right if I quoted you someday?”

  Her dogs pull her toward an approaching mixed breed. “Please be my guest, young man.”

  Not Marital Property

  After eating two beef jerkies in front of Deli-De-Lite, I make my way up to my office. I have a Park Avenue address, but my space is no grand digs. I’m a solo practitioner so my needs are one giant impressive windowed corner office for me, a secretarial station for Lily, and a conference room where I can conduct depositions of all the friendly people I’ve sued.

  I’ve occupied this space since I hung my shingle, first as a tenant of some fading law firm in a windowless closet-sized office and now as the leaseholder. At three thousand square feet, it’s way too big for my practice, yet too run-down for lawyers of any worth to share. So, my current subtenants, who occupy most of the space, are a small group of individuals in the publishing and e-commerce industries. They publish a newsmagazine for the medical marijuana community called TOKE. They are a direct competitor of HIGH TIMES and a perfect fit for me.

  I tolerate their herb-smelling runners that float in and out for apparent transactional purposes and they tolerate my HICs. Kind of a mutual admiration socie
ty of killers and deadheads. Besides, where else could you find tenants who pay most of the rent and insist on the anonymity of not having their name on the front door? As I reach for the knob I take in the new scent in the hall, fresh blooming roses. Lily. The paralegal, not the flower.

  I enter to see my new crew is huddled in the corner of my reception, seeming uneasy. I look to the opposite corner and see a behemoth from the bayou occupying half the entry couch. If I had to venture a guess on professions, I’d say Swamp Thing wrestler. Conservatively, six foot five and three hundred pounds.

  It takes no longer than an instant to notice he’s acting strange, murderously strange. It’s what he is doing with his right hand. In it is a handgrip exerciser. It’s the kind with a metal coiled spring resistance mechanism atop black plastic handgrips that you squeeze together. Only, this one is special. It’s custom-made.

  The extralarge handgrips are pitted steel and have lucky charms affixed to the ends of each one. Jutting off one side is a shiny dagger. The other handgrip has a hollow-eyed steel skull with a vertical slot where its nose should be. With a large bayou beast hand covered with thick tufts of hair, Swamp Thing slowly squeezes the handgrips together, causing the dagger to move toward and pierce the skull through the slot with the pointed tip shooting out the back. He holds it together for six, seven, maybe eight seconds, then releases. We watch as he does another rep with his forearm swelling into full flex. He’s fixated on it as the dagger penetrates, fantasizing, I suspect.

  Time to say hello to one of Henry’s injured criminals and my new HIC client.

  “Bert Beecher?” I ask. He looks up for the first time.

  “Yeah, that’s me.” He gives Mile High and pals an unfriendly stare—real unfriendly, like inciting-a-riot unfriendly. They huddle closer.

  Bert looks at Otis. “Nice mutt,” he says, which is not intended as a compliment.

  “Mr. Beecher,” I tell him, “I’ll be with you in a moment. Wait right here, please.” I turn to the trio. “You guys with me.”

  I open what I call the “spy door” that separates reception from my internal office and walk five steps down the hall. “Now go in here,” I direct as I open the door to my conference room and put on the lights. “My paralegal, Lily, will be right in to take your information and have you sign some documents,” I say to Mile High. “She’s really good-looking and I expect you and these two to be on your best behavior. We cool?”

  “We cool,” Mile High confirms, then pauses. I don’t like the feel of it. It’s the type of pause someone gives when they intend to do the reverse of what they just promised.

  “What’s your name anyway?” I ask him, thinking I should apologize for not asking him sooner.

  “I was wondering when you were going to ask. Barton Jackson the Third,” Mile High responds.

  Oops. Too late. I restate my concern. “I mean it, now, Barton Jackson the Third—best behavior.”

  “Yeah,” Mile High says too quickly.

  I don’t like it. He’s playing with me. I need to keep this going until he reveals himself. “In a few moments,” I explain, “a twenty-nine-year-old dark-haired, dark-skinned, dark-eyed, saucy PR beauty who’s almost six feet tall, slender, with a ten body, who walks with grace, elegance, and a booty call is going to come through that door. If I’m not mistaken, Lily’s going to be wearing hip-hugging, wrinkle-free pants that showcase her smoking ass. Can you still be on your best behavior?”

  “Yeah, yeah. We cool.” Mile High pauses significantly again. He doesn’t know it’s significant, but it is. I detect a lip quiver, like he’s not serious about what he said, then suddenly, he breaks out in laughter and gives in. “Okay, all right. I won’t play no games on your girl. You found me out. She’s gonna get all our respect. Now, how we gettin’ back to Brooklyn?”

  I take a hundred out. “Lily will be instructed to give you this if she feels you respected her. It should be enough to get you home in a cab.”

  Mile High grins. “Thanks.” We both know he’ll be pocketing the hundred and taking the number 4 train home and I’m fine with that. No harm in giving a little spending money to the recently discharged. “What’s with that psycho killer?” he asks me.

  “I don’t know. I never met him before, but I’m pretty sure he’s an ignorant racist from the swamp. Pay no attention to guys like him. Nothing good can come from it.”

