I remembered Dorita. Damn. I’d completely forgotten we’d arranged to meet the night before.
I called her up. Begged for forgiveness.
If you’d remembered, she laughed, I’d have fallen off my chair.
We arranged to meet at the Monkey Bar. For the first time I noticed the pun. Monkey bars. Hah.
Despite the name, it was more upscale than the Wolf’s Lair. More Dorita’s style. Plush sofas. Indirect lighting. Colored drinks.
I spied Dorita in the corner. She’d snagged our favorite spot. A small banquette, largely blocked from view. It made it hard to hail a waitress, but it helped the conversation. You felt you were alone.
I ordered a Scotch, Dorita a cosmopolitan. Her drink was pale red and pretty. A cherry in it. She crossed her legs. They were pale and pretty too.
I was thinking, I said.
You were thinking. I was.
Dangerous.
I was thinking that I really ought to give up this racket.
Here we go again.
No. I mean it. I really do.
But you can’t afford to.
There’s the problem.
Don’t you owe the IRS a half a million?
Well, yes. Rehab’s expensive. Fifteen times in rehab is fifteen times more expensive. And not tax-deductible.
Then stop dreaming.
There’s always bankruptcy.
Talk to Mort, darling. They never let you go. A tax debt never goes away. Bankruptcy or no bankruptcy.
I’ve heard that.
It’s true. Talk to Mort.
But that would only matter if I had a job, some assets.
Oh. I see. Hit the road? Beg for quarters? You’re too old for that, Rick. And anyway, you’re not that romantic anymore.
You’d be surprised.
Yes. I would.
Anyway, the idea is, I could play poker for a living.
Rick, your brilliance is exceeded only by your naivete.
I guess you’re right.
The Gang of Eight had a meeting.
My fellow probationists?
Right.
I wasn’t invited.
I’m not surprised, Ricky. You’re such a goddamn recluse.
True, true. And I wouldn’t be in this mess if I weren’t. Believe me, darling, I try.
I know you do. You should call up Martin. Tell him to include you. It’s like a support group. They’re all helping each other. Getting together to drum up new business.
I’ll think about it, I said, in a tone intended to close the topic.
So, she said, picking up the cue, tell me about your visit with Jules.
Interesting kid. I kind of like him. Feisty. Doesn’t take any shit. A kid his age, you’d think he’d be terrified. But he isn’t. He’s quite cool about it.
That could be interpreted two ways. At least.
Yes. You’re right. And I’m not sure I believe his story.
Okay. But did he do it?
I don’t know. And I’m not sure I want to know. I’m not sure he told me the whole truth, and nothing but. In fact, I’m quite sure he didn’t. And he may well have done it. But he’s not evil. If he did it, I’m guessing, there were circumstances.
She asked me for the details.
There aren’t a whole lot of details yet, I said. What I know isn’t too helpful. The kid’s story doesn’t buy him much. It’s not a whole lot more substantial than ‘I didn’t do it.’ But they don’t have any physical evidence to tie him to it. Still less an eyewitness. But there’s all this other stuff going on. Between Jules and Dad. Weird stuff. I can’t shake the feeling that they’re all playing some kind of game. At my expense.
Wow. You’re even more fucked up than usual today. Tell me more.
I recounted my meetings with FitzGibbon and Jules, my talk with Butch.
Intriguing, she said. Lots of loose ends. I guess there’s enough for you to play Philip Marlowe for a few more days.
So come play with me.
Now you’re talking my language.
Not that. Butch gave me a couple of names. Let’s check them out.
Good old-fashioned PI spadework?
Exactly.
Could be fun.
Or not.
Worth a try.
Okay, there’s a Sarah Fishlin. Apparently she’d been Larry’s girlfriend for a while. Actually made it through a semester at Brooklyn College one time. Very high-functioning, for this crowd. She’s a stripper now. You take Sarah.
Sure. Clearly my type.
And I’ll take Serge. Reportedly a dealer on the neighborhood level. Larry might have bought from him. They knew each other, anyway.
That sounds vague enough.
You never know.
All right. Let’s check them out tomorrow. White Stallion at seven, compare notes?
The White Stallion. Decent food, good wine list.
Couldn’t say no.