Jules lived in a converted factory on the lower East Side. More factory than converted.
I rang the bell.
I rang it again.
I rang it a third time.
A sleepy voice finally responded.
Yeah? it said.
Jules?
Yo.
Jules, I said, I’m a lawyer. Your father sent me.
Hmph, he responded.
Jules, I said again, a bit louder.
Silence.
Do you think you might let me in?
Silence.
I was girding for more repartee when the door finally buzzed. I pulled it open just in time.
I took an ancient elevator to the third floor. Found Jules’s place. The door was ajar. I invited myself in.
The loft was huge, asymmetrical. A balcony ran across one end. Bedroom up there, I surmised. The lower space was entirely open. The ceiling must have been at least twenty feet high. Exposed metal girders, painted primary colors. Blue, yellow, red. The effect was startling, but pleasant. The space was big enough to take the color. At the far end, tall arched windows, a spectacular view of the tenements across the street. A kitchen counter against the left-hand wall, underneath the balcony, piled with pizza boxes, takeout cartons, beer bottles.
A body was lying on a large tattered couch. My client’s, I presumed. It had its back to me.
Sit up, I said to the back of its head. I need to talk to you.
It rolled over and opened its eyes. They were gray and out of focus.
Who are you? he asked.
A reasonable question, I assured him. I’m Rick Redman. Your father sent me.
He considered that information. He eyed me intently. His eyes were focused now.
Fuck him, he said at last.
I’d be glad to do that, if I get the chance, I said, attempting to curry favor. But right now he’s paying me to represent you. And if I were you I’d take advantage of it.
He thought some more.
Fuck him, he repeated.
Okay, I said. Fuck him. Now let’s get down to business. You’re in some shit here. I don’t actually know what kind of shit yet, but you can help me with that. I think it’s safe to say it’s going to take some work to get you out of it.
He sat up. He looked at me with curiosity. His eyes stayed gray. He looked down at his shoes. Standard-issue paint-splattered high-tops. Faux-camouflage overalls. Metallica T-shirt. Nose ring. Hair dyed an unnatural henna red. In short, the downtown works.
He’s paying you? he asked.
Yep.
Why?
I looked for tracks on his arms. Didn’t see any.
I don’t know. Maybe because he’s your dad?
That wouldn’t explain it.
Well, it’s all the explanation I’ve got today. Anyway, I’m not here to be a marriage counselor. I’m here to get you out of whatever shit you’re in.
He considered that.
In that case, he said at last, I guess you’re hired.
Good, I said, taking a seat.
Fuck him, he said again. This time the emphasis was on the first word: Fuck’m.
Okay, I said. Fuck’m. Right now, I need you to tell me what happened. Beginning at the beginning. Continuing to the end, which is right here right now. Then we figure out what to do about it. First thing, you didn’t do it, right?
I didn’t do shit.
Good. That’s the right answer. Now, tell me all about what you didn’t do. In other words, what happened?
Shit happened.
Yeah, I know. Shit happens.
He snorted.
So, what exactly kind of shit happened?
There was a fight.
A fight?
Yeah. A fight.
What kind of a fight?
A fight, man. A fight. What kind of a fight do you think?
I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking the questions. Listen, Jules, this is going to take a very long time if it keeps going like this. I’m not the cops. I’m your lawyer. I can’t help you if you don’t help me.
Meaning?
Meaning, can you just answer the damn questions?
He considered this for a while.
Okay, he said. You got a smoke?
As a matter of fact I do, I said, but I doubt they’re your style.
I fished out my pack of ultra-light menthols.
Shit, he said. My brand.
For the first time, he’d surprised me.
I thought you’d be a Marlboro-type guy, I said.
Yeah, me too, he replied. But I like these. Maybe I’m half black or something. Or half a fag.
Right, I said, lighting his and mine, I guess I am too. So, let’s get back to the story.
The fight story?
Yeah. The fight story. Who was fighting?
Me and this guy.
What guy?
A buddy of mine. Larry.
Larry who?
Larry Silver.
What were you fighting about?
Money.
What money?
Money he said I owed him.
How much?
Two grand.
Two grand? That’s a lot of money.
That’s a lot of money.
And you don’t agree that you owe him the money?
Owed him. No. I didn’t.
Why ‘owed’?
What do you mean?
Why the past tense?
You don’t owe a dead man money, do you?
It depends. But wait a minute. I guess we need to back up a bit here. He’s dead?
Yeah. He’s dead. What the fuck. They didn’t tell you that?
They didn’t tell me anything.
I’d been thinking simple assault. Aggravated at most. Plead it down. Make Daddy happy. Get back to the quiet life of litigation, drink and gambling.
Were there any weapons involved in this fight? I asked.
Nah. Hands. Feet.
How did he die?
I don’t know.
He didn’t die right there?
Shit no. Broke his nose maybe. That’s all.
So how did he die?
I told you, I don’t know. They found him later.
Who found him later?
I don’t know.
Then why did you say ‘they’?
I don’t know. It’s what you say.
Where was he when they found him?
I don’t know. I don’t know shit.
What did they find?
They found him dead, man. Shit. I’m getting a little tired of this crap. Okay, okay. You don’t know shit. All right.
He put out his hand for another cigarette. I gave him one. I took one for myself.
We smoked awhile.
Okay, I said. I’m going to have to get some information.
Sounds like it.
Before I go, just tell me the whole story again. What you do know. The fight. From the beginning. I’ll stop asking questions.
That’d be good.
All right then. Shoot.
Larry came over. He was pissed. He said I owed him money. From the poker game.
Poker game. Hm. Maybe I had some expertise to bring to this case after all.
Two grand, he said. I said, Fuck you, man, I don’t owe you no two grand. We settled up last night. I mean, he was too wasted to remember shit anyway.
And?
So he starts yelling and shit, all kindsa bullshit. I could tell he was wired. I don’t know what he was doing, mescaline or something. He had that paranoid thing in his eyes. I couldn’t even understand what he was saying half the time. So I told him to fuck off and come back when he came down. But that just got him more pissed off. He picks up a bottle, and he’s waving it at me, a beer bottle, and he’s saying he’s going to kill me. So I dive at him, low, going to take him out at the knees. And then it was just punching and wrestling and shit, and I guess he let go the bottle at some point, ’cause he never hit me with it. And sometime in there I must’ve busted him in the nose, ’cause he’s bleeding all over from it, and after a while we’re just both all tired out, and we lie there for a while, breathing heavy, and I say, Shit, Larry, what the fuck? And he’s, Fuck you, man, and he gets up and walks out, and he slams the door.
And that’s it?
That’s it, man. Next thing I know the cops are at the door, and they’re telling me I killed the guy.
So you never heard from him after he left?
Nah.
Anybody see any of this fight? Hear it?
Shit, somebody had to hear it. There’s fifty people in the building. It’s lofts. It’s an old factory building. You can hear everything. I hear the next-door neighbors fucking six times a night.
Okay. All right. I’ve got to go ask some questions. Don’t go anywhere.
Yeah, sure. I’ll cancel them plane tickets.
I started thinking I kind of liked this kid. Feisty little guy. I might even start to believe his stupid story, you gave me a little time.