MRS. PARKER BEAL of Randolph was a thoroughbred champion of her peculiar variety of people. “I am not exactly sure how her mind works,” I told Mack that night. “Hell, I’m not sure her mind is working: I am giving her the benefit of a very large doubt by assuming that she even has a mind. But, on that assumption, either she thinks that each time she starts a conversation with a person, it is a totally new person, or else she thinks that the person she’s addressing for the sixth or seventh time has the retention powers of a magic slate for kids, and no recollection of what Mrs. Beal said earlier. Whichever it is, I am beginning to see a possible explanation for why Calvin Beal went berserk suddenly. Only thing that puzzles me is why it took him so long.”
Mrs. Beal had called four times on Thursday, while the machine was taking my calls. Each time she identified herself by name, place of residence, and maternal relationship to my client, “Mister Calvin Beal.” Each time she complained that she had not heard anything from her son, “that is supposed to be in Quincy District Court today with Mister Kennedy, he told me and he told his father too.” These protests were delivered during the very hours when Calvin was threatening me in Quincy District Court and being carted off to Bridgewater State Hospital, for some rest and some observation too.
Thursday night, Mrs. Beal called four more times. Gretchen was able to distinguish calls made during the day from the calls made after dark because the latter included not only Mrs. Beal’s recitation of her name, residence, and maternal connection to Calvin Beal, but the newer information that Mrs. Beal had heard what I was saying and that was why she was calling. The second of the nighttime calls was very petulant, repeating all of what the first one had delivered, plus a declaration of her inability to understand why I did not return her calls, since I had requested them. The machine tape allowance for each call ran out partway through that recital. Mrs. Beal immediately called again and continued it on the third tape, shouting at the machine and the person whom she presumed to be sitting there beside it. The fourth nighttime call was shorter, although basically the same; Gretchen said that Mrs. Beal by then appeared to be either drunk or drowsy, “but still very much pissed off.”
Friday, according to Gretchen, Mrs. Beal made three calls in the morning, one of which Gretchen took unwittingly; after that one, she had used the machine to screen all calls, waiting for the callers to identify themselves over the speaker unit before she picked the phone up. When Mrs. Beal had Gretchen actually on the line, she had once again gone through everything that Gretchen had already heard on tape. When Mrs. Beal was reduced to chatting with the box again, she did the whole spiel again on tapes. She made four more tapes in the afternoon, Gretchen said. Over the weekend she made nine more tapes. And she had called twice before my arrival on Monday morning.
“The woman is remarkable,” I told Mack that night. “She is completely placid, I think. Querulous but placid. And she must have the same capacity for air that the Goodyear blimp has for helium, because she never seems to stop for breath.” Mrs. Beal accepted my call with complacency. Notwithstanding the fact that I had called her, she told me who she was and where she lived and that she was Calvin’s mother.
“Calvin,” she said, “didn’t come home Thursday night.” I made the mistake of saying that Calvin, after all, had not been home for a good many nights, under strict orders of the Quincy District Court, Toner, J., presiding, pending resolution of the charges against him that he had attacked his wife. “Whaaat?” Mrs. Beal said. She strung the word out for what seemed like fifteen seconds. I repeated that Calvin hadn’t been home for a good many nights because he was charged with beating his wife and the judge had ordered him not to go home. “To Hough’s Neck,” I said.
“Not there,” Mrs. Beal said, with evident impatience at my stupidity. “I know he wasn’t there. Here. To his house here, where he grew up. Calvin didn’t come here Thursday.” I explained to Mrs. Beal that Calvin had been given other accommodations Thursday, by the Commonwealth, reminding her that my secretary had previously furnished this information to her. Mrs. Beal said: “I don’t understand that.” Then she went through it all again.
“By now I’m getting smart,” I told Mack. “I said ‘Uh-huh’ as the circumstances seemed to call for it, which was not very often. She went right on, telling me what she’d told Gretchen, telling me what she’d told me, always circling around back to Calvin’s non-appearance at his boyhood home on Thursday night.”
“The Mister come home late for dinner,” Mrs. Beal told me. “He might’ve been a little drunk, but I know he understood me. He come home right when the news coming on. We sit there and watched it and I told him about it. We both seen you on that show there. You was talking. And I was telling him, the Mister, how I tried to reach you. And he said there you was, if I was interested, you know, in what you might have to say. That it might have something to do with why Calvin wasn’t there. Was that judge you talked about, did he do something to Calvin?”
“No, Mrs. Beal,” I said, “nothing whatsoever. Judge Dawes was not on Calvin’s case. That was Judge Toner.”
