Chapter Three

By the time Lenny arrived at his office that afternoon, his pockets were bulging with cash. He was liquid and it exhilarated him. At times like this, it felt as if no one could hurt him. Then, the money would slip through his fingers like water, and he’d feel more vulnerable than ever. When he entered the suite, the receptionist gave him a helpless look. He’d seen that expression before. It could only mean one thing. "Again?" asked Lenny. "He just walked right in," replied the receptionist, an underpaid college student who saw herself as more than his underling. She barely looked up from her romance novel, biding her time until the axe fell. Lenny walked down a long corridor, past several large offices from which far more successful lawyers worked, not one of them lifting his head to acknowledge him. His was the smallest office with the lowest rent. There was not even a window from which to look out to occasionally break the monotony. Lenny’s footsteps were muffled by a carpet which gradually turned from a luxurious gold to a filthy grey, as if they didn’t even bother to clean at his end of the hallway. It was the same with the paint on the walls, which turned from white to grey. Abruptly, he threw open the door to his narrow office. In the center of all of his personal clutter, the overflowing legal files, the used notepads, untouched law books, tattered novels, unread documents, stacks of unopened mail, crumpled paper that represented errant shots at the waste basket, swollen boxes packed with scripts, photographs and newspaper clippings, Styrofoam cups half-filled with rancid coffee, various nik-naks and dying plants that had been given to him as gifts by grateful clients too poor to buy him anything of value, there in the only space not occupied by some remnant of his mis-spent career sat Michael Cohan. He was seated at Lenny’s desk with his feet up and his shoes off, talking gregariously on Lenny’s phone. One long, double-jointed big-toe had ripped through a frayed sock and he wiggled it at Lenny unabashedly as if he was putting on a puppet show for some kid. "Important call," whispered Michael, throwing an "uh huh" back into the phone so the caller would trust he was listening. "You’ve got to get your own office," muttered Lenny as he put his briefcase down and hung up his overcoat. Michael cupped his hand over the mouth piece and held up a finger to silence him. He shook his head vigorously from side to side with an exasperated expression on his face, rubbing his thumb and fingers together to signal Lenny that there was money riding on this call. Lenny walked around his desk and noticed that Michael was looking at pornography on his computer. He rolled his eyes and reached for the mouse to clear the computer screen, however he paused when he recognized the nude woman. He was struck by her ability to register a look of pleasure on her face while maintaining a contorted pose that had to have been causing her intense pain. "It’s her," whispered Michael, nodding his head and confirming Lenny’s suspicion. "Best acting she’s ever done." "The actress from our show?" asked Lenny, in disbelief. It had been six years since the two of them had co-authored a script about criminal lawyers which they had managed to sell to a major television network with the assistance of Michael’s uncle, who was "in the business." Incredibly, a pilot was produced, but it was an unmitigated disaster. Once the revision process began, it was rewritten into the ground by a long line of studio hacks who could not agree amongst themselves on whether the show was a crime drama, a comedy or science fiction. The network passed. Their brush with fame would be just that. Financial security would remain a seemingly unattainable goal. In spite of this, Michael threw caution to the wind and moved out to Los Angeles to write, to fully exploit his uncle’s connections, but to no avail. After five wasted years he finally told his uncle to go to hell. After that, Michael cut a winding path back to Chicago, cowed and deeply in debt, once again trying to hustle a buck as a criminal defense lawyer just to get the IRS off his back. Lenny had stayed behind. He had built a modest law practice. He had always been the practical one. After several minutes, Michael concluded his phone call and stood up. Lenny immediately reclaimed his chair. "And you thought we had it bad," remarked Michael, referring to the girl on the screen as he reached for a sport coat which was hanging on the back of the door. He had started leaving clothing in Lenny’s office, moving in bit by bit. The same way Rial had moved in with him three years ago. Like a squatter angling for adverse possession. "What was her name again?" asked Lenny, his jaw dropping slightly as he pondered the woman’s voluptuous body. "I don’t know her real name. It was Bohemian. I know that when she came out