Thomas Daniels found himself seated at a long walnut dining room table. Why a family of three would have such a large table, at which eight could comfortably fit, was a small transient mystery to Thomas. Grover moved to the other end of the table, walking with a slight waddle, and wedged his suet-laden frame into a captain's chair.
He folded his arms before him on the table and, by his presence and his very corpulence, seemed to be a man who'd spent many happy hours in that location.
Elaine Grover served them coffee. And a cinnamon cake. Grover took two ample pieces and Elaine offered the rest to their guest.
Thomas declined with a smile.
"No, no, I insist," said Grover, his mouth full and speaking with a voice muffled by pastry.
"It's excellent."
Elaine hadn't moved the cake from where she held it for Thomas.
Thomas, reassessing his decision, took the smallest piece offered.
Grover took another piece as it passed by him again and was working on that third piece when he began to speak.
"Damned good, isn't it?" he said.
Trying to be sociable, Thomas agreed.
"I'll get you another piece before you leave" Grover said.
"Elaine will wrap it up. You can take it with you." His lips smacked as he spoke, punctuating his sentences.
Grover continued for several minutes, dipping into a monologue on his wife's baking.
"Married, Daniels?" he asked, not waiting for an answer.
"Marry a woman who can cook. A wife's got two jobs to do. Cooking's the other one." He continued, moving on to the comparative merits of the bakeries of lower Manhattan.
"The French think they're the bakers," he postulated between gulps of coffee.
"French don't know crap about pastry. Show me a great baker and I'll show you an Italian He allowed himself a satisfied smile. Thomas returned it. Grover was no fool. He'd just admitted who he was, his origins around Mulberry Street.
"How's the city?" he asked.
"I never go there no more ' "It's still there" said Thomas.
"It's a great town," Grover said, as if reminiscing.
"But it's a young man's town, don't you think? I had myself some times there."
He looked over his shoulder to the door to the kitchen. As if on cue, Elaine reappeared with coffee and more cake. Thomas received more without asking.
When Mrs. Grover disappeared again, Thomas spoke, put at ease somewhat by the large man's informality.
"I was afraid I'd have difficulty with you' he said.
"You wouldn't want to admit, you know, who.
"Who I am?, "Yes Grover stretched his expansive shoulders.
"What's there to deny?
I don't shoot my mouth off around this town. But you? You're your father's son. Why would I lie to you? You probably knew more about me than I do myself," he chomped.
"I doubt it' Thomas conceded.
"I'll tell you something' said Grover, leaning forward slightly as if to share a secret.
"I don't say
"I'm sorry' for nothing I ever done.
Nothing" Behind the conspiratorial smile were hard eyes.
"The neighborhood where I grew up was a cesspool of robbing and stealing and knifing. I done what I did to get out of it."
"I'm sure you did," said Thomas, anxious to strike a point of agreement. And equally anxious to move on to more pressing matters.
"I'll bet you would have done the same' ' Thomas shrugged, without indication either way.
"You wouldn't have?"
"I don't know. I wasn't in your situation. A man never knows what he'll do in a situation until he's in it." A good response, Daniels congratulated himself. He was certain now that the cagey Grover was trying to manipulate the conversation.
"Good point' allowed Grover. He nodded in thought.
"Your Dad used to say something similar. What was it?"
"I'm not sure' "Have some more cake" he said with a rising laugh.
"How many times do you live?"
"That's hard to say."
"Excuse me?" 'Some people manage to lead two lives," Thomas suggested.
"Yourself, for example. Take that as a compliment." Grover nodded gratefully.
"Maybe some other people, too."
"You're losing me" said Grover curtly, the wide grin gone.
"Really? It concerns you. Indirectly."
"I'm surprised that there's still anything that could concern me he said, obvious annoyance beneath his flat tone of voice. He was licking his fingers, making soft smacking sounds, then with slight nervousness working on a thumbnail with his teeth.
"It's nothing for you to be worried about," said Thomas.
"It affects a client of mine."
"Oh" said Grover, shaking his head weakly and speaking louder, 'but I do worry. I worry about everything. You know, under normal circumstances I'd tell you absolutely nothing. I'd want you to prove who you are ' "I could if you wish."
Grover held up a hand.
"No need. You wear your identification.
I can see your father all through you."
"I understood you were pretty good" said Thomas.
"Good?"
