Recap and Chapter 7: Tolerable Pricks

Paul Peter Hinckley, our protagonist, is an over-educated tax preparation man in his fifties who has just watched his father, an esteemed and popular attorney in New Orleans, die on the seventh green of the Audubon Golf Course.  In the midst of awkwardly coping with his grief and his family’s apparent lack of the appropriate reactions, he has reunited with an old friend, a not-so-esteemed and infamous attorney named Remo MacQuincy, whose firm has been reduced through the ill will and rumors of old enemies to a staff of a few wide-eyed recent graduates from Tulane Law School.  Remo is suffering from unpopularity, he feels, because he was the first and only private attorney to sue the federal government for their role in the damages sustained during Hurricane Katrina.  Unfortunately, many of the suitors in his class action lawsuit are “impatient” black families who have ponied up an undisclosed “small, administrative fee” to Remo to get the ball rolling and, seeing no progress or even the beginnings of a trial, have begun to demand their money back.  Feeling cornered and threatened, Remo has asked Paul if he can hide out at his house through hurricane season for protection.

All of this, of course, is unknown to Liza Rosenstein, Paul’s longtime girlfriend who is making plans of her own on how to spend the large inheritance Paul is about to receive from his father’s estate and who has been advised by a friend to seek out a “Discretionary Consultant” to peer into Paul’s affairs to make sure he is true Uptown Husband material.  Paul’s older brothers, Robert, a real estate mogul, and Joseph, a construction company executive, have also expressed their displeasure at Paul’s recent behavior, but are also unaware of the pact he has made with Remo, whom they consider “dead unbalanced.”  The only family member Paul seems to have avoided irritating is his teenage niece, Kendra, the daughter of his globe-trotting sister, Noel.

As we rejoin our story, Paul and Remo have just finished a morning of drinking and banging out the details of their covert co-inhabitance.  Paul has just remembered that he is supposed to drive his sister’s stateside BMW to the airport and leave it in short-term parking for when she returns for their father’s funeral.  He has enlisted Remo to help him, but as soon as they split up into two cars, Remo roars off like a bandit, cathartically racing the Beamer far ahead of Paul. 

Things, as they say, are about to get complicated.

Paul wove through the two gray lanes of Airline Highway around the cars that seemed to be in no particular hurry to get where they were going.  He kept mistaking other black sports coupes for his sister’s BMW, and the repeated cycle of apprehension and disappointment were beginning to strain his nerves.  Finally he arrived at the airport and hoped he would find Remo somewhere along the loop, waiting patiently for his arrival.  He made two aggravating circuits before deciding to try the parking garage.  He punched the button for a ticket and started a slow crawl through the levels, his eyes still adjusting to the dark grayness that was only partly penetrated by the bright August sun outside.

On the third level in the back corner he found the car and his friend.

The BMW squatted almost parallel to the waist high concrete ledge, taking up three parking spaces between two other compact cars.  Remo stood behind the car looking grim.  Paul pulled into a space opposite the scene and hopped out.

“What happened?”

“This car has horrible handling for a German.”

“What!”

“The back is way too heavy.”

Paul jogged over and scooted around the car.  The entire back left corner was caved in, glass shards and snapped pieces of the body rattled on the ground.  The turning indicator bulb hung on its thin wires like an eye out of its socket.  The back wheel tilted inward into the wheel housing, knocked completely off balance.  The front door had a large gouge in it where Remo had apparently misjudged the distance between it and the wall when he kicked it open.

“Holy crap!”  Paul said.  “I hadn’t forgotten about your penchant for stunt parking, but I thought you’d have outgrown it by now.”

“Paul, everything’s going to be fine.”

“This is outrageous!  What’s Noel going to say?”

“Noel?  She won’t have to know.  I know a good body man.”

“How fast were you going?”

“That’s irrelevant.  Let me see your cell phone.”

“Whoa, whoa.  Let’s just think this through, okay?”

“I’ve already done the thinking for us, Paul.  We get the car out of here, leave word for Noel that she can borrow your car, then you go downstairs and get a rental.”

