Rough Trade

sat down at my desk and got to work. I did not call the Brandt brothers and beg them to take us back, though I had no doubt that’s what Skip wanted me to do. Frankly the only consolation in the whole mess was that I’d never have to speak to them again. I didn’t call Stuart Eisenstadt either. His strategy of building himself up with the clients by tearing me down had backfired when—surprise, surprise—they showed no compunction about screwing us both. What I did do was call Paul Riskoff. He seemed surprised to hear from me, no doubt since we were busy suing each other, but as far as I was concerned, this was my day to deal with the thugs in my life. I figured I might as well get it all over with in one lump.
    That done I pulled out my disc player, slipped on my headphones, and tackled the ramparts of work that now obscured every square inch of surface on my desk. I was determined that with Avco, however ignominiously, out of the way, the time had come to get the Monarchs’ troubles sorted out. As Matchbox 20 sang about shame, I read through every scrap of material I’d been given about the Monarchs. Then I wrote a letter to Mayor Deutsch setting out what I saw as his alternatives, and explaining exactly why I was the only person on the planet in a position to make him a hero.
    It was a sign of how far from normal things had strayed that Elliott Abelman sidled into my office unannounced. I was so absorbed in what I was doing that when he finally moved into my field of vision, I leapt from my chair like a cartoon housewife who’s just seen a mouse. I think I may have actually said “eek.”
    “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, sliding into the visitor’s chair. It scared me how glad I was to see him. “But Cheryl said it would be okay if I dropped by.”
    “When did you talk to Cheryl?”
    “She called me a little while ago. I asked her to let me know when you got back into town. She also happened to mention that you’re experiencing something of a career crisis.”
    “Is that why you came?”
    “You mean to make sure that you weren’t standing on the ledge outside your office window?” His face lit up with a sudden smile. “No. I swear as I walked over I didn’t even look up.” He paused for a minute, adjusting the shoulder holster under his jacket against the chair. “You want to talk about it?”
    “Absolutely not,” I replied.
    “It’s not that you’re feeling overcome with remorse or anything for screwing the Milwaukee fans out of their football team, because, hey, if you are, I’ll personally lend you my gun so that you can do the right thing.”
    “You don’t think you’re being a little bit harsh?” I asked. Even Skip Tillman hadn’t gone so far as to suggest that I kill myself.
    “How would you feel if you woke up one morning to find out that some millionaire’s kid had decided to move the Art Institute to Poland, or that the Eiffel Tower was going to be relocated to Texas?”
    “Believe me, we’re doing everything humanly possible to keep the team where it is. But unfortunately Jeff owes the bank a small matter of something like $18 million.”
    “There’s also a small matter of whether the new owner is going to be watching the games from behind bars.”
    “What have you heard from the cops?” I demanded.
    “Only that they’re close to swearing out a warrant for your friend Jeff. I guess a check of the phone records the day that Beau was killed showed a 9ll call placed from the dead man’s office right around the time of the murder.”
    “Aren’t all 9ll calls recorded automatically?” I asked.
    “They are. Unfortunately, whoever called never said anything. Not a word. The call runs twenty-six seconds and all you can hear is breathing.”
     
    There was no reason to think that Jeff Rendell had not strangled his father and every reason to think he had. Indeed, I’d closed my eyes to fact after fact in order to indulge in my naive and self-serving belief in his innocence. He’d fought with his father the morning of his death. They couldn’t find him to tell him what had happened to his father. His bizarre behavior—pushing the paramedics out of the way in order to assault the body of a dead or dying man—was hardly what you’d expect from a bereaved son. Now the phone call from his father’s office that seemed to indicate that whoever killed Beau had, at least initially, meant to do the right thing and call for help. It wasn’t until he’d