"As a forger."
The rotund man's eyes twinkled.
"A man takes a certain pride in his work he allowed.
"No matter what that line of work is."
"I understand you were very good ' A smile crossed Grover's face.
"Want to know the truth, Tom, if I can call you that? I was excellent."
"Would unsurpassed' be the proper word?"
"Maybe," he conceded. His deft fingers drummed on the wooden table in front of him. He paused and Thomas remained silent, sensing that Grover, out of pride or nostalgia or both, would say more.
"I'll tell you how good I was" he added, his eyes twinkling.
"I would forge a man's signature to a check, then take the check to the bank it was drawn on. I'd present it to the teller for payment, but I'd say to the teller,
"Please. Take a close look at the signature. I don't know the man who signed it. I want to be sure it's genuine." "And?"
"The teller would compare my forgery against the real thing.
Then I'd be informed that the check was fine. No problem."
"And that always worked?"
"Never failed. Look, would I try to sell a product that wasn't perfect? I told you, I have my pride."
"You also had your legal problems "For that I had your father," Grove recalled fondly.
"One way or another, when push came to shove, Bill Daniels would get me off."
"Like before the war?"
Grover's eyes narrowed slightly and he was less given to elaboration.
"Correct' he said.
"And in 1954 "Correct again."
"Can we talk about the war?"
"I fought in Europe."
"What's 'trash collection' mean?"
"I have a cousin who's in refuse hauling. That's all it means to me.
"That's not what Adolph Zenger said "Whatever Zenger said," said Grover calmly,
"I wouldn't put too much faith in it. You must know yourself that he's an old liar,"
Grover's thick brow furrowed.
"Did he send you here?"
"What about Arthur Sandler?"
"What about him? He's dead' "No he's not."
Grover gave Thomas a look which seemed to convey genuine surprise. He was thoughtful for a moment.
"No," he said.
"I saw the body myself I was his friend for a while, you know that, I'm sure. I viewed the body after he was shot. It was him" "What would happen," asked Thomas slowly, "if I told you I thought you were lying?"
Grover's tone became more grave.
"You'd be halfway out of here," he said.
"Look, Daniels. As you probably noticed, I'm a respectable member of this neighborhood. For the first time I've got things people can't take away from me. Nobody except my wife even knows who I was. I plan to keep it that way. I'm not burrowing into the dirt of twenty or thirty years ago. I paid my debt to-" "How? You never spent a day of your life in jail" Grover's eyes were angry.
"Why don't you look in your old man's files."
"They were torched."
"Pity." Grover glared at Daniels.
"All right, I'll tell you anyway. I agreed to be an informer. I'd inform on a man the Feds wanted. I'd get a pardon, they'd arrest their man. Trouble is, the man they wanted got shot first. I still got my pardon."
"Sandler?"
"Yo.u're brilliant" He glanced at his watch.
"I have a store to open in fifteen minutes. Saturday's my big day."
Then, unable to resist a parting shot, he added,
"Not all of us were lucky enough to have a wealthy lawyer for a father.
Some of us have to work " He rose rudely from the table, pushing his chair back, and trying to end the visit.
Thomas spoke, without rising.
"How many governments did Sandler work for at once?" he asked doggedly.
"What?" He looked at Thomas as if the attorney had won an uncontested divorce from his sanity. the repeated.
"What about yourseIP" "What about me?"
"Everything about you, right down to your current cloak of piety.
Sorry," he said, starting to stand, 'but I'm innately suspicious of a man who disappeared in 1939 and surfaced immediately after the war. The real problem with you, what bothers me the most, is that you have no loyalties other than yourself. You sell to the highest bidder. I wonder how many people you sold to' ' Grover shook his head, calm and listening, and sensing no serious threat.
"Your old man never trusted anyone either." He looked Thomas up and down. It wasn't a glare. Thomas had seen the look before. It was contempt, the contempt of the street-wise kid for the private-school boy, the dislike of someone who thought he'd had none of the breaks for someone else who seemed to have had them all. ll me something," said Grover.
"You come busting in here bothering me, stirring up skeletons and asking me questions. Now you tell me something." It was posed as a challenge.
"Who's this client of yours?"
"Arthur Sandler's daughter."
Grover looked at Daniels as if to wonder whether or not Daniels was serious.
"Don't give me any crap," Grover warned, 'or I'll rearrange your dental work' "I'm serious."
