We called Kennedy. We invited him out to lunch. I vetoed Michel’s. Too close to the office. We’d run into someone that we’d rather not. And even if we didn’t run into anybody, just being that close to the office would give me a stomach ache. We settled on the White Stallion.
When Kennedy got there he was in a good mood. His bow tie was a festive pink. We plied him with French wines and delectable pates. A bottle of Domaine Leflaive, 1998, was particularly fine.
It was easier than I’d expected. I had to give Dorita her due. She turned on all her charm. Which when unleashed was not inconsiderable. By the time she mentioned FitzGibbon, Kennedy was too well oiled to protest. She maneuvered him into picking up the story where he’d left it off with me.
I felt a twinge of guilt. I knew he was going to lose sleep over this, once he’d sobered up.
But hey, I thought. I’ll blame it all on her.
FitzGibbon had hired Fiske amp; Elliot to handle the divorce, he told us.
Jesus, I said. Eight hundred bucks an hour.
We can only dream, he said.
Hey, speak for yourself, I laughed.
Anyway, they wouldn’t give him the answers he wanted, so he fires them.
Seems in character, I said.
Roots around and finds some scuzzy boutique that specializes in malpractice. Committing it, I mean, not litigating it.
Gad, I said, Jack told a joke.
Oh shut up, he said.
I complied. Didn’t want to interrupt the flow.
So they look at it. And they tell FitzGibbon that Fiske amp; Elliot were right: there’s no way to get the kid off the trusts completely, unless one of the conditions isn’t fulfilled. But there’s a way to dilute his interest.
Jules’s interest.
Jules’s interest. They tell him that the law has changed over the years. ‘Issue’ used to mean what it sounds like it means. Your natural children. But then there were a bunch of lawsuits. Half-children. Adopted children. Whatever. And the courts began to see that the whole thing wasn’t really fair. At least to our enlightened modern eyes. Adopted children are supposed to be equal in rights to natural children. So the law changed. Adopted children are ‘issue’ too.
Exactly, said Dorita.
Damn, I said. I knew it. I knew that word was key.
Dorita looked at me in dismay. For the second time that day.
I’m not a T amp; E lawyer, I shrugged.
You could have asked me, she replied.
So, Kennedy went on, FitzGibbon could adopt. And the more children he could adopt, the more diluted Jules’s share would be. Because Jules’d have to share the capital with each of them.
Slick, I said.
Very slick, said Kennedy.
And that’s just what he did, said Dorita.
That’s right. He and his new girlfriend take a vacation to Spain. And they’re at the bullfights. And they see these cute little urchins, selling tacos, or whatever they sell at the bullfights.
I thought it was Mexico, I said.
Spain, said Kennedy.
I think tacos are Mexican, said Dorita.
You may be right. Anyway, it’s not hot dogs.
Whatever, I said.
And the girlfriend takes a shine to them. And FitzGibbon says, Hey, kids, how’d you like to come to America and be rich? And they’re, wow, that’s really cool, but we have to ask our dad.
A technicality, I said.
A technicality. But anyway, it turns out that Dad is right there, at the bullfight, manning the taco stand or whatever.
Not hot dogs, said Dorita.
And they ask Dad. And Dad’s all for it.
Naturally, Dorita said. He’s already counting the remittances from his rich American sons.
He’s got six other kids. He can’t feed them as it is. He sees gold at the end of the rainbow.
We would too, in his position, Dorita said.
We might. So anyway, they fly the kids back to the States, and FitzGibbon adopts them.
While he’s in the middle of a contentious divorce? asked Dorita skeptically.
Unusual, I said. But it’s amazing what you can accomplish when you’ve got enough grease to spread around.
Does Jules know about this? Dorita asked. At the time, I mean.
Sure. He can’t not know. But he doesn’t know the real reason. It never occurs to him.
As far as Daddy knows, said Dorita.
He’s quite sure of it.
So Jules is in for a big surprise, she said.
How old are the twins? I asked.
That’s the real kicker. They’re the same age as Jules.
So they’ll all reach twenty-five at about the same time.
Not just about. The same day.
The same fucking birthday? I said.
The same day.
Wow. What are the odds of that?
I don’t know if it’s odds at work here, Kennedy said.
Thanks for catching the irony, I said.
I don’t know if Daddy FitzGibbon fixed that too, Kennedy continued. But it’s the official version, anyway. It’s on all the papers. Adoption papers, driver’s licenses, everything.
My, my, said Dorita.
Now at this point, Kennedy went on, you might ask yourself, if you’re a thinking person…
Which I’m not sure describes Rick, said Dorita.
… you could say, hey, it’s x million dollars. Jules still gets one-third of it. He’s still rich as hell, by his standards, right?
By our standards, too, John, I said. Unless you’ve got something new to tell me. Anyway, you’re right. I mean, the thought occurred to me. Why would Jules care? He’s getting a big pile of dough. Enough to live on comfortably.
Which doesn’t make what FitzGibbon did any less disgusting.
No. Assuming his motives to be as you say.
Life and death, though? Dorita asked. To deprive Jules of the rest?
You never know.
Hey, John, I said. I really appreciate this. And don’t worry about it. It stays here.
A brief look of alarm crossed his face.
Oops, I thought. Shouldn’t have reminded him.
Dorita reached over and squeezed his hand. He smiled. Everything was cool.