  “Where can I get some of that cherry bud I’m smelling?” he asks. “That’s African Buzz. I know that scent. That air freshener ain’t throwing me off.”

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

  I leave, closing the door behind me, and walk back toward the reception area to fetch Bert Beecher. Before I open I sneak a peak at Bert through the window panel, making sure he can’t see me. That’s why I call it the spy door. He’s dressed in a blue flannel work shirt, sleeves rolled up and unbuttoned and open to a stained white T-shirt. My guess would be all-you-can-eat ribs. His big stomach is hanging over his belt, resting on his thighs, and he’s got loosely laced work boots on, with the bottom of his grimy jeans tucked behind the tongue. He’s just sitting there slowly choking to death that handgrip exerciser, intently watching his hand motion with pleasure.

  He’s got a full head of unkempt dirty brown hair, and that alone makes me hate this guy. What the hell does a monster like that need good hair for, anyway? Bert’s nose looks like it’s been smashed down a few times and he has thirty-six-hour scruff covering his face. Oddly, he’s carrying a men’s Gucci bag. It’s the classic tan color with the G insignia pattern and signature green-bordered red stripe. Maybe he’s their alligator skin supplier.

  I open the door. “Mr. Beecher!” I call out.

  He follows. As we pass Lily’s station, I say, “There’s a new sign-up waiting for you in the conference room. The kid got run over up in Harlem in front of the Apollo Theater.”

  “Is it an HIC?”

  “No, it’s a direct matter, no referring attorney. Sign it up.” I continue with Bert and Otis into my office.

  “Have a seat,” I tell him, patting the back of one of my guest chairs with an inviting gesture. I take a seat on the other side of my large bird’s-eye maple desk.

  Before I get a word out, Bert Beecher speaks. “What’s an HIC?”

  I respond with a lie. “Heavy Injury Case,” I say, accompanying it with the kind of smile that surfaces on your face when you’ve entertained yourself with the lie you’ve just spoken.

  “Then why’d you tell her it was a direct matter without an attorney referring the kid to you the way Benson sent Betty over here?”

  My smile disappears.

  “No reason,” I say, skirting the issue. I make note of his acumen. Henry did warn me. Swamp Thing leaves it alone, after a pause. Or maybe he just filed it away. “Mr. Beecher, as you know, your wife formally changed attorneys from Henry Benson and I’m now her trial counsel.”

  “Yeah?”

  “As you also already know, her case was conditionally settled by Mr. Benson for six hundred thousand dollars for both claims, hers and yours.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, we can’t effectuate the settlement without your cooperation.”

  “That I know. And—”

  “And your wife, who was the injured party, has authorized me to offer you five percent of the client’s share, in order to get this case resolved. It’s the standard amount for a claim like yours.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ve asked you here today hoping to obtain your cooperation so we can finalize the settlement.”

  “Yeah?” Beecher repeats.

  “That’s about it. I need you to sign a general release reflecting your consent to accept five percent, which I would suggest is reasonable under the circumstances.”

  “Fine, but tack a zero on after the five. I want half the money just like the law says.” I pause. Just like the law says, I repeat in my mind. What is this guy talking about? I tilt my head and l
ook him in the face, seeking a clue.

  His nose is smashed down and to his right. That must have been some punch. Bert’s upper lip, with its blood-filled cracks, is irregular near the center where a tiny scar crawls up to under his nose, evidencing a surgically repaired cleft palate. Dirt fills the creases coming off the corners of his eyes, which are squinting in emphasis of his point. He’s giving me the mean face, with his head cocked to the side. I look down at his hand and he has that exerciser vise-gripped closed.

  “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

  “Then there’s nothing left to talk about. I’m leaving.”

  “Mr. Beecher, please don’t go. I think we should play this out a little more and see if we can resolve things favorably for everyone.”

  “What’s there to resolve? My ex can’t get the money unless I sign off, and I’m not signing off unless I get half. I know Betty needs the money and she’s gonna get desperate, so I’ll wait her out. Besides, I know the divorce law says each person gets half the money, right? Why should I take less?”

  I nod in understanding of his misunderstanding. “I see where you’re coming from now, Mr. Beecher. I think you may have a mix-up about the law here.”

  “Yeah? How so?” Get ready for a dose of reality, Bert. It’s back to the swamp for you.

  “Despite you two being legally married at the time she was malpracticed, money from an injury lawsuit is not marital property subject to the equitable-distribution divorce laws of New York. You’re not entitled to half of that money. In fact, you’re not entitled to a penny of it. That money is for the injury Betty sustained to her corneas as a result of the surgeon forgetting to remove the eye shields at the end of her surgery. The law sees it as compensation to make the injured party whole again. It’s not viewed as income that would be subject to a split like you’re suggesting. Your wife doesn’t even have to pay taxes on it for that very same reason.”

  “Tell that to someone else. I want half. That’s what the law says. Half. Especially now that I know she don’t have to pay no taxes on it, even though she don’t pay no taxes anyway.”