“Oh,” she said, “I wasn’t sure. But we watched that, or I did, at least, all of what you had to say, and then I called your office like you probably must know. And me and the Mister, we talked more about it, such as where Calvin had gone and so forth, and then the Mister said he would go up to bed, he thought, and he did that. And I called your office again. I was worried, you know. And then I went to bed.
“Then Friday,” she said, “when I talked to your woman there, and that you should, that she ought to have you call me. Because I didn’t see how anyone that says he is a lawyer that says he is helping people, you know, that he doesn’t when they call him, that he don’t call them back up.”
“Mrs. Beal,” I said, “I’m not helping you. I never said I was. You are not my client. Back on Thursday, Calvin was. Calvin was my client. Calvin’s not my client now. Calvin threatened me. But that is neither here nor there, whether I call you. You are not my client. I just call my clients.”
“I don’t understand that,” she said. “So then I keep calling Friday, and I guess your woman went out, in case you did not know she was doing this when she’s supposed to be there and to talk to people for you. And Calvin, I still did not know where he was, except he wasn’t home. And the Mister Friday didn’t see him on the job or nothing, which I find out from him when he come home pretty late. And by then you were back on the television there, and I told him what you said. And he said he did not see Calvin, and by then it was quite late. See, the Mister when he gets through and it’s Friday afternoon and he’s through painting for the week, the Mister likes to drink a lot of beer then and he feels that it’s all right. See, with the weekend and all, he don’t have to climb the ladders. He says with the ladders, if he’s had a lot of beer, he says it makes him feel, well, sort of funny the next day. Like he will fall or something when he’s climbing up on them. Or maybe he will drop something, when he has to carry things when he’s up on the scaffolding.”
“I see,” I said. “Mrs. Beal, I really hate to …”
“So the Mister,” she said, “he came home and he was full of beer. And I asked him and I told him and he went to bed before me and I think he got it all, what I had to tell him you said. And I went up there with him and got his overhauls off there and he went to bed and stayed there except for once I heard him get up when he had to make his water. And I called your office some more but I guess you must have been, you were probably still out there where they make the television. Would that be where you were there Friday night, at the television station when I called you at your office?”
“No, I wasn’t, Mrs. Beal,” I said desperately. “I have never been inside that television station. Never in my whole life, Mrs. Beal. I haven’t. I was not there Friday and I was not there Thursday either. Everything you saw on TV was filmed right in my own office.”
“It was?” she said in tones of extreme agitation.
“Certainly was,” I said. “Every picture that you saw on me was taken in my office. Except for the first ones that they showed on Monday night. Monday night or Tuesday—I forget which night it was.”
“Well, Mister Kennedy,” she said, “then I don’t think that’s very fair. If you was right there then when I called, you should have let me talk to you and answered when I called.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. I really didn’t either.
“Oh, Mister Kennedy,” she said with shock and horror, “you can’t sit there and tell me that, that you don’t understand. You just told me, you said so, you were in your office when you were on TV there. And that’s when I was calling you, to ask about my Calvin. And you were just, just sitting there, and I was very worried. And you would not talk to me and I don’t think that’s fair. If you were not Calvin’s lawyer, I would call the police on you.”
“Mack,” I said, “she drove me to it. I used the old part-sentence trick, sound like you’re starting something and cut the connection in the middle? And I yelled out to Gretchen, the minute that I did it: ‘Put the machine on again. I just cut her off.’ And sure enough, with ten seconds, she was calling back. This time she was really angry. Said if I did not come on, she did not care if I was Calvin’s lawyer, she was going to call the police on me.”
“She probably did call them,” Mack said.
“Oh, indeed she did,” I said. “Rick Fowler called me from the plain-clothes unit there. ‘Kennedy, you scumbag,’ he says, ‘are you turning yourself in? Or do we get a posse up and haul you in in irons?’ Gave me a whole load of shit. But he did say she’s harmless. ‘Must be all the paint fumes,’ he said, ‘from old Parker’s overhauls, all the washing, all the years. You ought to be flattered, though, company you’re in. Last month it was Ronald Reagan that she wanted brought in here. He said something about pensions and she wanted him arrested.’
“Now,” I said, “from that I go through the reporters. All of them seem sane enough. The Globe lady’s coming by tomorrow to conduct an interview, see if there is something I do that is interesting enough to bump some designer off the feature pages one day. Then I’m having lunch with Rowley, hear what’s on his fertile mind. And then Wednesday I am going to see Lou.”
Mack looked dubious. “What can he do?” she said. “Him in jail and all. Doesn’t he need all the records, all the stuff he used?”
