Other people

Twenty-one Francine

Koch is a saint. I left without saying goodbye. I had to get to a phone.

The West Side streets were full of lolling people who watched me as if I were hurrying too fast. One of four stoop poker players whistled. Steeled, I headed for my car, key in hand, saw the street-corner phone booth empty, searched through my bag for a dime, called. Answering service. Of course, it was after hours! I fussed through the bag for the pack of matches on which I had scribbled his home phone, found a second dime, dialed. It took him a long time to answer.

"It's me, Francine," I said.

"What's up?"

You could kill a man who talked that way.

"Can I come on up?"

"I don't think so."

"Look," I said, "it was just the first time."

Then I heard her voice in the background saying purposely loud enough for me to hear, "Who is it, George?"

What else could I do but hang up?

Home, I went through charades of conversation with my parents, what did you do today? I didn't pay attention to what I did today, what did you do today?

"You seem distraught, dear."

You bet your ass I'm distraught. I'm going to steal your gun and keep it loaded on a table facing my door, and if Koslak or the super gets through the door, I'm going to shoot them where the guy said I should kick them.

"How is Mr. Thomassy doing with your case?"

"I'm going to fire him," I said.

My father's face adjusted itself to a totally unexpected piece of news. "We should discuss this," he said.

Now father, under the same set of circumstances in your pied-a-terre — you do have one, don't you? — would you have been flaccid with me, you wouldn't find incest an inhibition, it'd be an encouragement, after all, you've had all these years to get used to the idea, haven't you?

"I think we should discuss this," he repeated.

"By all means."

"Do you find him unsatisfactory in the way he is handling the case?"

No, idiot, I find him unsatisfactory in the way he is handling me.

"I don't want to pursue the case."

"What caused your change of heart?"

Father, you could choose your expressions better.

"It is pointless to force the District Attorney to prosecute a case the government doesn't want to prosecute."

"That's why you have Thomassy."

I don't have Thomassy. One strike and he went fishing with what's-her-name.

"You'd be appalled at the methods he uses."

"I wouldn't be appalled. I just prefer that others use them."

Fastidious. Say, would you mind rubbing out a few people for me over the weekend? Usual rate? Father, would you please go to sleep so I can find the gun I need. Please?

"You don't seem inclined to talk this evening. Don't do anything precipitous. We'll talk about it again. I'm going up to bed."

I sat at the desk in my room, writing the letter.

In the morning I put that letter in a book on the top shelf where I used to hide things from the cleaning woman. The letter I sent was shorter.

I kept a carbon of the letter, which I reread the next morning. It seemed too quick and cold. Thomassy had gone out of his way for me. I needed to pick up the phone.

"This is Francine Widmer," I told his secretary. "Did he get my letter?"

"Not yesterday."

"I only mailed it yesterday."

"There was nothing this morning."

"Well, maybe that's good. Can I talk to him, please?"

"He had a first-thing appointment with Mr. Cunham this morning. About your case, in fact."

"Oh God."

"What's the matter?"

"There's been a development."

"If it's important, I could try to reach him at Mr. Cunham's office, though he dislikes being disturbed during outside appointments. Shall I–I see it's after ten. He's probably in with Mr. Cunham already. Shall I try just in case? I'll put you on hold."

When she came back on she said, "He's already in with him. I could leave a message with Mr. Cunham's secretary."

Tell him he's fired.

"Is Mr. Cunham's office in the county courthouse in White Plains?"

"Miss Widmer?"

"Yes."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"You're not me."