Rough Trade

the machine clicked and I stood there listening to the whir of the tape as it rewound, feeling confused by my sense of disappointment. After all, I was the one who’d done the deed, made the break, put an end to things. Then why on earth had I been hoping that Stephen Azorini would have called?
     

CHAPTER 19
     
     
    That night Chrissy and I stayed up late in the twin beds of my old room talking about boys. Drinking wine and staring up at the eyelet canopies above us I told her about Stephen and how, without ever consciously deciding to do so, I’d ended the relationship we’d shared for almost half my life. Chrissy, in turn, talked about her marriage, confessing that under the twin burdens of a new baby and the Monarchs’ financial woes, it had suffered under the strain.
    She also confided that even before his father’s death, Jeff’s behavior had begun to alarm her. At times preoccupied, jealous, paranoid, and withdrawn, his moods were unpredictable and his anger always just beneath the surface. In recent months she’d felt herself walking on eggshells, trying as hard to avoid his temper as she did to be supportive.
    Sometimes the bonds of friendship feel like chains around your heart. More often it is just the opposite. There is comfort in being heard and freedom in being understood. Even though we fell asleep with nothing solved, we both felt better for having shared what was bothering us. The same as in seventh grade.
    The next morning I left for the office while Chrissy was still asleep, arriving downtown while the penitent were still in church and the sinners still in bed. I found a copy of the draft Memorandum of Agreement between the Greater Los Angeles Stadium Commission and the Milwaukee Monarchs there waiting for me. Ken Gunther, the partner from our L.A. office, had faxed it to me late the night before.
    With the two-hour time difference it was still much too early to call the coast. Besides, Ken’s cover sheet indicated that he and Jeff were heading out for a round of golf with the governor bright and early. He said he’d call me when this important networking had been concluded to go through any concerns I might have about the deal.
    I turned my attention to the fax. Despite its bulk—the twenty-eight-page agreement had more than thirty pages of exhibits and side letters—it represented only the bare bones of the agreement. Even so, it was evident after wading through it that the terms were as good as any sports team owner was going to get. In order to bring football back to La-La Land the State of California was prepared to spend over $250 million. The Memorandum called for the construction of a seventy-thousand-seat, open-air stadium dedicated solely to football, the acquisition of land for a practice facility, a new training complex, and a lump sum payment to defray the costs of relocation and litigation.
    It was less than the team would have netted if Beau were still alive, but it was still preferable to playing in the rusted-out hulk of a stadium where they played now or next to a shopping mall in Wauwatosa. Right now, it was the best answer to Jeff’s problems—provided he didn’t find himself on trial for his father’s murder first.
     
    I was surprised when the switchboard put a call through for me. Usually Sundays were a respite from that kind of interruption. Besides, few people knew the firm’s weekend number. I suddenly found my heart beating fast in the absurd hope that it was Stephen. Needless to say I was disappointed to find Detective Eiben of the Milwaukee Police Department on the other end of the line.
    “Where’s your client?” he asked after the most perfunctory exchange of greetings.
    “Which one?” I countered disingenuously.
    “Don’t even think about playing games with me. You fucking well know which one I mean. Jeffrey Rendell. We’ve been calling his house and there’s no answer.”
    “Why are you looking for him?” I asked. There was something about his tone that put my hackles up. “Because I have a warrant for his arrest.”
    “Really?” I replied, trying to sound nonchalant. “For what crime?”
    “Shoplifting,” he snorted. “What the hell do you think? We want him for the murder of his father.”
    “Don’t you think you’re rushing into this?” I inquired, less than pleased by this new development and thinking fast. “After all, you’re going to look pretty stupid if it turns out that he didn’t do it.”
    “Why don’t you let