okay.”
“But if you committed just one
crime,” she went on, “and you got five million dollars, you’d never have to come out of retirement, would you?”
This time, he laughed out of
surprise. “Five million? Where is this
score?”
“Don’t ask me, Frank,” she said half kidding but also half on the square. “I’m
not a criminal. And I’m not suggesting any crime to you, either. What I’m
saying is, if you keep doing the five-thousand-dollar crimes, you’ll definitely
go back to prison.” He knew what she was doing. It was a lawyer’s trick, that,
to make you think you’ve got two alternatives, but then the first one’s no good
and the second one’s impossible, so you wind up doing exactly what lawyers
always want everybody to do, anyway, which is nothing. “So instead of the
five-grand hits,” he said, “I should stay home and dream up a five-mil hit. And
not go out till I got it. Right?”
“You’ll never reform, Frank,” she
said. “You know that. So the best thing to do is retire.”
“With my five million.”
“Or whatever.”
* * *
They came into Omaha around seven in the evening, the city
rising out of the landscape like children’s toys in a sandbox, the reddening
sun still partway up the western sky but the children gone home to dinner. As
the country road became city street, the streetlights automatically switched
on, anemic in the rosy light of the sun.
They’d been talking law, anecdotes,
him telling her some of his court experiences, she talking about clients and
how it seemed that everybody had a crooked streak in them somewhere. She wasn’t
herself a criminal lawyer, or a courtroom lawyer, but flew a desk in a big
corporate law firm, so the clients were businessmen, all looking for an edge.
It began to seem to Frank that it was unfair of society to single him out this
way, keep riding him so hard when everybody else was up to something, too. But
nobody ever said it was supposed to be fair, life.
The first time they were stopped at
a red light, she pointed at her purse, a big brown soft-leather thing on the
seat between them, and said, “There’s money in there. Take three hundred.”
He brisded. “What’s this about?”
“To get you started. You need money
to get you moving. If I don’t give it to you, you’ll start right in trying to
beat the odds. The first day on parole.”
“I can’t take your money,” he said.
The fact was, three hundred wouldn’t do it. Three grand was closer to what he
needed, with the flight to New York, and some clothes, and a hotel, and this
and that and the other. Four or five grand, more like. But he wasn’t going to
say that. “I appreciate the thought,” he went on, “but I just wouldn’t feel
right.”
She sighed. The light turned green,
and they drove on. She tapped fairly short fingernails against the steering
wheel, and at last she said, “All right, then. Look in there, you’ll see my
wallet.”
“I really won’t—”
“Not money,” she said. “Hold on a
second.”
Another red light. She picked up the
bag, braced it between the steering wheel and her lap, took out a thick wallet,
unclasped it, brought out a business card, handed it to him. “I can’t come to
court for you,” she said, “but I can find you somebody better than the wet
necktie.”
Taking the card, reading her name
and the firm name and the business address and the phone number and the telex
number and the cable word and the fax number, he said, “You don’t have much
confidence in me.”
“I have confidence in
“But if you committed just one
crime,” she went on, “and you got five million dollars, you’d never have to come out of retirement, would you?”
This time, he laughed out of
surprise. “Five million? Where is this
score?”
“Don’t ask me, Frank,” she said half kidding but also half on the square. “I’m
not a criminal. And I’m not suggesting any crime to you, either. What I’m
saying is, if you keep doing the five-thousand-dollar crimes, you’ll definitely
go back to prison.” He knew what she was doing. It was a lawyer’s trick, that,
to make you think you’ve got two alternatives, but then the first one’s no good
and the second one’s impossible, so you wind up doing exactly what lawyers
always want everybody to do, anyway, which is nothing. “So instead of the
five-grand hits,” he said, “I should stay home and dream up a five-mil hit. And
not go out till I got it. Right?”
“You’ll never reform, Frank,” she
said. “You know that. So the best thing to do is retire.”
“With my five million.”
“Or whatever.”
* * *
They came into Omaha around seven in the evening, the city
rising out of the landscape like children’s toys in a sandbox, the reddening
sun still partway up the western sky but the children gone home to dinner. As
the country road became city street, the streetlights automatically switched
on, anemic in the rosy light of the sun.
They’d been talking law, anecdotes,
him telling her some of his court experiences, she talking about clients and
how it seemed that everybody had a crooked streak in them somewhere. She wasn’t
herself a criminal lawyer, or a courtroom lawyer, but flew a desk in a big
corporate law firm, so the clients were businessmen, all looking for an edge.
It began to seem to Frank that it was unfair of society to single him out this
way, keep riding him so hard when everybody else was up to something, too. But
nobody ever said it was supposed to be fair, life.
The first time they were stopped at
a red light, she pointed at her purse, a big brown soft-leather thing on the
seat between them, and said, “There’s money in there. Take three hundred.”
He brisded. “What’s this about?”
“To get you started. You need money
to get you moving. If I don’t give it to you, you’ll start right in trying to
beat the odds. The first day on parole.”
“I can’t take your money,” he said.
The fact was, three hundred wouldn’t do it. Three grand was closer to what he
needed, with the flight to New York, and some clothes, and a hotel, and this
and that and the other. Four or five grand, more like. But he wasn’t going to
say that. “I appreciate the thought,” he went on, “but I just wouldn’t feel
right.”
She sighed. The light turned green,
and they drove on. She tapped fairly short fingernails against the steering
wheel, and at last she said, “All right, then. Look in there, you’ll see my
wallet.”
“I really won’t—”
“Not money,” she said. “Hold on a
second.”
Another red light. She picked up the
bag, braced it between the steering wheel and her lap, took out a thick wallet,
unclasped it, brought out a business card, handed it to him. “I can’t come to
court for you,” she said, “but I can find you somebody better than the wet
necktie.”
Taking the card, reading her name
and the firm name and the business address and the phone number and the telex
number and the cable word and the fax number, he said, “You don’t have much
confidence in me.”
“I have confidence in
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