“I don’t know.  She’s going to be some ticked off.  She’s going to want to know what happened.”

“I know your sister, Paul.  She’s going to want to see this thing through as quickly as possible, do what she needs to, then fly out on the next available bird.  She won’t have time to worry about the car.  And if she asks, tell her you took it to a shop because it felt, I don’t know, wonky.”

“You think she’ll believe that?”

“It’s the truth.  I could feel it under my foot the minute we left her driveway.  It wasn’t performing up to spec.”

“What if we just got it turned around and left it parked?  She might think someone in the garage backed into it.”

“There’s too many variables in that proposition.  Look, kid, I’ve been in sticky situations before, and my hard-earned experience tells me that the more things you can keep in your corner the better.  The door won’t latch anyway and it’d be exposed to grand theft.  Give me your phone.”

Paul didn’t know what to think.  The failure on Remo’s part to admit to any fault left the guilt and responsibility floating, and he could feel it start to seep into his pores.  He felt childish and embarrassed for the both of them, but Remo was right.  Anything left up to chance now might complicate things.  He handed over the phone.  Remo opened it and dialed.

“Julian?” he asked.  “Yeah, MacQuincy.  Listen…” He put his free fist on his hip and walked off toward a corner of the garage, probably seeking a better signal.

Paul decided to try and make the car a little less conspicuous.  He slid into the driver’s seat and started the car.  The door indeed was knocked slightly askew on its hinges and the latching mechanism didn’t line up with the frame, and wouldn’t even sit loose in its place.  He pulled it closed a half dozen times, but each time the door swung and floated fully open again.  Paul tried to lower the window, but the motor started to grind when it got halfway down.  Something jarred loose inside blocked the pane’s track, so he held the door closed by scooting over in the seat, sticking his arm out, and holding the window under his armpit.  In this position he could still reach the pedals, but tentatively at best.  He started to sweat.

He pushed down the clutch and slid the shifter into reverse.  His head swiveled in both directions, but he could only guess at how much distance he had behind him.  He put his left foot over the brake, not trusting his ability to switch back and forth with only his right, and began to inch backwards.  Once he felt he’d reached his invisible limit, he yanked the steering wheel hard to the right, popped the car back into first, and let the engine pull itself forward slowly until he was about an inch from the sedan in front of him.  He’d turned the car about two degrees.

“Jeesum.”

He began a seventeen-point turn inside the small space, feeling the V8 engine starting to get annoyed at such feeble maneuvers, moving back and forth six inches at a time and rotating in embarrassing increments.

Halfway through the process, Paul’s irritation and impatience got the better of him.  He tried to twist all the way around in his seat to see exactly how much room was back there and maybe risk another foot and a half backing up, but kept the pressure necessary to keep the door closed under his arm.  The torsion popped his shoulder out of its socket.  He turned forward again reflexively and it slid right back into place, but the rigid signals of pain kept racing outward down his arm and up his neck.  He howled, somehow lifted his arm, and let the door float away, then rolled out of the car onto his knees.  He held his left arm tight to his side with his other hand and stared at the ground.

Paul could smell his own sweat tinged with light beer and horseradish.  He wanted desperately to be someplace cool and friendly, watching a ballgame, leaving the strenuous activity and potential for injury up to the professionals.

Remo came back, whistling, and leaned over with his palms on the hood.  “What are you doing?”

“I just twisted my shoulder in the process of turning the car around.  The day is not going like I planned.”

“Shit, kid, my boys can do that for us when they come to tow it.”

“Guess I was worried about appearances.”

“We’ll get some ice in the airport.  Come on.  Is there anything in the car we need to take with us?”

Paul rolled on leg and got a foot on the ground.  “No.  Noel keeps it completely clean.  Just check the glove box and make sure there’s no cash.”

“What do you think I did as soon as I got in the car?  Like I said: I know your sister.” Remo winked and Paul managed to twist half of his grimace into a smile.

“Good ol’ Remo.  What’d you say once? ‘The secret to being a tolerable prick is not being afraid to occasionally admit that you are one.’”

