It's a good argument. In fact, it's an irrefutable argument... and the best guarantee that Shep will keep his mouth shut. If she gives the tip she will be risking her part too.
"What do you say, Oliver?" - She asks.
The Art Deco clock on the wall was a gift from Lapidus last year. He looked up and studied the minute hand. We still have two and a half hours. Then the opportunity will be gone. The money will be transferred to a state account. And all I'll have left is a handshake, a
watch and eighty thousand dollars in hospital bills.
"It's not bad to want something more," Charlie says. He thinks of all the things we could do for mom... all the debts.
Back in my chair, I take a deep breath and spread my palms out on top of the desk.
"You know we'll be sorry," I say.
We both smile. Two kids.
-We make the deal? Shep asks, holding out his hand.
I shake Shep's hand and look at my brother.
-And what do we do now?
"Do you know of any good shell companies?" Shep replies.
That is my department. When Arthur Mannheim divorced his wife, Lapidus and I set up a stock company and opened an account at a bank on the island of Antigua in an hour and a half. It's Lapidus's favorite dirty trick and one I'm familiar with. I pick up the phone.
"No, no, no, no," Shep chides, pulling my hand away from the device. You can no longer call those people personally. Everything you touch, everything you do... everything is a link, like a fingerprint. That's why you need a go-between, and not just some jerk off the street; you need a professional who can protect your interests so that no one ever sees you. Someone you can send a thousand dollars to and say, Make this phone call for me and ask no questions...
"Like a mob lawyer," Charlie says.
"Exactly," Shep smiles. Like a mob lawyer.
Before he can ask another question, Shep gets up and walks out of my office. Thirty seconds later he returns with a phone book under each arm. One is from New York and the other from New Jersey. He tosses them onto my desk and they land with a thud.
"Time to find the stutterers," Shep says.
Charlie and I look at each other. We don't follow it.
"You've seen them in all the phone books," Shep explains. The first alphabetical entries in each category. AAAAAAA Florist. AAAAAA Automatic Laundry. And the most pathetic and desperate of all stutterers, the ones who are willing to do anything for a turkey: AAAAAA Lawyers.
Seat. Charlie smiles. Now we understand. Without saying a word, we concentrated on the directories. I'll take care of New York; Charlie from New Jersey; Shep reads over our shoulders. Flipping through the pages as quickly as I can, I go directly to the Lawyers section. The first one I find is A Lawyers Experts in Accidents.
"Too specialized," Shep says. We want a general shyster, not an ambulance chaser.
My finger runs down the page. AAAAA Lawyers. The next line reads: All your needs: affordable prices.
"Not bad," Shep says.
-I have it! Charlie yells. Shep and I signal for him to lower his voice. I'm sorry…I'm sorry," he says in a barely audible voice. He spins the phone book around and tosses it on the desk, knocking the other book over into my lap. His index finger points to the exact spot. All he says is "A". Below, the text contains only one word: "Abogado".
"I'm still voting for mine," I say. He has to like the guarantee of an affordable price.
"Are you stoned?" Charlie asks. It. Unique. What. Uses. Mine. Is a. A.
"Mine has five A's. All in a row."
Charlie stares at me.
"Mine is from New Jersey. "We have a winner," he announces.
Shep.
This time, Charlie is the one who pounces on the phone. Shep hits him on the knuckles.
"Not from here," he says. As he heads for the door, he adds, That is why God invented public telephones. -You're crazy? —He asked —The three of us stuck in a phone booth?
Yes, that is discreet.
"Do you have a better idea?" I work with rich people every day.
days," I say, walking past Shep and glancing at the clock. You think I don't know the best places to hide money from the government?
"Hi," Charlie says with a melodious voice and a beautiful country boy smile as he glides up to the black granite reception desk. We're on the fourth floor of the Wayne & Portnoy Building, a cavernous, sterile structure that, while it has all the architectural charm of an empty shoebox, nonetheless has two qualities that make up for it: first, it's across the street from the bank and, second, it is the headquarters of the largest law firm in the city.
Behind the counter, a garishly dressed, overwrought receptionist is talking into her headphones, which is exactly what Charlie expected. My idea would be to sneak through the hallway past the receptionist, but we both know who's better head-to-head. Each one takes advantage of the best qualities of him.
"Hello," he says for the second time, knowing that he will seduce her. I'm waiting for Bert Collier to come down... and he was wondering if he could use a phone for a quick private call.
I smile to myself. Norbert Collier was just one of a hundred names on the firm's list displayed in the lobby. By calling him Bert, Charlie has made it sound like the two of them are old friends.
"Past the elevators," the receptionist answers without hesitating for a moment.
Tucked into a corner and out of the receptionist's sight, Shep and I wait for Charlie to get past her, then follow. I point to a door and the three of us enter a small conference room. By the door, the words Customer Services are etched into a brass plaque. It is not a big room.