“What he can do,” I said, “is give me a quick education. Which I really think I need. I put the phone down from my talk with Mrs. Beal. Gretchen comes back in my office, looking like she’s just been shot. ‘Mister Everson to see you.’
“ ‘Who is Everson?’ I say. Never heard of Everson, not in all of my born days. He is right behind her, though, sticking his head in. ‘Richard Everson,’ he says, ‘mind if I come in?’ Looks like an insurance salesman, David Mackin starting out, with the briefcase and the smile. ‘Frankly, yes, I do mind,’ I say. ‘You have no appointment.’
“This does not faze Everson, not in the slightest. Comes right in and sits himself down, handing me his card. ‘Richard Everson,’ it says. ‘Internal Revenue.’
“ ‘You’re right, Mister Kennedy,’ says Mister Everson. ‘I don’t have an appointment, but it’s not for lack of trying.’ Opens up his briefcase, which looks like it might be leather. Takes out an appointment book, one of those pocket calendars with a small gold pencil in it. Takes the pencil from the loop. Puts his glasses on. ‘One, two; three, four; five, six; seven. Seven times I’ve called for one. You have not called back.’
“ ‘Look,’ I said, ‘as you can see, I am pretty busy. I’m just getting back to clients who called me last week. Have to put their interests first if I am going to stay in business.’
“That smile of his,” I told Mack, “would survive a missile hit. ‘Not to mention,’ he says, ‘four visits here by Agent Wainer, only one of them successful. You’re a hard man to locate, Mister Kennedy, except for those who can be satisfied with seeing you on TV, and that won’t do for our needs. You can understand my feelings, I hope, now that I am in here and I see you in the flesh. Few men in our office have accomplished this, and I do not want to leave.’
“ ‘Mister Everson,’ I said, to try a little swerve, ‘things have not changed in the slightest since I saw your Mister Wainer back a month or so ago. Lou Schwartz isn’t talking and I won’t advise him to. He has nothing to be gained and a great deal to be lost, and he wouldn’t do it if I said that I now think he should.’
“ ‘Mister Kennedy,’ he says, and gives Gretchen a sharp look. ‘If you get your messages, you know that’s not the issue.’ So much for that little dodge—nice try and all that. ‘This is about your returns. You have been selected for routine auditing. We have come up with a few questions about some of your deductions. There are also income items we’re not sure we understand. In most cases, these small matters can be solved routinely. Just a matter of locating proper records.
“ ‘But,’ he says, ‘unless that’s done, unless you cooperate, we have no choice but to disallow the items. You don’t have to talk with us. That is certainly your right. You don’t have to open records. That is also your right. But if you do not do those things, and reject this chance, we will disallow the items. We will have no choice. That will mean more taxes for you, plus interest and penalties that are not insubstantial.’ ”
“Ah, yes,” Mack said. “ ‘Interest and substantial penalties.’ Those guys like that little phrase. They just love to use it. The one that saw Francine and me, he licked his lips when he said it. ‘Interest and substantial penalties.’ Highlight of his day.”
“You didn’t tell me that you saw him,” I said.
“You were sulking,” she said. “Somehow what the tax man told me didn’t seem the news that would be likeliest to pull you out of your bad mood. It’s the deferred compensation package Ace and Roy set up. The insurance company that sells the annuities had the letter from their lawyers with the opinion in it that the plan was qualified under IRS rules and regulations. The people at the IRS do not agree with that opinion, so they’re taxing us. All of us, and with a vengeance. ‘We are going to get screwed,’ was the way that Francine put it. And the only thing that we can do to stop this screwing, she said, is sue the insurance company and wait eight years to settle. Which of course is going to cost us still another bundle.”
“Are you going to do it?” I said.
“We’re not sure,” she said. “Ace and Roy are thinking about it, and we’re going to have a meeting. My guess is that we will not. It’s just too expensive. Take our lumps and write it off. We have not got time for this, if we are going to make a living. That guy with the eight of us, he cost the company, we figure, four full days of our time plus another six of Francine’s. We cannot afford that crap. It is too expensive. Which it will be too for you, of course, and which they’re counting on.”
“Not only too expensive,” I said, “but very inconvenient. ‘Mister Everson,’ I said to him, with Gretchen standing there and wearing the same pleased expression she would wear for any snake, ‘obviously I am not delighted to hear any of this news. But equally obviously, I know I had better sit down with you and see if we can resolve this. Problem is, as you can see, things are pretty hectic here. And, on top of that, you have my accountant in jail, and I’ll need to talk to him. So, you will have to give me time, talk to him and then find someone else to represent me.’
