"So you had the vasectomy?"
"Piece of cake. Sore for a few days, nothing more."
"What about the cha-chas?"
He shrugged. "Whatever. I don't seem as interested."
"Psychological?"
"Probably. Whatever."
I stared at him. Dan's mood was bouncing around so much that I dared not push the conversation much further. "So you asked me to lunch so that you could tell me someone handed you three million dollars on the golf course to get your balls disconnected?"
"No, Bill," he said. "I asked you to lunch because I want to offer you a job, you jerk-weed."
I didn't understand.
"Remember, I had to use the money exactly as he specified. And he specified I take it and open my own firm, a boutique firm. He gave me a whole speech, how I was talented and had great energy and the reason I was fucking around was I'd lost my way, I was swallowed up in a large firm and my talents couldn't shine. I was wasting my time with the cha-chas when I could be building something, something big. He said I would use the three million for seed money, that he knew plenty of bankers who would help me out. It was beautiful. He's a beautiful man, I'm telling you. Wise. Deeply wise. So I'm taking my snip-job money, the partnership buyout, and some other stuff. I've got space on Fifty-third Street, bought out what was left of a dot-com lease. Company crashed and burned, place was empty for a year. The agent practically gave it away, said the original leaseholder was panicked, living off leaves and twigs. So, basically, I stole it. Eight of my long-term clients are coming with me, plus some smaller new ones. I've got some young guys from the firm who want to come with me. All of them can make rain. Plus me." He paused, watching me absorb this scenario. "What I need is a guy who'll look at everything coming in and going out. The young guys don't have the overall background. They can't sit tight, they need action. Which is fine. I'm going to run them like dogs. But I need a guy in the center."
"Someone cheap, too."
"Okay, I admit that. I can't pay big-league money. But it'll be decent. We'll be making the big gravy in a couple of years. I mean, how much are you making now?"
I almost smiled. The salesman in Brooks Brothers that morning had frowned when I discarded my dirty shirt in a trash can on the way out. "Not enough," I said.
Dan knocked his tongue around his mouth. "So, listen, this is a step up, a step back. You can help me, I can help you."
"You have staff, secretaries, fax machines, stuff like that?"
"We're good to go."
"When're you starting up?"
"Tuesday. I should have contacted you earlier, I admit."
A few years back I'd have received this information as an insult. But no longer. He knew I was unemployed. "First choice fell through?" I said.
Dan looked into my eyes.
"Just tell me," I said. "I can take it."
"I had a guy, a great guy, and he said yes, but he got another offer last week. I'd sent him the contract but he hadn't signed it. He totally screwed me. Then I saw you at the game."
"Right."
"You're not offended?"
"Nah."
"Good."
"What are you going to pay me, Dan?"
He told me. Considering my experience, it was nickels and dimes. Considering I was a homeless, unemployed drifter trying not to get arrested for moving a dead body, or worse, it was pretty good.
"You've got to do better than that," I said.
"I'll knock it up twenty-five percent in nine months once we get some cash flow."
"Knock it up twenty now, twenty in nine months, or take your chances with the next guy you meet at a basketball game."
He looked at me. "That's a little rich."
"You're the guy getting three million clams on the sixth tee."
"Fifteen percent now, twenty more in nine."
"Twenty now, fifteen in nine," I said.
"Deal."
"Deal."
We shook hands. He went into the further particulars of the job, the setup, the address, everything, but I only half listened, so happy was I to be back in the world. "This'll get you started," he said, reaching into his briefcase.
"You brought paperwork? You knew I'd say yes?"
He only smiled. I glanced at the materials, eager to familiarize myself with the cases and clients he was bringing with him. I remembered several- in the torpor of litigation they hadn't progressed far in the intervening years- but most were new and reminded me again of the basic conflict built into all human activity; in front of me were torts for nonpayment, breach of contract, nonperformance, illegal competition, copyright infringement, patent infringement, and product failure. The legal language did not really disguise the bile and greed and hatred accumulating in each case, but at least the entities and individuals were fighting through civilized means, not kidnapping and intimidation.
"Wait, I got something else," Dan said, reaching into his briefcase again.
"What?"
"This. I had the guy do it in one day." He handed me a box of business cards. They had my name and new number on them, the address of the firm, everything.
I fanned the cards. Their stiff newness was satisfying. "You know I love this."
"Figured," said Dan. "Makes it feel official." He watched a boat of ice cream float down in front of his place. "Bill, one more thing."
"Sure."
"Just reassure me that- that you're coming to me with no problems."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean with no situations, no bad clients. No problems."
"Everybody has problems."
"Sure, sure," he said. "I mean real problems. Like funny clients you might be working with, whatever…"
"Not to worry," I said, starting to worry.
Sixty minutes later I stood in the doorway of the batting cages building in Brooklyn and spotted Helmo. He saw me right away and gave me that chin-up recognition guys use when they don't want to call out. I followed him across the street under the shadows of the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. He smelled like Chinese food, but I didn't bring it up.
"So I was thinking," he said.
"About what?"
"I was thinking about your teeth."
"My teeth?"
"Yeah. They're good."
"So?"
"So I think three hundred is too low."
"Why?"
"Your teeth're too good. So're your clothes. Guy that's got good teeth, he can pay more."
I shook my head. Everyone was a chiseler, working the extra percentage, biting off the last dime. Including me.
"You want it or not?"
"How much?" I grumbled.
"Five hundred."
I dug it out of my wallet. Helmo handed me a slip of paper with Jay's address written in block letters. "You gotta go in the back. It's over the garage, up the side. I watched him go in there myself."
"How do you know it's not a friend's house or something?" I thought of Allison's anxiety about another woman. "Maybe a girlfriend?"
Helmo nodded slyly. "You check that place out, you'll see nobody else lives there."
"Which means-?"
"Just check it out. Trust in your common man, dude."
I stared at the address in my hand, it was near Fifth Avenue and Seventeenth Street. "It's only about ten blocks away."
"Deal's a deal, bro."
I was eager to get going.
"What you looking for him for, anyway?" Helmo asked. "He do something bad?"
If Jay came back to the cages, Helmo could tell him of my inquiry, maybe get a round-trip payday.
"No, no, it's not like that," I said. "I'm trying to help the guy."
"Trying-a save his ass, like?"
"Something like that."
I set off then, on foot. Along Third Avenue under the BQE, then up the hill on Seventeenth Street. Once an Italian, maybe Irish neighborhood, now drifting Latino and urban mix. That's what everything is now, urban mix. If you're a white guy wearing a great suit in these places, you might as well have a blue-and-white NYPD chopper hovering over your head, announcing your appearance. I bought a Giants cap and a quart of milk at the corner deli, and yanked up my coat collar, hiding my jacket and tie. Cap low, carrying the plastic bag, shuffling along, trying to blend into the neighborhood. You could be somebody else. You aren't necessarily this thing or that. Just some guy. You don't look at people, because you're not interested, and if you're not interested, then it's no problem, we got no problem here.