Rough Trade

home since Sunday,” I said, my stomach churning at the sight of the familiar return address—Hanrahan & Goldstein, the law firm that handled litigation for Paul Riskoff’s real estate empire. “What is it?”
    “The bastard is suing us,” exploded Stephen angrily.
    Completely taken aback, I took the envelope from his hand and made my way into the living room to sit down. I took a few minutes to skim the multicount complaint. While I read, Stephen went over to the bar and poured me a tall Scotch. I took it without looking up.
    “I’ll say one thing for these guys,” I said when I’d finished. “They demonstrate an imaginative interpretation of real estate law. Destruction of private property, theft, violation of the covenant governing the co-op, fraudulent conveyance of title—Riskoff’s accusing us of everything but incest.”
    “But how can he get away with it?” demanded Stephen, plopping down next to me on the couch. “We’re just trying to recover our costs for taking his damn playground down before it ended up in our living room. How can he sue us when he knows he’s in the wrong?” His voice was filled with a scientist’s sense of outrage at the illogic of it all.
    “This isn’t about right and wrong,” I pointed out. “It’s about what you can get away with.”
    “So what can he get away with?”
    “Unfortunately, when you’re Paul Riskoff, you can get away with an awful lot. He’s the most powerful real estate developer in the city. He’s also a vindictive asshole. Every judge, every alderman, every building inspector knows that if they cross him, he’ll make a career out of making ,their lives hell.”
    “Which is exactly what he’s got planned for us,” observed Stephen, who may be a lot of things, but never slow on the uptake.
    “Litigation is a form of war. Riskoff knows that if this ever goes to trial, he won’t win, so he’s going to make it as painful and expensive as he possibly can for us to get him there. His lawyers will insist on deposing every workman, every carpenter, and every laborer who ever lifted a shovel on the job. He wants us to understand exactly whom we’re dealing with. This is just the beginning.” I sighed. Suddenly the implications of what I’d just said occurred to me. What would be the point of breaking up with Stephen now that we were going to be inextricably bound together by a tangle of lawsuits that Paul Riskoff was going to make sure dragged out for the next half century?
    I laid the complaint on my lap, suddenly feeling completely overwhelmed by it all. Stephen reached down and picked up one of my feet and began slowly massaging it with his enormous hands. Without meaning to, I sighed. Perhaps taking this for encouragement he began kissing my leg, beginning with the inside of my ankle and slowly working his way up. By the time he reached my thigh, I’d completely forgotten what I’d come there to tell him.
     
    What is the worst thing you can say to someone?
    The baby was born dead.
    The biopsy showed cancer.
    Your father was murdered and the police think you killed him.
    As I drove up to Milwaukee the next morning, I wondered how anyone ever found the courage to say any of them.
    It had turned cold overnight, and the roads were iced over in patches and dangerous. I drank coffee out of a Styrofoam cup and drove slowly, thinking about what whoever had killed Beau had managed to accomplish. The embalmer was probably already laying out his supplies— the gloves, fluids, needles, and implements of stainless steel—that mark our final journey from the is to the isn’t. But beyond that I could think of nothing concrete that had been accomplished and certainly nothing that had been gained.
    I arrived at Chrissy and Jeff’s house, feeling cramped from the drive and even more puzzled than when I’d set out. The domestic tableau that awaited me inside the kitchen made my errand seem all the more difficult. Jeff, dressed in a ripped Monarchs T-shirt and a pair of flannel pajama bottoms, was at the stove frowning at pancakes on the griddle and making tentative stabs at them with a spatula. At the sight of me he raised the utensil in a mock salute. Chrissy was in her rocking chair, the portable phone wedged between her shoulder and her ear, feeding Katharine her bottle.
    Over the top of the baby’s head Chrissy rolled her eyes to indicate that whoever she was on with wouldn’t stop talking, and I pantomimed asking her if I could take