“Did I say that?”

Paul huffed out of the grinning half of his mouth.  “You or some other prick.”

Remo reared back and let his fists fall against the hood and cackled.

*          *          *

At the rental counter, Paul held a Diet Coke against his shoulder and signed the forms left-handed.  He took the keys from the clerk.

“You know where the lot is?”

“I’m local, honey.”

“Okay, you’re all set then.”

“One more thing.  Where do I hire one of those guys that waits at the gate and holds up a sign with someone’s name on it?”

“Sir?”

“My sister is arriving here later tonight, and I’d like her to be met by someone.”

“Is your sister a minor?  Because the airport has a program for that.”

He laughed.  “I’m afraid not.  She’s a mature woman who is used to a certain standard of living.  So I need one of the guys.  The sign should read ‘Hinckley.’  That’s with a ‘c’ before the ‘k’, and an ‘e’ before the—”

“Sir, those are professional drivers.”

Paul smiled.  “I should hope so.”

“The kind that come with a hired car or limo.”

“That’s a different counter?”

“It’s not a service we provide.”

Paul pursed his lips.  “So I can’t hire just the guy with the sign?  Anywhere?”

The clerk tapped her fingernails on her side of the counter.  “I’m afraid not, sir.”

He knocked the key fob on the counter a few times and looked the clerk over.  “Maybe your agency could spare someone for a few hours…?”

“That’s unlikely.”

Paul nodded and walked back to join Remo who was staring at a large LCD screen listing arrivals and departures.

“Whatever happened to customer service?”

“Hah.  Customer service isn’t expandable.  Look, they got airports in all these bumfuck towns.  There’s no money leftover in the corporate structure for pleasant attitudes.  Why would anyone want to go to Akron?”

They stepped outside along with a dozen others who had recently disembarked into the pickup area.  Overhead cars clacked along the lanes for drop-offs, and down here with the trapped exhaust of all the taxis, family cars, and hotel shuttles felt like being underneath an interstate overpass, the adolescent graffiti replaced by wraparound ads for local tourist traps.  Remo removed his handkerchief and held it over his nose and mouth.

“Look, there’s our shuttle,” Paul said.

They stepped up into the chilled cabin and sat on the long bench that ran down the side opposite the luggage rack.  A few minutes passed by.

“Look, are we going or not,” Remo called out to the driver.

“I gotta wait for at least five.”

“What?”

“Fuel costs, my man.  Do less with more.”

“Well, get out there and beat the grass.”

The driver leaned across and yelled out the door.

“Two mo’, two mo’! Avis, Avis, Avis!  You, right there, you look lost.  Welcome to the Big Easy.  You driving Avis, ma’am?”

“This is just what I was saying,” Paul said.  “Ridiculous.”

An older couple made it on board and sat right behind the driver.  They unfolded their new map of the city and started to ask him questions.  After awhile Remo yelled again.  “I could’ve walked there by now!”

The driver turned around and shot back a smile.

“Aw, I would’ve passed you up lying on the shoulder, big man.  Heatstroke.  Just enjoy the AC.  We’ll get where you’re goin’.  Hey, don’t I know you?”

“Probably not.”

“Maybe I seen you in the paper.  One mo’, one mo’!  All aboard for Avis.”

Finally another gentleman clasped the pole and pulled himself into the shuttle.  The driver immediately closed the doors and took off with a lurch.  The man awkwardly stepped down the aisle against the rocking rhythm of the cabin, placed his bag on the rack, and sat down in the back.  Both Remo and Paul’s eyes followed him.  He took off his fedora and removed his sunglasses then finally noticed their turned faces.

“Well, my fucking hell,” he said.  “Is that you, MacQuincy?  You look like a bloated toad.”

Remo crossed his arms.  “Murchison.  What brings this big fish back to the little pond?”

“Offshore drilling.”

“Paul, this is Henry Murchison.  A son-of-a-bitch lobbyist.  Though, that term’s kind of redundant, now that I think about it.”

“And you, MacQuincy?  Still poking your nose under the government’s skirt?  You haven’t tired of having it slapped away?”

