Follow the Money

11


Twenty-six Dan Kellys and a terrible hangover. That was my day, and it was miserable.

I’d awoken to blinding sunlight streaming in through a window I didn’t recognize. I squinted and raised my hand to block the light. Morgan was naked beside me. The blanket was pulled down to her waist and she was radiating heat. I reached out toward the light. I made wild, grasping motions in the air, trying to reach the curtain and throw it shut. My movement sent the bed rocking and Morgan stirred beside me. She rolled over toward me, trying to bring the blanket up to cover her bare chest, failing, and then giving up.

“What’s going on?” Her voice was sleepy, soft, and filled with pain. “Goddamn, shut that f*ckin’ window.” She was almost begging for relief of any kind. I leaned off the bed and rested my weight on a chair beside the window. I made several more swipes at the curtain, missing horribly each time. Finally, I caught it and gave it a tug. It closed only part way, but it was enough to block the sunlight from our heads.

I collapsed back against the pillow, aching all over. The night before came through in snippets. Brief flashes from the fog, like movie scenes picked up from a cutting room floor and reassembled randomly. Had we been at Pink’s? I remembered knocking the coffee table over, the two of us tumbling loudly to the floor; Morgan on her knees in front of me, on her stomach bent over the couch, and beneath me sweating and grunting as we strained in drunken concentration, muscles tightening toward a final spasm and breathless, guttural moan, and then the wetness and the darkness and the final, fitful sleep.

“What is that f*cking noise?” I called out.

“What noise? I don’t hear anything,” Morgan mumbled. I listened again. Maybe she was right. I listened closer, trying to concentrate. Good God, I thought, I’m still drunk. And then I remembered my meeting and sat up with a start. My head pounded and I went frightfully still. I was only two more foolish moves from vomiting. Nearly checkmated by my own hangover, I paused and planned my next motions with care. Already nine o’clock, it was doubtful I could get home, change, and get back downtown by ten.

I struggled to get dressed. Morgan sat up slowly, propping pillows behind her and holding her head — her bare breasts jostled slightly with her movements, but she was hardly self-conscious. She watched me with one eye as I wandered about, naked, finding most of my clothes on the living room floor. “What are you doing?” she finally asked.

“Oh God, I’ve got a meeting at ten. Christ, I think I might puke.”

“Is it a meeting you have to go to?”

“All I was told is that the partner wanted to get together at ten.” I was hopping into my pants, oblivious to my nudity. “I think if I hurry, I can make it home and still get to the office in time.”

Morgan had slumped over on her side. “I think that hot dog might have been a bad idea,” she mumbled. “I think it wants back out.”

In my one moment of clarity, I thought ahead enough to call the office when I made it to my apartment. I had a message from Reilly telling me something had come up and that Carver rescheduled for the afternoon. I took a thirty-minute shower to celebrate and struggled to stop sweating as I got dressed. I was in the office at eleven-thirty, too hung over to spend even a second feeling bad about what had happened.

I flipped through the three pages of Danny Kellys and their scant contact information. I figured calling each of them was about the only thing I could do in my condition. I picked up the phone and dialed, figuring I’d know what to say when the moment came.

A woman’s voice answered. “Hello?”

“Hi, I’m trying to reach Danny Kelly.”

“I think you must have the wrong number.”

“Oh, sorry to bother you, ma’am.”

She hung up and I dialed again. A computerized voice told me that the number I’d dialed had been disconnected or was no longer in service and advised to me to check the number and dial again. The third number was answered by a man.

“I’m trying to reach Danny Kelly.”

“This is Dan,” the voice responded, with a hint of skepticism.

“Hi Dan, I’m a lawyer trying to find some information about Matt Bishop.”

“Who?”

“Matt Bishop? Do you know Mr. Bishop?”

“Never heard of him. I think you must have the wrong guy.”

“Oh, sorry to bother you.”

I had essentially the same series of interactions for two hours and slowly checked off the names and took notes about who had at least admitted to being a Dan Kelly. When it was over I’d reached five answering machines and left messages saying I wanted to talk about Matt Bishop and asking for Dan Kelly to call me back. Between calls I surfed the Internet and drank as much water as I could. I tried not to think about Morgan or Liz or the ramifications of what I’d done. But the images kept coming back to me. I could see her naked body in the streetlight, the image floating right in front of me when I closed my eyes. I would catch faint hints of her perfume wafting in from the hall, redolent, loaded with guilty, sweating images.

I imagined that nothing would come of it, that Liz would never find out and that Morgan would return to school and I’d never see her again. At least I wanted to believe that could happen, that somehow I could betray Liz, lie to her, cheat on her, and escape unscathed.

The phone rang. It was Liz. Perfect.

“Hey, how’d your meeting go?”

“Ah, shit, wouldn’t you know the partner cancelled on me so we’re having it this afternoon. Good thing. I’m still working on it.” My effort to speak in a lively tone betrayed me, it was too much.

