The Baxter Trust

40

Judy Meyers propped herself up on one elbow and looked at Steve Winslow. Judy, twenty-nine, married, divorced, an actress who waited tables more often than not, probably knew Steve as well as anyone, which, she was well aware, wasn’t really saying much.

Steve was lying in bed next to her, staring at the ceiling. They had just had sex, if one could call it that. His mind had obviously been miles away.

“You’re scared stiff, aren’t you,” Judy said.

Steve might not have heard her. He appeared to be counting the cracks in the ceiling.

“Or perhaps ‘stiff’ isn’t the right choice of words,” Judy said.

Even this got no response.

Judy got up, padded naked into the kitchen, got a bottle of cognac, and filled two snifters. She came back into the bedroom and shoved one of them into Winslow’s hands.

“Here. Drink this.”

“What is it?”

“Ah. The man lives,” Judy said. “Never mind. Just drink it.”

Mechanically, Steve raised the glass to his lips and took a sip. Judy sat on the bed, watching him.

“You know,” she said. “I haven’t seen you in over a month.”

“I told you where I was.”

“That night, yeah. The other times, I don’t know. You had some excuses that were so plausible I can’t even remember them. I doubt if you can, either.”

He said nothing.

“And we wouldn’t have even had a date at all if I hadn’t run into you at that audition last month.”

“I’ve been working nights.”

“You were working nights before. And you were staying here three, maybe four nights a week. That’s why you stopped. You got scared. You thought it was becoming too permanent. You didn’t want to be tied down.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but she cut him off.

“No, don’t argue. That’s it. You don’t want to be tied down. And that’s stupid, because I don’t want to be tied down either. Despite what you think.”

She took a sip of brandy. “You may not see me for a while, anyway. I got a callback for a national tour of The Foreigner. If I get it, I’m gone.”

“Break a leg.”

“Thanks.” She took another sip. “My guess is you came here tonight because you’re upset about something, and you thought you could take your mind off of it. But it didn’t work, did it?”

Steve sighed, rubbed his head. “No. It didn’t.”

“So what’s the problem? You got a murder trial. Aside from a Broadway lead, I thought that was what you always wanted.”

“So did I.”

“So what’s wrong?”

He took a sip of the brandy, then scrunched up to a sitting position. He twirled the cognac around in the glass, and watched it swirl.

“When I passed the bar and Wilson and Doyle hired me I was all gung ho. I was really excited, you know. It was a new career. Something important. Something worthwhile. When they fired me it was hard to take. I did everything I could to get another job. And it was like the fucking acting thing again, only worse. I made the rounds. I went to every goddamn law firm in the city. And I couldn’t get hired. ‘We’ll call you.’ The same old line. And they never did. ’Cause it was the talk of the industry. I was the guy who’d fucked up conservative, respectable Wilson and Doyle. Maybe I could have gotten a job assisting some ambulance chaser or something, but I didn’t want that. I studied criminal law, for Christ’s sake. So I did nothing. I went back to making the rounds again. I drove a cab and had an answering service, only now I was an out-of-work actor and lawyer. And it was a slow year.” He smiled. “I got extra work in three movies and one murder case.”

“I know,” Judy said. “That’s what I don’t understand. You got a murder case, for Christ’s sake. You should be dancing on the ceiling.”

“Yeah.”

“So what’s wrong?”

He took a sip. “I guess every young attorney has the fantasy of going into court and conducting brilliant cross-examinations and getting his client off.”

“So?”

He shrugged. “So here I am. I’ve finally gotten into court and I don’t know what to do.”

“Wait a minute. From what you told me, it sounds like you did pretty well today.”

He waved it away. “That was just jerking off. It didn’t prove anything. And I don’t know what to do. All of the facts in the case are against my client. I can conduct all the brilliant cross-examination I want, and the facts will still be the facts. And she’s going to be convicted-there’s nothing I can do about it. And I don’t even think it’s me. I don’t think any lawyer could do anything about it. But that doesn’t help.”

“Well, maybe she’s guilty.”

“Maybe. But I think she’s innocent.”

“Well, that’s half the battle, isn’t it?”

Steve sighed. “That’s what they tell you in law school. Actually, it’s a crock of shit. If your client’s guilty, at least you know what the facts are, and you can make up a story to account for them. If your client’s innocent, you don’t know what the fuck is going on.”

The phone rang. Judy picked it up. “Hello?… Yeah, what time?… Okay. Great. Goodbye.” She hung up the phone.

“Another audition?”

“Yeah. Commercial.”

“Break a leg.”

She looked at him. “You know what the trouble with you is?”

He sighed. “Shit.”

“I know. You don’t want to hear it. Listen. You know the character in Arms and the Man? Captain Bluntschli?”

“I played Bluntschli in summer stock.”

“Yeah? I played Raina. At Long Wharf. So you know. Bluntschli was this supercool, super professional soldier. They were all in awe of him. Is he a man or is he a machine? That’s the tag line, right? ‘What a man. Is he a man?’ And he’s just cool, crisp, efficient. Not a nerve in his body. And then, in the end, when he’s accounting for himself, he admits that he’s a man who all his life has spoiled his chances through an incurably romantic disposition. And they’re floored, because that’s the last way they would think of him. And then he explains himself-I did this when a man of sense would have done that-and it’s true.”

Judy smiled. “And that’s you. That’s who you are. An incurable romantic. No, don’t argue. I know you don’t think so. You see yourself as this practical, no-nonsense guy, cutting through the bullshit. Well, maybe you are. But the reason you are is because behind it all you’re the romantic hero, the white knight on the charger, slaying dragons and saving damsels in distress.”

Steve laughed. “Jesus Christ. This is what I came here for? Two-bit amateur psychoanalysis?”

“No.” She smiled. “I know what you came here for. Now this particular damsel in distress. I saw her picture in the paper. She’s pretty.”

Steve looked at her. “Are you implying something?”

“Why? Is there something to imply?”

“Are you kidding? She’s just a kid.”

“Right. Of twenty-four. Whereas I am a worn-out old hag of twenty-nine.”

He laughed. “Right. Over the hill. Washed up. Soon to be playing old-lady-character parts.”

He tickled her. She giggled, twisted away.

“Stop that.”

“No, devil woman. You are in the clutches of the incurable-romantic tickling machine.”

She twisted away again, laughing and spilling brandy.

The phone rang.

“Time. Saved by the bell,” Judy said. She leaned over and grabbed the phone. “Hello.”

She listened, then turned to him with a slightly puzzled expression on her face. “It’s for you.”

“Oh. That’ll be Mark Taylor. I gave him this number.”

“Oh.” She handed him the phone.

“Hello, Mark. What’s up?”

“We can’t get a line on Sam Benton. He never served in the military. He never filed a tax return. He never drove a car.”

“Well, he was born, wasn’t he?”

“Not according to vital statistics. So in all probability, Sam Benton isn’t his right name.”

“Shit. What about Alice Baxter?”

“We’re trying to run her down. The trail’s pretty cold. It’s been twenty-five years, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Steve hung up the phone. His momentary kidding mood was gone.

Judy looked at him. “Bad news?”

“That’s the only kind I get,” he said.