"Arthur Sandler didn't have a daughter. Or a son" "What would you say if I told you she was in a car in front of your house?"
"I'd say you needed glasses "Be my guest" said Daniels. He motioned with an open palm to the dining-room door.
Grover walked through to the living room and stood at the window, looking out. Thomas stood to his side, watching not the car m but Grover's expression.
Grover's expression was unyielding for a second or two. Then for an instant the eyes seemed to go wide, as if in rude recognition, and the tight lips seemed to drop slightly. Almost as quickly, Grover gathered himself. But a man wears the face he has earned. Grovees expression now betrayed mystification, not hostility. Yet Thomas sensed that a full and complete story was not yet ready to be told.
"She's a fake " he said softly and calmly.
"Where'd you find her?"
"She came to my office. Looking for help" Grover took a deep breath, almost a sigh of resignation. He looked up and his puffy eyes glared into Thomas's.
"I'm going to do you a favor," he declared briskly.
"I'm going to tell you the truth." From Grover, it seemed a major pronouncement.
"Will it be at odds with everything else you've told me?" asked Thomas with evident sarcasm.
"You know," said Grover, 'the only thing worse than a smart assed lawyer is a dumb-assed lawyer. Want to hear it or not?"
"Sorry," said Thomas with conciliation.
"Go ahead" "Yes, Sandler had a daughter," Grover said.
"And no," he added, motioning toward the car, 'that's not her.
Sandler's real daughter is in London. Dead. Buried. And you'll be, too, if you don't get away from that little cutie out there."
Thomas searched the face of his father's one-time client, a man whose credibility vacillated between total and zero from in' minute to minute. Thomas could picture the rainy cemetery in Earl's Court.
He could picture Whiteside. He could picture the tombstone.
He could picture the scar across Leslie's throat.
"Who's going to kill me?" Thomas asked.
"She is," said Grover simply.
"Would it surprise you that she's saved my life twice?"
"Not at all" he said.
"Perhaps she's biding her time."
"Waiting for what?"
"For the right time. For you to reveal some piece of information that she wants. Or for you to lead her to something. Bet. she questions you all the time about your old man's relationship with Sandler," he suggested with a grin.
Thomas was silent, not wishing to admit that Grovees guess was accurate.
"See?" Grover said.
"Why should I believe you?" Thomas asked.
"You probably shouldn't. But if you're lucky, you will." He glanced at his watch. He motioned to the time with utter sincerity.
"Now, really, Mr. Daniels. Please believe me. I do run a stationery store and it is Saturday."
Daniels looked at Grover and looked at the door, thinking of the woman in the car waiting for him. Waiting? For what? He was torn between leaving and staying to badger Grover with further questions, just as he was divided over whom to believe. Him? Or her?
Whiteside or Leslie?
"Why would-?"
"Please " said Grover quickly, raising a fat palm and shaking his head.
His double chin shook gently, too. "I've told you everything I can.
Really, I have' I., Their eyes met.
"Please," said Grover again. He motioned to the door and a tone in his voice suggested that the next request would not be as polite.
Thomas was halfway down the flagstone path when he passed Susan Grover.
The little girl was in a buoyant mood. She'd been talking to the lady in the car, she said, and her daddy could talk just like that.
"What?" asked Thomas, hardly slowing his step. Leslie sat in the car, facing away from the house.
"Daddy can talk just like the Queen," said Susan.
"The Queen of-' "Susan!"
Grover stood at his front door and bellowed at his daughter.
"Susan! Get in here!"
The little girl was frightened. She turned and ran toward her father, not knowing what she'd done wrong. She'd never seen him like this. A man of many voices and faces, both voice and face now denoted one emotion: anger.
Grover glowered at Daniels.
"Get off my property, mister," he said.
"When we meet again it will be on my terms." The fat man raised his hammy forearm to his face and bit savagely into what appeared to be a muffin. He glared and chewed simultaneously.
Thomas turned and walked to his car. Leslie had witnessed the scene on the flagstone path. She'd heard Grover, but not his daughter.
Thomas slid into the driver's seat. Leslie appeared disappointed.
"Your exit didn't look friendly," she noted wryly. She had a pad and in her hand and was drawing an oval on it, and oval which, penci 11 as the basis of a sketch, would form a head.