“Are you okay? You sound like you’re sick.”

“Nah, I think I’m just tired. I was here late.” But what if she called? “Working in the library,” I added. “I didn’t sleep very well either.”

“Well, I was wondering if you wanted to go to a work thing tonight. A dinner at my boss’s. I can bring my significant other. So you’re it, if you feel up to it.”

Significant other . . . Christ. I wanted nothing more than to go home and die. “Geez, I dunno. I’m tired, but maybe. When do you need to know by?”

“Well, sometime before I need to be there would be good.” She sounded pissed. Was this just how we interacted now? The last thing I could handle was a fight.

“I’m not trying to be difficult. I just — I need to have this meeting with this guy and then I’ll know whether I can get out of here at a decent hour. Bastard had me here half the night last night.”

“I know, I know. I just thought it might be fun. It might be good for you to spend an evening around people who haven’t sold their souls yet.” She laughed, but there was a mild irritation and aggression beneath it.

“Now you’re really being mean.”

“Hey, I know they give you a good price for your soul, but you should at least see how people with a conscience live.”

“Man, I’m getting no slack here, am I?”

“None.”

I told her I’d call her after my meeting and hung up, relieved. Liz believed everything, and why shouldn’t she? There was no reason to suspect anything, and working late made perfect sense. I was beginning to enjoy using work as an excuse. It was, perhaps, the only benefit of the grueling hours.

At two o’clock, I had done almost no coherent thinking about the case and I gathered up my papers, along with what remained of my self-confidence, and trudged upstairs to Carver’s office. As I approached the door I began to sweat. Was it nerves? Was it the hangover? Did I smell like gin? I had no way of knowing. I rounded the corner to find the glass in Carver’s door dim. The lights were off. I knocked. Nothing. I pushed the door open. No response. I looked inside. Carver was nowhere in sight. The computer was off. There was no briefcase by the desk. He was gone.

“Mr. Carver has left for the day.” A voice said from behind me. I turned to see a secretary peering up at me from over the shelf in front of her desk. “Mr. Carver is out for the rest of the day. Would you like to leave him a message?”

I left a message, ensuring I got credit for showing up, and returned to my office to contemplate how early I could leave. When I got back there was an e-mail from Morgan. It read simply, “How you doing? I think I’m going to die.”

I was suddenly afraid to engage her. I’d managed to placate Liz with a believable excuse, but those excuses wouldn’t last forever. I told myself I could not go out with her again. Last night was a mistake. I had to brush Morgan off.

I typed, “Got lucky, my meeting was cancelled. I feel like shit. I have to go home and sleep.” I debated the use of the phrase “got lucky,” changed it to “I lucked out” and sent it. I hoped she wouldn’t respond. I hoped she would leave me alone. I wanted nothing more than to avoid the whole issue until, at the very least, my hangover was gone.

I checked my watch. I had to shake it to make sure it was still working. I wondered again how early I could slip out of the office without drawing attention to myself. What if someone called, what would my excuse be? Did anyone around this place really pay that much attention? I doubted it. So far, I’d come and gone as I pleased. I recalled the story of the law student who accepted jobs at four different law firms for the summer, worked one day a week at each and collected four paychecks all summer. I always wondered if the story was really true. From what I could tell, it was certainly possible.

By three-thirty I figured I was safe, that I could be home before the traffic got terribly bad and be sound asleep before anyone realized I was gone. I shut my computer down, having not yet received any response from Morgan. I picked up my briefcase, tucked my coat under my arm, turned off the light, and was halfway through the doorway when the phone rang. Shit. Almost free. I paused, turned back, and stood there looking at it. Shit, shit, shit. I’d forgotten Liz and I knew without answering that it was her. Compelled by guilt or weakness or simply because, at heart, I really was a nice guy, I crossed the room and answered.

“Hello.”

“Dude, what is your story? Did you forget about me or what?” Her voice was perturbed. I wondered if I could blame the job just one more time.

“No, no, I’m sorry. I just got out of that meeting and I was rushing around trying to get some things wrapped up. You know how it is.”

“Yeah.” She knew how it was. And because she knew, she couldn’t be too upset, at least not with me. “Well, are you going to be able to get out of there in time to come with me?”

I debated. I thought it over for half a second. I felt terrible, physically and emotionally. “What time’s the thing at?”

“Starts at seven, goes till whenever. We don’t have to be there at seven and we don’t have to stay that long. I just hate going to those kinds of things by myself.”

“Yeah, I hear you.” Guilty. I was a guilty bastard. If I left right then I could sleep for a couple of hours and then go. I’d feel better. I’d feel better about a lot of things. She wouldn’t hate me. “Where and when?”

“Pick me up at the office.” Her voice sounded much happier than it had only seconds before. “You know where it is.” I knew. I also knew she rode the bus to work. Another bit of moral high ground she occupied.

I mumbled, “See you soon.”

“Bye.”

She was gone, and so was I.