I’VE JUST COME BACK FROM visiting my attorney and my banker. I tell them I see them on Visiting Day, not because they are actually in prison but—let’s face it—they might very well be, only a couple more deals down the road. Morris and Harold, to give them names, find me something of a joker, but that’s not to be confused with thinking I’m funny. They seldom smile when I’m around, and even if they had once, they wouldn’t have been smiling much today. They were wearing what you might call their openmouthed, dying-fish looks when I got through with them. I signed a hand-written statement while they looked on and then we made use of a safe-deposit box. Harold Berger looked as if he might be doing something criminal without quite being sure. I was indeed the only one doing any laughing. I handed my key to the box to Morris Dicker. He frowned. It was the look of a man who has just been videotaped accepting the Baggie bulging with cocaine. “Everything be fine,” I said, “everything be cool. Ax me no questions, relax, my man.”
Morris looked at Harold. Harold looked at me and said, “I hate you, Lee.”
Morris nodded. “You’re an absolute charlie, Lee. There’s no other word for it. For you, I mean.”
“Don’t give me that crapola,” I explained. Then I smilingly outlined his place in the great scheme of things. I told him about the lawyer who fell into the school of feeding sharks but went untouched, climbed back into the boat, and said to his astonished companions, “Professional courtesy.” It is not uncommon for lawyers to forget their place in the g. s. and then they must be reminded. Ditto for investment bankers who are frequently too young to have learned their place. Harold was not an investment banker. He was just a banker banker.
The hell with all this. It’s always a mistake for me to get started on lawyers and bankers. Morris and Harold are okay guys. Slow but okay. And I’ve never actually caught either of them molesting a child.
I felt better having taken care of business because I’m trying to save myself a lot of heartache and grief and unnecessary confusion later on when the shit hits the f. I’m not sure anything’s going to happen, mind you, but it might, and better safe than sorry. Pay attention to Granny’s samplers and you can never go far wrong. That’s my advice. A fool and his money are soon parted, too.
Now you’d better sort of brace yourself for this story because, let me be absolutely frank with you, it’s full to the brim with deceit and treachery and violence and the occasional laugh to break the tension, and plain, outright, bald-faced lies. I’m going to tell it as it happened, lies and all, and good luck to you. Don’t trust a goddamn thing anybody says and never return by the way you came.
My name is Lee Tripper.
And I wouldn’t lie to you.
Unless I absolutely had to.