“ ‘Mister Kennedy,’ he says, looking kind of startled, ‘you are an attorney. What we want to ask you about isn’t all that technical. Besides, we see from your returns for last year that you’re capable of doing them, in Mister Schwartz’s absence.’ ”
“Oh my God,” Mack said, “you didn’t do that, Jerry.”
“Mack,” I said. “I did do that. What choice did I have? Cooper refused, point-blank. Said he would not do them. Told me he’s using H and R Block this year for his own returns. ‘It’s embarrassing,’ he said, ‘but bugger the embarrassment. Take the papers down to the Sears store in the plaza, get the numbers filled in and mailed off to Uncle Sammy. I’ve got too much on my mind, screw around with this.’ And that left me with Mendel, Lou’s young nephew there. Mendel’s not in Boston and I don’t know him anyway. April fifteenth rolls around, I’m procrastinating. Business with Dawes comes up, then the crap with Calvin. I just did the damned returns, same as Lou did last year. Wrote the checks and sent them in.”
“And after all these years,” she said, “of giving good advice, lawyer Jerry does what he’s been telling everybody they should never do themselves.”
“Yeah,” I said, “and it gets worse. I made some mistakes.”
“Like what kind?” she said. “You forgot to put down income? Should I be looking out for cake recipes with files?”
“No, no,” I said, “it’s not like that. Perfectly innocent. I just assumed that overhead, the items were the same. Not that the numbers stayed the same—I am not that innocent. But that the categories were the same as last year, when Lou did the returns, and so all I had to do was get the numbers for this year and just plug them in.
“Which I therefore did,” I said. “Rent, I get the check that Gretchen wrote for May and I know it didn’t go up after that, so I multiply by twelve and that’s what I deduct for rent. And postage is about the same, and the phones, and I estimate the same mileage and depreciation on the car that Lou did last year, and so on. And I am perfectly confident that everything is neatsy-keen and I send the returns in.
“Now,” I said, “this is the furthest thing from my mind when I am jawing with Mister Everson there and Gretchen is looking sort of stricken, and the phone machine is gobbling up all kinds of calls and losing business for me because people still do not like chatting with machines. And Mister Everson tries discreet threats and flattery combined to try to talk me into sitting down with him all by myself, and I am not having any of that shit, thank you, and he finally sees that this isn’t getting him anywhere, so we strike a goddamned deal. I will go and see Lou, and I will get new counsel or something like that to assist me, and he will get the hell out of my office so I can get some work done. And I will call him up by Friday and tell him who my new counselor is, and we will set up a definite appointment for Mister Everson to torment me about the last two years that Lou did my returns.
“So, the bastard leaves,” I said. “And Gretchen is still standing there like somebody hit her on the forehead with a good-sized ball peen hammer, looking like she’s going to cry. So we can hear the door open and close, and she starts to say something, and her lower lip is quivering, and I shush her and get up and look out into the reception area, and there is Mister Everson, all by himself, very quietly putting on his goddamned topcoat there. So I say, just a little bit sarcastically, maybe: ‘Oh, Mister Everson. I heard the door and I thought someone must’ve come in. Or that you went out.’ And he smirks at me, like he knows it was a cheap trick but there’s no harm in trying, and he says: ‘Door? I didn’t hear any door, Mister Kennedy.’ So I stand there and I watch him get all dressed and pick up his hat and start for the door, and I say: ‘Don’t forget your briefcase, Mister Everson. Don’t want you having to come back for that.’ And he picks it right up, like he would never stoop to such a thing, and goes on his merry way. And I let the door close behind him and then I go right out there and I lock the goddamned thing.
“Now,” I said to Mack, “I go back in my office and I say to Gretchen: ‘Spill it.’ And she looks absolutely miserable. Got her right hand under her left boob and now she does have tears in her eyes, and she looks like there is no blood in her body north of her neck there. ‘But first sit down,’ I say, and I put her in the chair. ‘I think you could use a drink,’ I say, and all she can do is nod, so I go out into the file closet where the bottle of Jack Daniel’s is and I pour two goddamned stiff shots, one for her and one for me. Because when Gretchen looks like she’s been poleaxed, and she doesn’t want to tell me why, I am pretty sure it is something I will need a drink to take.
“And it was,” I said. “Gretchen knocks the booze back and the blood returns to her face. She looks at me. ‘Jerry,’ she says, and then she breaks down again. Shakes her head and cries some more, then looks up at me. ‘You want to slug me, go ahead,’ she says, ‘because this guy Everson, this whole thing with him is my fault, that he’s after you. And what makes it worse is that I did something else which now that he is after you, he can probably get you.’
“The long and short of it, Mack,” I said, “was that I haven’t paid my taxes, like I said I did.”