I went back to the office. The bomb scare, or whatever it was, was over.
I thought about FitzGibbon’s last remark. I wondered whether he’d had me checked out too. And if he had, what he’d found.
I called up John (Don’t-Call-Me-Jack) Kennedy. He and a buddy had spun off a small Trusts and Estates boutique. Wills. Old ladies. Trusts. Tax shelters. Helping the rich stay rich. John was very good at it. He had the perfect blend of perfectionism and schmooze. And a closet full of designer bow ties.
He was a touch over-sensitive about his name, however. I took a childish glee in exploiting it.
Hey, Jack, I said.
Don’t call me Jack, Dick.
You won’t be so rude to me once you hear what I’m calling about.
I’ll be the judge of that. Really, I mean it.
Okay, okay, shoot. You got some work for me. You’ll never let me forget it.
Right on both counts. But even better than you think. Listen up. We’ve got a big client. Big big. Eamon FitzGibbon. CEO of Consolidated Can. You know him?
I know of him.
Good. Big, fat, red-faced, Irish charm. But most important, rich as Croesus.
That I knew. Even us T amp; E guys read The Wall Street Journal.
Especially you T amp; E guys.
Especially us.
Right after you finish with the Times obits. I know. Anyway. He needs some help. Estate stuff. Maybe some tax stuff. Doesn’t sound like much. But as sure as A leads to P with an ampersand you can make something big out of this.
I don’t doubt it. Sounds good.
Don’t doubt me. I can’t give you any details. Privilege, you know. Do a conflict check. Actually, I can tell you this much: it’s more than privilege. Dark-glasses-and-trench-coat stuff. Keep it quiet, okay? We’ll get together. Compare notes. Later. Just make him happy. We’ll go places, Jack.
Don’t call me Jack.
That’s my boy. Keep him happy, okay?
You said that already. You can count on me.
I know that. That’s why I called you, and not one of my other asshole T amp; E buddies.
I’ll try to ignore the ambiguity in that last.
Excellent.
All right.
All right.