alone in a house with a gangster convicted of aggravated assault, I felt remarkably comfortable. There he was, my first client, sitting at the head of my narrow kitchen table. Fancy Phil was clearly a man who expected respect, or at least not condescension, much less a hard time. Still, even if I gave him an argument, I sensed I probably wouldn’t wind up bloated, bobbing in the East River, a New York moment for the folks from Toronto on a Circle Line tour. But I felt I had to say: “Phil, from time to time I may ask you questions you don’t like.”
“That’s okay.”
“Good. I don’t want to have to be concerned you’ll hold a grudge.”
“What are you worrying about?”
“I wouldn’t say worrying. It’s just those two and a half years you spent upstate because of an aggravated assault on a fellow—”
“Chicky Itzkowitz?” He snorted a dismissive laugh. “That’s what I call history. Plus I told you, I retired. A new man. Anyway, with Chicky it was a business matter.”
“Well, you and I are doing business even if I’m not taking money.”
“Hey, Dr. Judith.”
“What?”
“You got nothing to worry about.”
He did look relatively benevolent, a hoodlum Buddha. So I asked: “What did you think of Courtney?”
“Me, personally?” I nodded. He thought for a minute, then shook his head sadly. “ Lukshen . You know what that is?”
“Noodles?”
“Yeah, but the thing is, lukshen without butter, without salt and pepper ... What’s the word? Blah. A b word.”
“Bland?”
“Yeah! Bland.” He put his elbows on the table and rested his chins on the heels of his hands. “You send your kid to an Ivy League college because you want him to be better than you. But he winds up bringing home a bowl of lukshen from the West Coast with blond hair and blue eyes who went to another Ivy League college and is an investment banker and plays tennis and is even cute looking if you like cute looking. Looks like a great package. But then you look for a personality and it’s not there.”
“There is a kind of West Coast low-key style.” Well, I wasn’t about to interject that his son wasn’t exactly a live wire either, although in fairness, I had met Greg under strained circumstances during a terrible period in his life.
“Excuse me, Doc,” Fancy Phil said, “but bullshit. Low-key, laid-back, loafers without socks—that’s how they are. But people from the West Coast still have a personality.”
“Was she a good mother to the kids?”
“Yeah. Fine. I mean, she could talk your ear off about Travis’s teething. She was always saying to Morgan, ‘I need a huggy-buggy,’ and Morgan would go running to her.” With his thumb and index finger he massaged the bridge of his nose. An altered nose, the broad-bridged, slightly upturned schnozz many got in the fifties and early sixties, in the era of frantic assimilation, a nose which made thousands of second-and third-generation American Jews look as if they’d descended from Porky Pig. “And she was good to Gregory, too, except for putting her hand in the till. Always calling him ‘sweetie’ or ‘honey’ or ‘Greggy,’ but listen, she was a good wife. You saw their house?”
“It was lovely.”
“She fixed it up herself. No interior decorator or nothing.”
“On the other hand ...” I prompted.
“On the other hand,” Fancy Phil went on, “if she’s quitting her job to stay home with the kids, how come she’s not staying home with the kids? She’s out all the time. Call the house and you got that kraut. ‘Mizzus Logan is at her exercise class,’” he mimicked in what I assumed he believed to be a German accent. “A class? What kind of crap is that? Someone’s gotta teach you to touch your toes? Or she’s at a meeting, or having lunch with her girlfriends, or taking a run, or in her office—”
“Did she have an office outside the house?”
“Nah. She took over a bedroom. Anyway, she’s in her office doing
“That’s okay.”
“Good. I don’t want to have to be concerned you’ll hold a grudge.”
“What are you worrying about?”
“I wouldn’t say worrying. It’s just those two and a half years you spent upstate because of an aggravated assault on a fellow—”
“Chicky Itzkowitz?” He snorted a dismissive laugh. “That’s what I call history. Plus I told you, I retired. A new man. Anyway, with Chicky it was a business matter.”
“Well, you and I are doing business even if I’m not taking money.”
“Hey, Dr. Judith.”
“What?”
“You got nothing to worry about.”
He did look relatively benevolent, a hoodlum Buddha. So I asked: “What did you think of Courtney?”
“Me, personally?” I nodded. He thought for a minute, then shook his head sadly. “ Lukshen . You know what that is?”
“Noodles?”
“Yeah, but the thing is, lukshen without butter, without salt and pepper ... What’s the word? Blah. A b word.”
“Bland?”
“Yeah! Bland.” He put his elbows on the table and rested his chins on the heels of his hands. “You send your kid to an Ivy League college because you want him to be better than you. But he winds up bringing home a bowl of lukshen from the West Coast with blond hair and blue eyes who went to another Ivy League college and is an investment banker and plays tennis and is even cute looking if you like cute looking. Looks like a great package. But then you look for a personality and it’s not there.”
“There is a kind of West Coast low-key style.” Well, I wasn’t about to interject that his son wasn’t exactly a live wire either, although in fairness, I had met Greg under strained circumstances during a terrible period in his life.
“Excuse me, Doc,” Fancy Phil said, “but bullshit. Low-key, laid-back, loafers without socks—that’s how they are. But people from the West Coast still have a personality.”
“Was she a good mother to the kids?”
“Yeah. Fine. I mean, she could talk your ear off about Travis’s teething. She was always saying to Morgan, ‘I need a huggy-buggy,’ and Morgan would go running to her.” With his thumb and index finger he massaged the bridge of his nose. An altered nose, the broad-bridged, slightly upturned schnozz many got in the fifties and early sixties, in the era of frantic assimilation, a nose which made thousands of second-and third-generation American Jews look as if they’d descended from Porky Pig. “And she was good to Gregory, too, except for putting her hand in the till. Always calling him ‘sweetie’ or ‘honey’ or ‘Greggy,’ but listen, she was a good wife. You saw their house?”
“It was lovely.”
“She fixed it up herself. No interior decorator or nothing.”
“On the other hand ...” I prompted.
“On the other hand,” Fancy Phil went on, “if she’s quitting her job to stay home with the kids, how come she’s not staying home with the kids? She’s out all the time. Call the house and you got that kraut. ‘Mizzus Logan is at her exercise class,’” he mimicked in what I assumed he believed to be a German accent. “A class? What kind of crap is that? Someone’s gotta teach you to touch your toes? Or she’s at a meeting, or having lunch with her girlfriends, or taking a run, or in her office—”
“Did she have an office outside the house?”
“Nah. She took over a bedroom. Anyway, she’s in her office doing
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