to Hollywood, she took the name Catherine Devine. But she changed it when she started doing porn. Now she calls herself Amber Delight." "Pretty pathetic," mused Lenny. "Looks like she had a boob job." "Careful. That was my job description in L.A." "Let it go." "We were so close, Lenny," lamented Michael, clenching his fists and shaking his head ruefully. "I could taste it. After that, I don’t think my uncle even read any of my scripts. He just kept telling me I had to pay my dues. That meant getting coffee and taking the blame for whatever went wrong." "Maybe he saw you as a threat." "Every actor, every director, every writer, right down to the best boy had his job because he was related to someone. I had to be related to the one guy who was offended by the patronage system. You know Lenny, I never told you this, but I was feeling pretty sorry for myself when they passed on our show." "You hid it so well," said Lenny sarcastically. "Maybe not. But that was my shot. Our shot, Len. Oh well. Knowing that the great Miss Delight ended up doing porn is some consolation." Michael clicked on the mouse and brought up some additional photos of Amber Delight, showing her in different stages of coitus with various faceless males. Michael and Lenny began to crowd the 17" screen for a better view. "That’s rock bottom," observed Lenny, practically drooling. "Bottom of the barrel," added Michael, throatily. They were blithely unaware of the depth of their own depravity. "Remember the way she treated us?" asked Lenny. "Like schtickel drek." The spell was broken. Lenny turned off the computer and gently moved Michael away from his desk with his right arm. He had intended to confront Michael about his constant use of his office and once again Michael had managed to distract him with something trivial before he could raise the topic. And rather than get to the point, Lenny suddenly found himself distracted again. "What’s with the Yiddish? Need I remind you that you’re an Irish Catholic." "Remind the people who take me for a Jew," insisted Michael, removing a bag lunch from his briefcase. He opened it and pulled out a chopped liver sandwich. "Nosh?" Lenny turned away, disgusted by Michael’s continued use of Yiddish and the unnaturally brown color of the chopped liver. Michael took a huge bite of the sandwich and continued talking as he chewed. He seemed vaguely aware of the fact that the food had gone bad, but too focused on the point he intended to make to spit it out. "People constantly mis-pronounce my name as Cohn. They see my dark, curly hair and my, shall we say, prominent proboscis and conclude that I am a lanzman. They look at you, with your light, blue eyes, your fair skin, your strawberry blonde hair, your athlete’s build and they see a gentile." "What are you saying?" "Just that you have a Cossack in the woodpile, Lenny. An Irish last name. And let’s face it, neither of us do too much to correct the impressions we make." "Drop it, Michael." "It’s true. My client’s seem to relish the fact that they’re hiring a ‘Jew lawyer.’ When someone wants his pound of flesh, who better than a Jew to get it for him. It gives me a competitive edge. So what’s your excuse. Nu?" "What would you have me do?" cried Lenny, cringing at Michael’s continued use of Yiddish. "Wear the Star of David on my sleeve? Change my family’s name back to Solok?" "Yes. Be Leonard Solok. What are you afraid of? Pogroms? The Shoah? Inquisitions? Another Holocaust? This is America, Lenny. It can’t happen here." "You know, I pay rent here," insisted Lenny, trying to change the subject. "It always comes down to the money with you people." "I’m this close to kicking your ass," warned Lenny, holding his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart and stepping toward him. "Just answer one question. When I was a kid growing up in Parochial schools I used to hear that Jewish men menstruated. Is that true?" Lenny took a half-hearted swing at Michael, but he ducked out of the way just in time. "Why so grumpy," taunted Michael, laughing. "You’re menstruating right now, aren’t you?" Lenny grabbed Michael by his shirt collar and lifted him off the ground. "Put me down," cried Michael. "You need to relax. You’re so tense. Let’s go to the club. Take a steam. Or in your case, a mikva." Lenny started to laugh. He let go of Michael and watched him drop to the floor. They had been friends since law school, almost fifteen years. They shared the same sense of humor, the same view of the world. They saw themselves as outsiders. They saw the rules as fixed. They believed that talent and hard work could only take you so far. They took turns tracing the various successes of their contemporaries to the connections they held. Maybe they could have cultivated those connections too, but their sense of justice ran too deep, their stomach for hypocrisy too weak. They were like children