Thomas glanced away from the pad, back to the house where the door was slamming.
"He wouldn't talk," said Thomas, turning the car key in the ignition slot.
"It's back to New York."
She nodded.
They drove through miles of wooded forestland in northeastern Pennsylvania. Leslie continued to sketch, even in the moving car.
He marveled that she could do it and occasionally glanced down at her work. A man's face was appearing on the paper. Thomas recognized it.
Grover. De Septio.
"Why are you doing that?" he asked.
As you Americans would say," she said, "'for the hell of it' She continued. A strange sense was upon Thomas; miles had passed before he recognized it.
He'd been here before. Not in Grover's house, and never within Grover's company. But the section of the country, along the way, he recognized from his early teens.
On bitterly cold autumn mornings, when brown leaves crunched underfoot and formed coiled, hissing whirlwinds with the breeze, his father had taken him deer hunting.
"Bag a buck before Christmas" William Ward Daniels had told his boy rhetorically.
"Hunters built America" Daniels, Senior, had been a lethal shot.
"Learned how to shoot in the war," he'd always explained. His father had never even seen a combat zone. But he'd taught kis boy how to shoot.
"It could save your life someday," opined his father.
"Like when?"
Daniels, Senior, thought.
"Like when a buck is charging you," he suggested.
No buck ever charged them. Most of the bucks had wanted no part of them at all, but some had managed to fall within rifle range.
For his part, Thomas was rooting for the deer and often missed his shot on purpose until quickly his father began to suspect.
"You're as good a shot as I am, maybe better," the older Daniels concluded one day.
"Now kill something, damn it!" he ordered.
Thomas brought down his next deer, a clean kill through the shoulder and heart. The father was elated. The boy could shoot.
Proficiency with a rifle, marksmanship that was accurate at hundreds of yards, had to be learned young. Then it would never be lost.
"I hate blood sports'" Thomas said absently to her as the car passed out of the wooded regions into farming land.
Leslie looked up from her pad, closed it on the likeness of Grover, and glanced at Thomas with interest.
"Hunting?" she asked, mystified.
He nodded.
"You know how to shoot?"
"I suppose," he said.
"I haven't for a long time' ' She let it drop and the next two hours of the drive were passed in silence.
Lincoln Tunnel brought them into Manhattan at Tenth Avenue and West Thirty-eighth Street. Thomas turned southward. Five minutes later he'd pulled his car to a halt in front of her building.
The shabby block was remarkably quiet in the early hours of a Saturday afternoon. She realized immediately that only she would be getting out of the car.
"You're not coming up?" she asked.
He shook his head.
"Why not?" Her question was sympathetic, not challenging. She knew the answer. The other man in her life, the one she'd revealed the previous night.
"I don't think it would be a good idea. I need perspective."
"Perspective on what?"
On you, he thought, but he didn't say it.
"On the case" he said to her.
"Lawyer-client -relationships," he said, "shouldn't be at the mercy of personal relationships" She seemed nonplussed, a little hurt, and certainly surprised.
"I … I don't understand the problem" she stammered, apparently more upset than she'd been when disposing of a body off the stern of the ferry. Or when slashing Thomas loose from strangulation in an elevator door.
"The problem he said, "is you. I'm emotionally involved. And I shouldn't be" "Ah" she said, her accent apparent even with that single sound.
She lowered her eyes as if embarrassed.
"I see," she said.
"You didn't know. Until now?"
She shook her head.
"I hacwt been thinking. Not about that."
"Of course," he said, as if in resolution. His tone changed.
"I have to get into. my apartment anyway," he said.
"I have papers there.
Briefs. Books. I have motions that have to be filed for you. Right away, if possible." He let a few seconds pass.
"In other words" he said,
"I'm still working for you. No matter what."
"Be careful," she said.
"In and out of your apartment, I mean."
He nodded.
"You're precious'" she said. She leaned to him and kissed him on the cheek, a gesture of both affection and gratitude.
He watched Leslie McAdam disappear into the shabby building.
He waited until she raised the window shade upstairs, signaling that she'd passed through the odorous hallway uneventfully.
Then he drove back uptown, wondering if this last case in his legal career would ever make any sense. By Fifty-seventh Street his thoughts were drifting. He wondered how Andrea Parker was getting on with Augie Reid. How long could a man in his fifties hold her? New York was a young man's town, he tried to convince himself .