Emil LaGort's attorney figured that Judge Arthur Battenkill Jr., like everyone else familiar with the case, knew that Emil had purposely knocked the tube of goop off the shelf, stomped it with both feet and then laid himself very gingerly on the floor of the health-care-and-hygiene aisle. The attorney certainly was not expecting the judge to call him at home on a Sunday morning and say:
"Lenny, it would be in your client's interest to hang tough."
"But, Your Honor, we were preparing to settle."
"That would be precipitous."
"A hundred even was the offer."
"You can do better, Lenny. Trust me."
The attorney tried to stay cool. "But I'm not ready for a trial!"
"Put on a little show," Arthur Battenkill said, needling. "That snotty bone guy you always use as an expert witness, the one with the ratty toupee. Or that lying dipshit of a so-called neurologist from Lauderdale. Surely you can manage."
"Yeah, I suppose." The attorney was beginning to get the picture.
The judge said, "Let me ask you something. Do you think Mr. LaGort would be satisfied with, say, $250,000?"
"Your Honor, Mr. LaGort would be fucking jubilant." And I would, too, the attorney thought. Me and my thirty-five percent.
"All right, Lenny, then I'll tell you what. Let's see if we can save the taxpayers some dough. First thing tomorrow we'll all meet in chambers, after which I anticipate the defendants will be motivated to settle."
"For two fifty."
"No, for half a million. Are you following me?" said Arthur Bat-tenkill.
There was an uncomfortable pause on the other end. The attorney said, "Maybe we should have this conversation in person."
"The phones are clean, Lenny."
"If you say so."
"Five hundred is a smart number," the judge continued, "because Save King's insurance company can live with it. A trial is too risky, especially if you get a couple old geezers on the jury. Then you're looking at seven figures, automatic."
The attorney said, "Amen."
"Next question: Can Mr. LaGort be persuaded that the court's costs are unusually high in this case?"
"For the kind of money he's getting, Your Honor, Mr. LaGort can be persuaded that cows shit gumdrops."
"Good," said Arthur Battenkill. "Then you know what to do with the other two fifty."
"Do I?"
"Escrow, Lenny. You do have an escrow account?"
"Of course."
"That's the first place it goes. Then it's wired overseas. I'll give you the account number when I get one."
"Oh."
"What's the matter now?"
The attorney said, "It's just ... I've never done it this way before." Lenny, do I strike you as a brown-bag-in-the-alley sort of fellow? Do you see me as some kind of low-class bumpkin?"
"No, Your Honor."
"I hope not," Arthur Battenkill said. "By the way, next week there will be an announcement of my pending retirement, for unspecified health reasons. Tell Mr. LaGort not to he alarmed."
The attorney endeavored to sound genuinely concerned. "I'm sorry to hear that. I didn't know you'd been ill."
The judge laughed acidulously. "Lenny, you're not too swift, are you?"
"I guess not, Your Honor."
Not for a moment did it occur to Mary Andrea Finley Krome that the newspapers might be wrong and that her husband was still alive. She departed Missoula on an upswelling of sympathy from Loretta (or was it Lorie?) and her other new acquaintances among the Menageriecast, and with the director's personal assurance that the role of Laura Wingfield would be waiting when she returned.
Which, of course, Mary Andrea had no intention of doing. She believed that being a famous widow would open new doors, careerwise.
The long flight to Florida gave Mary Andrea time to prepare for the bustle of attention that awaited. Knowing she'd be asked by interviewers, she tried to reconstruct the last time she'd seen Tom. Incredibly, she could not. Probably it was at the apartment in Brooklyn, probably in the kitchen over breakfast. That was usually when he'd tried to initiate the so-called serious discussions about their marriage. And probably she'd gotten up from the table and moseyed into the bathroom to pluck her eyebrows, her customary response to the subject of divorce.
All Mary Andrea could remember with certainty was that one morning, four years ago, he hadn't been there. Poof.
The previous night, she'd come home from rehearsals very late and fallen asleep on the sofa. She expected to be awakened, as she had so many days, by the sound of Tom munching on his cereal. He was partial to Grape-Nuts, which had the consistency of blasted granite.
What Mary Andrea recalled most distinctly from that morning was the silence in the apartment. And of course the brief note, which (because it had been Scotch-taped to the cereal box) had been impossible to take seriously:
If you won't leave me, I'll find somebody who will.
Only later did Mary Andrea discover that Tom had lifted the line from a Warren Zevon song, an irritating detail that merely fortified her resolve to stay married.
As for the last time she'd actually laid eyes on her husband, what he'd said to her, his mood, the clothes he'd been wearing none of this could Mary Andrea remember.
She did recall what she'd been doing on the afternoon the lawyer phoned, that asshole Turnquist. She'd been reading Daily Varietyand running through her vocal exercises; octaves and whatnot. She remembered Turnquist saying Tom wanted to give her one more chance to sit down and work out the details, before he filed the papers. She remembered manufacturing a giggle and telling the lawyer he'd been the victim of an elaborate practical joke her husband arranged every year, on their anniversary. And she remembered hanging up the telephone and breaking into tears and wolfing three Dove bars.
Compared to other newsworthy breakups it seemed mundane, and Mary Andrea saw no benefit in launching her public widowhood by boring the media. So, gazing from the window of the plane at the scooped-out cliffs of the Rocky Mountains, she invented a suitable parting scene that she could share with the press. It had happened, say, six months ago. Tom had surprised her in, say, Lansing, where she'd landed a small part in a road tour of Sunset Boulevard.He'd slipped in late and sat in the rear of the theater, and surprised her with pink roses backstage after the show. He'd said he missed her and was having second thoughts about the separation. They'd even made plans to get together for dinner, say, next month, when she was scheduled to come back east with the production of Lambs.
Sounds pretty good, Mary Andrea thought. And who's to say it didn't happen? Or wouldn't have happened, if Tom hadn't died.
As the flight attendant freshened her Diet Coke, Mary Andrea thought: Crying won't be a problem. When the cameras show up, I'll have gallons of tears. Heck, I could cry right now.
Because it wasterribly sad, the senseless death of a young and moderately talented and basically goodhearted man.
So what if she didn't lie awake at nights, missing him. She'd really never known him well enough to miss him. That was sort of sad, too. Imagining the intimacy and caring that might have been; the kind of closeness only years of separation could bring.
Mary Andrea Finley Krome dug through her handbag until she located the rosary heads she'd found at a Catholic thrift shop in Missoula. She would clutch them in her left hand as she got off the plane in Orlando, and mention in a choked voice that they'd been a gift from Tom.