Read The Only Good Lawyer - Jeremiah Healy for Free Online Page B
Authors: Jeremish Healy
hardwood, sanded and
polyed to the point that it shone like the mirror over the mantel.
I thought, "time-warp." but kept it to
myself. Dufresne settled himself into a Louis-the-Someteenth chair
and motioned me toward the more substantial couch. "Not what
you'd expect from the street, eh?"
"Not exactly. Where'd you get all this?"
"My mother." Dufresne motioned to one of
the posters behind him, showing a waist-up portrait of a man with
slicked-back hair and a pencil-thin mustache leaning against a woman
with high cheekbones and a hairdo that could have coined the term
"wavy." From their expressions, they were facing the
difficulties of a postwar world with desperate courage. "Best
role she ever had, B-movie with Zachary Scott that went no-where
fast. The posters are hers, the furniture what she got from divorcing
husband number three."
The name "Danielle Dufresne" appeared in
lettering next to and the same size as “Zachary Scott" on the
one poster, in the first or second line of supporting cast for the
rest. “She was in a lot of films."
"Films." Dufresne looked at me a little
more carefully.
"That's what she called them. Not 'movies,' or
‘flicks,' or 'bombs,' which half of them were. 'A movie, Vincennes,
is what a salesman takes of his vacation so he can bore the
neighbors; a film is a work of creative art.' And then more bullshit
after that."
"Being in films make her happy?"
"No, but that don't make her different from
anybody else on God's earth, eh? She didn't have the talent of an
Ingrid Bergman, and she couldn't lose enough of her accent to be
anything but the ‘French girl! " Then Dufresne seemed to
remember he hadn't invited me over for a seminar on the cinema.
"What's a lawyer interested in me for?"
"Not you. Alan Spaeth."
"I should have known." Dufresne dropped his
head, making me notice he was wearing old-style bedroom slippers,
those leather scuffies that sell well only before Father's Day. "What
an asshole."
"You didn't care for him."
"I should have booted Spaeth out the first night
he was here."
"Why?"
"You told me at the door, I let you in, we can
save some time. It'd take days to give you everything on him."
"How about just the high points?"
"High points? There weren't any. Guy looked down
on the Chateau like it was a flophouse, but I still had to chase him
every Friday for the weekly." Dufresne waved, his hand seeming
to take in everything outside his sitting room. "I grant you,
most of the guys living here are down on their luck, one way or the
other. Oh, a couple of them just got old, nursing pensions but
without any family to give them something to do, something to live
for, you know? The rest are like Spaeth, divorce squeeze. Or drunks
trying to dry out, druggies trying to kick the monkey."
"How'd you get into the business to start with?"
Dufresne cocked his head a different way. He seemed
to have a variety of positions to convey emotion without words.
"Divorce myself. Why I feel sorry for guys like
Spaeth, I suppose. The wife got everything but my mother's furniture,
and I had to live somewhere. My divorce lawyer—may he burn in
hell—had a friend who owned this place, was retiring to Florida.
That sounded good to me, so I come see the Chateau—it wasn't called
that then, ‘the Chateau' is my name for it account of my mother,
she always was talking about living in one instead of some
third-floor walk-up."
Dufresne took a breath. "Well, this was twenty
years ago, and I was thirty years young. Somebody else'd said, 'Go
run a resort hotel, up in New Hampshire or Maine for the Quebecois,
want to come down to the States on their vacation.' But I didn't have
enough money from the divorce for a real 'resort,' and when I went to
this talk some 'expert' was giving on bed and breakfasts, all he kept
saying was the three gotta's."
" 'Gotta's'?"
"Yeah. He said, you wanna run a B&B, you
gotta be clean, you gotta be friendly, and you gotta—I loved
this—you gotta 'exceed the expectations
polyed to the point that it shone like the mirror over the mantel.
I thought, "time-warp." but kept it to
myself. Dufresne settled himself into a Louis-the-Someteenth chair
and motioned me toward the more substantial couch. "Not what
you'd expect from the street, eh?"
"Not exactly. Where'd you get all this?"
"My mother." Dufresne motioned to one of
the posters behind him, showing a waist-up portrait of a man with
slicked-back hair and a pencil-thin mustache leaning against a woman
with high cheekbones and a hairdo that could have coined the term
"wavy." From their expressions, they were facing the
difficulties of a postwar world with desperate courage. "Best
role she ever had, B-movie with Zachary Scott that went no-where
fast. The posters are hers, the furniture what she got from divorcing
husband number three."
The name "Danielle Dufresne" appeared in
lettering next to and the same size as “Zachary Scott" on the
one poster, in the first or second line of supporting cast for the
rest. “She was in a lot of films."
"Films." Dufresne looked at me a little
more carefully.
"That's what she called them. Not 'movies,' or
‘flicks,' or 'bombs,' which half of them were. 'A movie, Vincennes,
is what a salesman takes of his vacation so he can bore the
neighbors; a film is a work of creative art.' And then more bullshit
after that."
"Being in films make her happy?"
"No, but that don't make her different from
anybody else on God's earth, eh? She didn't have the talent of an
Ingrid Bergman, and she couldn't lose enough of her accent to be
anything but the ‘French girl! " Then Dufresne seemed to
remember he hadn't invited me over for a seminar on the cinema.
"What's a lawyer interested in me for?"
"Not you. Alan Spaeth."
"I should have known." Dufresne dropped his
head, making me notice he was wearing old-style bedroom slippers,
those leather scuffies that sell well only before Father's Day. "What
an asshole."
"You didn't care for him."
"I should have booted Spaeth out the first night
he was here."
"Why?"
"You told me at the door, I let you in, we can
save some time. It'd take days to give you everything on him."
"How about just the high points?"
"High points? There weren't any. Guy looked down
on the Chateau like it was a flophouse, but I still had to chase him
every Friday for the weekly." Dufresne waved, his hand seeming
to take in everything outside his sitting room. "I grant you,
most of the guys living here are down on their luck, one way or the
other. Oh, a couple of them just got old, nursing pensions but
without any family to give them something to do, something to live
for, you know? The rest are like Spaeth, divorce squeeze. Or drunks
trying to dry out, druggies trying to kick the monkey."
"How'd you get into the business to start with?"
Dufresne cocked his head a different way. He seemed
to have a variety of positions to convey emotion without words.
"Divorce myself. Why I feel sorry for guys like
Spaeth, I suppose. The wife got everything but my mother's furniture,
and I had to live somewhere. My divorce lawyer—may he burn in
hell—had a friend who owned this place, was retiring to Florida.
That sounded good to me, so I come see the Chateau—it wasn't called
that then, ‘the Chateau' is my name for it account of my mother,
she always was talking about living in one instead of some
third-floor walk-up."
Dufresne took a breath. "Well, this was twenty
years ago, and I was thirty years young. Somebody else'd said, 'Go
run a resort hotel, up in New Hampshire or Maine for the Quebecois,
want to come down to the States on their vacation.' But I didn't have
enough money from the divorce for a real 'resort,' and when I went to
this talk some 'expert' was giving on bed and breakfasts, all he kept
saying was the three gotta's."
" 'Gotta's'?"
"Yeah. He said, you wanna run a B&B, you
gotta be clean, you gotta be friendly, and you gotta—I loved
this—you gotta 'exceed the expectations