I'd guessed correctly. "Three hundred."
" Two."
"Two seventy-five," I said. "We won't require a bank check."
"Two twenty — five."
"Two-seventy."
"Come on!"
"Two-seventy," I repeated.
"Two-fucking- fifty."
I didn't answer.
"I said two-fifty."
I turned to Jay. "Did you know that in the second half of the twentieth century prime waterfront property on Long Island returned close to a six thousand percent profit?"
"No."
"You could sit on this property another five years and double your money easily."
"Well-"
"I said two-fifty!" screamed Gerzon.
I leaned toward him and spoke softly. "Two-seventy."
"Two fifty-five, final."
I watched the second hand on my watch tick away ten seconds. "Two-seventy."
"Two-sixty, final."
"Two sixty-five, final," I replied.
"Two sixty-five. Done."
"All right," I said. "Shake my hand."
"You fuck," said Gerzon.
"I know you hate me. Shake it anyway."
He did. I turned to Jay. "You're getting an additional two hundred and sixty-five thousand dollars cash for this property."
He nodded, stunned.
"Wow," breathed Allison. "That was kind of-" She just stared at me. Sexy, I think she might have said, but didn't.
"You'll take cash, I assume," said Gerzon, lifting his second briefcase to the table.
" Cash — cash? Bills?" asked Jay.
"Yes."
"I guess so. Why?"
"This was my instruction." Gerzon was keeping his briefcase open, hiding its total contents. I probably could have asked for more. He counted stacks of bank-banded bills. Ten thousand a stack. "You'll sign a receipt for it."
"Laundering anything, Gerzon?" I said.
"Screw you," he muttered, peeling off the last five thousand. "This is clean. It's real."
Jay turned to Allison. "Do you have a bag or something?"
"Sure. I guess." She retreated behind the bar.
"That's it," said Gerzon. "You can count it."
"I will," I said, and I did, stack by stack. It was correct. Allison returned with a cardboard box that originally held seltzer water. I stacked the cash in it.
"I can sign now?" asked Jay.
I amended the contracts. "Yes."
Then the paperwork began. We had four minutes. "I've got the bank check for the four hundred-" narrated Gerzon, moving the forms around quickly. "Mr. Barrett has his check, thank you… I can sign this… the title report, your copy… you sign here, the receipt for the blood your lawyer took out of my client's arm… And here's the deed, yes, the state transfer form…"
In a minute or so we had completed all the documents. Gerzon neatened his stack of papers, withdrew a date stamp from his briefcase, checked the day, adjusted the hour and minute, and stamped each sheet, bang, bang, bang. "And… that's it, done."
Jay coughed lightly, the box of cash by his side. "Eleven fifty-nine… and midnight, gentlemen."
"Bye guys." Barrett stood to leave. "The deed will be recorded tomorrow downtown."
Gerzon pulled a chain of keys from his pocket and dropped it on the table. "All yours," he said to Jay, not looking at me.
Jay picked up the keys with an odd caution. But then he pulled a single key from his own pocket and gave it to Gerzon. "This is for the lock on the chain at the end of the dirt road."
And that was it- the moment, the consummation. Did each man think he had swindled the other? Gerzon shook hands with Jay and, surprisingly, again with me as well, his grip a painful warning. And then his eyes slid away from each of us, and he left.
Allison made her way back over the tiled floor with a bottle and three glasses. She gave Jay a kiss and searched his eyes for gladness. "It's exciting!" she cried, and I understood that she was only passingly referring to the property deal and the miraculous appearance of a box of money. Jay smiled at her, but when they embraced, her head and breasts lost within his large chest and arms, his eyes looked away, as if through the very walls of the building, and with no discernible excitement or satisfaction, more like sadness, the resolution of someone burdened with a long and complicated journey toward a destination known only to him. I was not supposed to see this on Jay's face, but I did.
"Let's all go out and celebrate." Jay's mood seemed to lift. "I know a little place. I've got to find a way to thank you, Bill."
He was being kind and I waved them off.
"We'll work out some payment tomorrow, okay?"
"Sure," I said. "You two go on. It's all terrific. I enjoyed myself a great deal. Hang on to that box. Congratulations, Jay. You and the rest of the crooks own a piece of the island of Manhattan."
"You want to see it?" he said, his voice energetic now. "I'll be down there tomorrow morning." Then he caught up his coat and nodded to the waiter with a flashing smile and looked down into Allison's face. Her head hung back, neck exposed, eyes dreaming. She was ready for him and didn't mind if anyone knew it. They were desperate, I would see, in their own ways, but desperate people have a way of matching frequencies and finding each other before the end comes. For now something magical had happened, and the Havana Room seemed to whirlpool in a density of money and smoke and lamplight. I watched them go, Allison leaning heavily against Jay, the box under his arm, cigar in his pocket. Despite myself, my affection for Allison, I liked him. Sometimes you just like people right away. This, on the face of it, was another reason that things went further. It was the explanation I'd have offered myself or anyone else. But the truth is more complicated; somehow I sensed a steep angle to Jay's trajectory, if not its direction up or down, then an absolute velocity toward an outcome I wanted to witness. This is the same loaded attraction that creates politicians and football coaches and movie directors. Their believers believe. You don't just like the person, you want to find out something about him, something terribly important and true- you want to see if he wins or loses, lives or dies.
Three
Now, I assumed, the evening would taper painlessly into oblivion. I ordered another drink to go with my chocolate cake. The Havana Room was dark and comfortable, and the men moved to and from the bar or toilet slowly, enjoying, it seemed, their own gravity. The talk was measured. You could hear money in the murmur, you could hear problems being unbolted and taken apart. I listened hungrily, for of course I used to do these things, used to like being in the big messy heart of the action, shaving away complication, splicing in the fix, watching for the nod of group assent. In big law firms like my former one, there are basically two kinds of lawyers; the first is the glad-handing, business-grabbing opportunist, who accepts that men and women are fallen, wingless creatures, and is in it for the game and the money and the dense structures of connectivity that build up over a career; the second type, rarer, is the emotionally aloof scholar, more interested in the purity of the law than in the impurity of human beings. These same men (and they are usually men) could easily have been priests or research scientists, and might be disappointed not to be sitting on the U.S. Supreme Court. They are paid to compose legal structures (trusts, corporate ownerships, mergers) that open like tulips in the sun for the right person or entity but remain otherwise hidden, impermeable, indestructible. Both types of lawyers can be dangerous politically, and both have their flaws. The back-slappers and group-grinners tend to drink too much, fuck around on out-of-town trips, attract marginal clients with the wrong kind of legal problems, and die suddenly on the tennis court. The legal priests abhor the messy, repetitive work that is the firm's bread and butter. They can't be counted on to chat amiably at social events or conceal their fringy political opinions. They don't let profits stand in the way of righteousness. They tend to fall out of touch with the younger partners and live forever. I'd been the first type of lawyer of course, and let me admit that when a client came to me with the words "Bill, I need a little advice," or the like, I felt happy- grateful to be wanted, eager to be of use. This is, in part, why men enjoy hunching over papers and agendas- it makes them feel useful, or at least not use less; it lets them bounce in the net over the void. I'd enjoyed my little skirmish with Gerzon, the tangle over large sums, the unexpected sprint down overgrown thoughtpaths. I'd tasted a little of the old professional meanness, the venom of cleverness- it had tasted good, too.