really, always crying foul. Some people were golden, but not to them. They lived outside of the patronage system. They suspected that they were never going to amount to anything. They whispered seditiously in dark bars where no one would hear. They blasphemed. They had learned that what you said was as important as who you knew. Michael and Lenny liked to push each other’s buttons. They mocked and taunted each other mercilessly like brothers. There was a tavern on the first floor and they both knew they would be drinking there soon. The bartender knew them all too well. Their drinks invariably appeared at the bar before they did, waiting for them like two cheap dates. Lenny tried to beg off, but he could not think of an excuse. Rial would be home late and even if that were not the case, he had not even told Michael about her. He was afraid to tell him. Because as brothers, Lenny knew how Michael thought, deep down. He would pretend to approve, but he wouldn’t, and it would drive a wedge between them. Lenny did not have a lot of friends. "I got this kid," said Lenny, placing a hundred dollar bill on the bar which was his way of telling Michael that there was ultimately a limit to what they could drink, albeit a generous one. "They want him for murder. I need to surrender him but I’m holding off until his mother comes up with enough dough. So he’s hiding out...When did I become such a shit?" "You must have me confused with someone else who actually gives a rat’s ass," replied Michael downing a shot of rum and chasing it with a beer. "Correct me if I’m wrong, but are you actually trying to convince me that you have a conscience?" "I’m trying to do the right thing." "Who are you trying to impress?" said Michael, looking around the room with a smirk. "Maybe the bartender is really an angel and he’ll go back to god and tell him that you’re really a good person." "You’re a bad drunk, Michael. From the very first drink you start looking for a fight." "I’m an Irishman." "Now you’re Irish?" "I’m whatever I have to be. Just like you, Lenny. Because if people knew what I really was, what we really are..." "We aren’t bad people. We just don’t believe what they tell us." "We pretend that we do. It’s the same thing. The whole damn system is make believe. God. Democracy. Freedom. I’ll pretend if they want me to. I have to eat. But when I hear you start pretending that you have a conscience, Lenny, well, that’s where I draw the line." "There was a time when I wanted to make a difference," insisted Lenny, lowering his voice and leaning closer to Michael as if he were sharing a subversive thought. "Who asked you?" "Nobody. But isn’t it our duty? To stand up for the truth. Whenever I try, it’s like, they bully you. And they all lie about it later. Judges. Cops." "Defense lawyers." "Fine. We should be trying to fix that. But, if you do try, they make you out to be crazy." "Guys like us, we’re weak, Len. All we have to do is play along, and they leave you alone. That way we don’t have to give up our nice, soft beds." "Yeah. But it eats at me. Every goddam day, it eats at me." There was only seventeen dollars left on the bar when Lenny looked up. His peripheral vision had been reduced to a warm, smoky haze and he needed to turn his head to see what was going on around him. He looked down the length of the bar and caught the eyes of two women who smiled at him and he smiled back with a loopy grin. He looked up at the rosy cheeked bartender with the silver-white hair beaming down at him with a divine smile standing in front of row after row of shiny bottles twinkling like stars in the dim, red, over-head lights, bottles reflected perpetually in the frosty mirror over the bar back to the mirror on the wall behind Lenny creating the impression in his mind that they could drink forever. He heard Michael send complimentary cocktails to the women at the end of the bar and saw the last of his money go up in smoke...and suddenly they were all drinking together, at a table in the darkest corner, laughing at Michael’s lame stories...Hollywood tall tales...at one point Michael claimed that he was working on yet another screen play that none other than Robert DeNiro was interested in...and at some point Lenny felt his knee press against a woman’s knee...and then he was holding her hand under the table...it felt like something from his youth, but in the mirror it looked almost...sad...She was blonde with blue eyes, pretty at first glance, but less so on second thought and third...He told her that she was pretty because she needed desperately to hear it...and the only thing that saved him later in the back seat of someone’s car was the fact that he had consumed too much alcohol so that when all was said and done, in his mind, he had remained faithful to Rial. Later, when he stumbled off, full of apologies, he promised her that he would call. Lies. All lies...