Paul’s eagerness to introduce himself quickly subsided.  He opened the can of Diet Coke and sipped at it.

“As opposed to just flipping the old whore over and working the other holes like you?  If I’d known I’d run into you, I’d have packed my baseball bat.”

“If I remember correctly, you always had a sort of pansy swing.  Everything landed infield.”

“Look, you’ve already done enough illegitimate harm to my reputation, so let’s leave out the old high school sports comparisons, all right?”

“Illegitimate?  I’ve never needed to exaggerate the truth about you, MacQuincy.  Your deeds speak for themselves.  I’ve just reiterated for those who didn’t hear the first time.”

“You’re an eager liar, an enthusiastic bearer of false witness, and God help me, I’ll throw you out the doors of this shuttle if you say one more word to me.”

Both men turned away and the rattling of the chassis filled the gap of their silence.  Paul looked to his right.  The driver and the other couple seemed not to have heard anything.  They were still engrossed in their discussion of inauthentic hotspots.  He leaned in to Remo’s ear.

“Who is this guy?”

“Forget him.  We’re almost there.”

“You know, MacQuincy, I didn’t always hate you.”

“Just stow it, Henry.”

“Maybe disliked your demeanor, maybe broke away early whenever we met, sure.  But I didn’t start to actively hate you until 1985.  Does your friend know this story?”

Remo stared straight ahead, his teeth clenching and unclenching, rippling his jowls.

“Well, friend, you may know Remo well or maybe not so well, but at the least you’re aware of his flagrant opportunism.  It’s something he’s never been able to hide very well.  One Friday in 1985 some colleagues of mine from the firm I worked for at the time were in Acme slurping down oysters and chewing the fat.  These were some real mules, you know, straining the big rumor millstone forward, trading stories like stocks, each man the more valuable for the strength of his facts.  Eventually one minion lets slip to another that I am leaving the following morning for New York to lay down in stone a deal making me the local legal consultant for a very large hotel group making their first foray into the city.  Every man under me would’ve had a part in a small killing, so they could be expected to brag.  But these men chose to brag in great detail, unfortunately, and do you know who was sitting two tables over with his well-trained ear and probably chewing through half his weight in fried shrimp?”

Paul shook his head.

“Well, do you know anyone of the type who might immediately slip out of a restaurant, call a cab, race to the airport, take the last flight to New York of the afternoon in such haste that he has to buy new clothes once he arrives, then shows up at the offices of the very same large hotel group purporting to be the man from the firm they were expecting?”

“I never said I was from your firm.  I said I was from ‘the firm that will be representing your interests.’”

“Hardly a lie, then, was it, MacQuincy?  But, tell me, friend, what kind of man walks around with pre-made, catch-all contracts in his briefcase?  What kind of attorney has two sets of business cards, one proudly listing the name of his firm and the other, well, I suppose blank space can be seen as a sort of modesty, eh?  Or it would if that space surrounded the name of any other man.  What kind of man thinks it wise to cherry pick his colleagues’ clients and expects to be rewarded for no hard work of his own?”

“If they’d really wanted you, then I’d have faced a little more resistance on their part.  Or they’d have tried to disengage after they found out.  But they seemed happy enough with the services I provided.”

Murchison looked out his window as the shuttled pulled into the lot.  “You’re a walking insult to proper business, MacQuincy.  You deserve everything that’s coming to you.”  He stood and retrieved his bag.  Remo glared up at the back of his head, rolling his tongue from side to side between his molars.  Paul somehow understood that they would have to remain seated until the other man was down the aisle and out of view.

When they reached their assigned car, a bland white Camry from an indeterminate year, Paul finally spoke up.  “I thought you were gonna deck him.  Maybe you should have.”

“The man’s a snake, kid.  He hides his venom in the rules.”

“Remo…is that story true?”

“Of course it’s true.  It was a con, but my heart was in the right place.  Gigolos like him, they don’t get to be the gatekeepers into my city.  Now get in the car.  We’ve got to retrieve my files.”