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Authors: Caro Soles
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now, leaving the machine to answer.
My appointment with the lawyer was for Wednesday. By some strange coincidence, Ronnie had chosen Archy Marcus, who had been an old friend of my father, as his lawyer. It was a small, very traditional, very WASP firm with offices in an old house in the upscale Yorkville area. I left Ryan toiling in the back alley, digging out the old paving stones so he could pour sand underneath and lay the new ones that had been piled there for weeks. Reporters wouldn't get anywhere with him. He didn't know anything.
Pam Marcus and I had grown up together. She had lived down the street from me, and since our parents were friends, we were often thrown into each other's company. It was a mixed blessing having her as the lawyer in charge of Ronnie's estate. She was tall and slim, with a long, intelligent face and very bright dark eyes. Her hair was swept up on her head, making her look even taller, and she wore gold earrings and a rope of pear could have paid someone's mortgage. Behind the sophistication, I still saw the skinny tomboy kid in braces and a navy blue balaclava, always wanting to join the boys.
"Look, Mikey, I inherited this mess when my uncle died," she was saying now, looking me in the eye in the
disconcerting way she had always had. "Frankly, I don't give a hoot in hell what you do. You want to back out, fine. All the more money for me, and let me tell you, with taxes the way they are now and Mother refusing to move, even though the house is falling down around our ears, I could use it. So don't get me wrong when I say I think you're making a big mistake."
"Pam, I want out. I don't want to be dragged back into
Ronnie's shit."
"Makes sense to me. But hear me out, Mikey."
"No one has called me Mikey since kindergarten." "God, you're touchy. Some people never change. Okay,
okay. So I understand where you're coming from and everything, Mike—er, Michael—but look at it this way. You know the people involved in this. I don't know them from Adam, and frankly, I don't understand any of it: the courts, the balls, the Wilde Nights. God! It might as well be Chinese! But that's okay. I can do it, not a problem."
"What's your point?" For someone so direct, she was taking a long time to get to the heart of the matter.
"My point is that it would be simpler for you to do it. And look, the story will be off the front page in no time. It already is, as a matter of fact. The Globe has it on page three already. Soon it will disappear. New massacres. Some big politico sued for paternity. New grist for the media mills."
"Pam, why don't you really want to do this?"
"Fuck," she said, startling me. She took a deep breath and leaned back in her chair. Her face looked pinched and strained. She looked tired, worn down by hard work and disappointment. She was still not a partner in the firm started by her uncle. I had heard a rumor she had almost lost her job a few years ago when the old man died.
We looked at each other over the piles of files and papers, the two untidy baskets of correspondence, the pink pile of phone messages jammed on a spike.
"I don't have the time," she said at last. "Look at this mess! I'd be behind even if I stayed at this desk twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Not so long ago I had time for long lunches with a friend now and then and the occasional visit to the spa. Now I come here at seven thirty and leave around eight, and I still have to take stuff home. They need to hire more people, but they won't as long as—" She stopped and took a long breath. "Downsizing," she said and gave a sudden bark of laughter. She reached for her cigarettes, then slipped them back into her bag. "And another thing," she went on. "Even if you give up being executor, you'll still be connected to the case. It's your story that's interesting, and the reporters won't give up just because you're no longer executor. Am I right? So you might as well get paid for it, I say."
"Well, the damage is already
My appointment with the lawyer was for Wednesday. By some strange coincidence, Ronnie had chosen Archy Marcus, who had been an old friend of my father, as his lawyer. It was a small, very traditional, very WASP firm with offices in an old house in the upscale Yorkville area. I left Ryan toiling in the back alley, digging out the old paving stones so he could pour sand underneath and lay the new ones that had been piled there for weeks. Reporters wouldn't get anywhere with him. He didn't know anything.
Pam Marcus and I had grown up together. She had lived down the street from me, and since our parents were friends, we were often thrown into each other's company. It was a mixed blessing having her as the lawyer in charge of Ronnie's estate. She was tall and slim, with a long, intelligent face and very bright dark eyes. Her hair was swept up on her head, making her look even taller, and she wore gold earrings and a rope of pear could have paid someone's mortgage. Behind the sophistication, I still saw the skinny tomboy kid in braces and a navy blue balaclava, always wanting to join the boys.
"Look, Mikey, I inherited this mess when my uncle died," she was saying now, looking me in the eye in the
disconcerting way she had always had. "Frankly, I don't give a hoot in hell what you do. You want to back out, fine. All the more money for me, and let me tell you, with taxes the way they are now and Mother refusing to move, even though the house is falling down around our ears, I could use it. So don't get me wrong when I say I think you're making a big mistake."
"Pam, I want out. I don't want to be dragged back into
Ronnie's shit."
"Makes sense to me. But hear me out, Mikey."
"No one has called me Mikey since kindergarten." "God, you're touchy. Some people never change. Okay,
okay. So I understand where you're coming from and everything, Mike—er, Michael—but look at it this way. You know the people involved in this. I don't know them from Adam, and frankly, I don't understand any of it: the courts, the balls, the Wilde Nights. God! It might as well be Chinese! But that's okay. I can do it, not a problem."
"What's your point?" For someone so direct, she was taking a long time to get to the heart of the matter.
"My point is that it would be simpler for you to do it. And look, the story will be off the front page in no time. It already is, as a matter of fact. The Globe has it on page three already. Soon it will disappear. New massacres. Some big politico sued for paternity. New grist for the media mills."
"Pam, why don't you really want to do this?"
"Fuck," she said, startling me. She took a deep breath and leaned back in her chair. Her face looked pinched and strained. She looked tired, worn down by hard work and disappointment. She was still not a partner in the firm started by her uncle. I had heard a rumor she had almost lost her job a few years ago when the old man died.
We looked at each other over the piles of files and papers, the two untidy baskets of correspondence, the pink pile of phone messages jammed on a spike.
"I don't have the time," she said at last. "Look at this mess! I'd be behind even if I stayed at this desk twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Not so long ago I had time for long lunches with a friend now and then and the occasional visit to the spa. Now I come here at seven thirty and leave around eight, and I still have to take stuff home. They need to hire more people, but they won't as long as—" She stopped and took a long breath. "Downsizing," she said and gave a sudden bark of laughter. She reached for her cigarettes, then slipped them back into her bag. "And another thing," she went on. "Even if you give up being executor, you'll still be connected to the case. It's your story that's interesting, and the reporters won't give up just because you're no longer executor. Am I right? So you might as well get paid for it, I say."
"Well, the damage is already
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