Dead Money by Grant McCrea

mornings waking up in a strange apartment after a fine night of casual sex. The morning made everything different. There wasn’t a daylight protocol.
    I took him upstairs, showed him the space where I thought we might put the bookcase. He became all business. He’d brought a tape measure. He handled it with a practiced nonchalance.
    Sure, he said. No problem. I can get some nice maple. It’ll match the molding. I’ll sketch it out for you. Twelve hundred, say?
    I was a little taken aback. I had expected five, maybe six hundred.
    I figured you wanted it first class, he said apologetically. I could use pine, stain it red, he added, without conviction.
    No, no, I said. Let’s do the maple. Twelve hundred is fine.
    I didn’t want to be an ungracious host.
    Back in the living room, there were a few more minutes of overly polite conversation. The weather. The latest Brad Pitt vehicle. Jake was clearly anxious to leave. Melissa asked for a cup of tea. Jake declined again. I went to the kitchen to make the tea. I warmed myself a glass of milk.
    When I returned Jake was sitting on the couch next to Melissa.
    Good, I thought. She’s actually relating to somebody.
    Got to be going, said Jake.
    Okay, I said, a little surprised. Nice of you to come over.
    Melissa looked relieved. Jake looked relieved. I felt relieved.
    Melissa rose. Jake got up. Cheeks were kissed. I took him to the door.
    Uh, listen, he whispered on the way. I wonder if I could ask you a favor?
    Sure, I said, wondering what he thought I was doing, hiring him to build a bookcase I didn’t really need.
    I’m a little short, he whispered. You think you could front me a couple hundred?
    Gee, I said, I’d like to help you out. I really would. But I’m tapped out this week. Nothing I can do. Sorry.
    I shrugged.
    It didn’t feel like a convincing performance. I wasn’t sure I wanted it to be.
    Hey, he said, that’s okay. That’s okay.
    He left. I returned to the living room.
    He’s sweet, isn’t he? she said.
    I guess, I said.
    And kind of cute.
    Right.
    It was an odd thing for her to say. Quite out of character.
    Her smile was forced. Like a child caught doing something bad.

28.
    I HAD A HEARING in the Lockwood case. Some poor kid had died of a rare form of brain cancer. The grieving parents, understandably, needed someone to blame. They sued our client, a local manufacturing company. Unfortunately for them, there was no known cause, environmental or otherwise, for the disease. So proving causation was going tobe a problem. We’d made a motion to exclude some crucial expert evidence about groundwater contamination. Without it, without the veneer of objectivity of a professionally disinterested expert witness, the other side would have to rely on the testimony of a weasel-eyed company engineer named Cecil Crepe. I kid you not. And although it was pronounced ‘Crep’ and not ‘Creep,’ I was not at all sure that a jury would attend to the distinction. So I wasn’t about to let them have their expert without a fight.
    I took Vinnie Price with me. Vinnie was my favorite associate. He was an up-and-comer. A spit-polished young man with a burning ambition and a way with a client.
    These shortcomings were redeemed by a wicked sense of humor.
    When we arrived in court Vinnie and I were introduced to the learned counsel representing the plaintiff, a man named Trumbull. A pillar of the local Episcopalian church. Trumbull had thick mats of hair growing out of his ears. In state court, you sit side by side at the same table with opposing counsel, the dais in between. So each time Trumbull got up to speak, we had an unobstructed view of the vegetation. Moss, it was. It was like thick moss on a rotting tree trunk. It was a marvel of nature.
    There were probably many other notable things about him. He may even have been a powerful advocate. But all Vinnie and I could talk about later was earwigs.
    The judge had decided he’d hear from the expert before deciding the