We are at dinner

Harold sat at the table and tried to stifle the shaking of his legs. He was beginning to sweat in his hands, a terrible problem that had plagued him since childhood. He gripped the polyester cloth napkin in his right hand, and shifted a glance around the room. Jessica cleaned up quite nicely, a beautiful girl with a slender figure that betrayed subtle curves; all of this topped off by a sharp, dazzling smile.

“Jessica,” he said, “I'm afraid you may have out done yourself.” He smiled in the manner of an old southern gentleman and let the words come out in a drawl. It was not often that he made jokes, so Jessica was truly pleased. He listened to her laugh, a lovely sound, deep enough to sound inviting with enough volume as to be non-offensive.

Madoff wasn't here, and this was getting a bit tiresome. She asked, “What will you do with the money from this deal?” It was an honest question, free from comments about drinks or the setting.

“In a place like this, with a meal like what we're about to eat? What is it that you want to know? What I'll do with my money? I don't know, the same as any business man, invest it so I can make more of it. Honestly, so much promise and talent yet such a small brain!”

“Need I remind you of what you're saying? My dear Mr. Crowley, you would not last a week without me. I know it for a fact; furthermore, I'd take the stand over it.” She smiled at him, he looked at her teeth.

A moment. He took a sip of his drink, then said, “Would that it would be so, my dear Ms. Reynolds. I'm afraid I'm quite booked for the year. And if the good Mr. Madoff would make his way here so that I may speak with him, I should very much like to return to my home, and my work.”

“Always so preoccupied with work. Don't you see that things are under control? Why do you worry so much about work? Look at where we are, and ask yourself this: why should I invest my money when I can do something good with it?” She held her hands to her cheeks, a rare gesture of her feminine self, he'd call it cute, if that word was in his vocabulary.

“What do you propose I do with it?”

“Why, if I knew that, I'd be a mind reader. All I can tell you would be what I would do with it.”

It was at this moment that Mr. Madoff entered the room. A small stout man with a pudgy nose and bulging stomach. He walked like a hippo with a beer gut through the crowd. When he sat down, a thin cloud of a fine scented oil wafted toward their noses. “where, in God's name, is the waiter? Jesus! You'd think I have to travel halfway around the goddamned world to get some service! This is Los Angeles! The most culturally rich city in the world and I can't get a glass of wine! You'll have to pardon me, I just got stuck in some real bad traffic, it was an accident, maybe people died, I don't know! All I know is that I was stuck in traffic for about twenty minutes longer than need be. Jesus, where is that christ forsaken lawyer?” They could not speak, nor did they try to, he simply outdid them both. “Listen, I know what you're thinking, here's this crazy guy comes and sits down at my table and he's talking a whole lot, and I know you're thinking that's not a good sign, right?” Finally, a beat.

Harold tried to speak...

“So let's get down to business because I hate wasting time, and I want to actually eat my dinner and shoot the bull. I like to get to know my clients, you know, we'll have many more meetings like this, and I promise you, you won't be just hearing me talk. Today, is a little bit different, I've just got to break it down to you. I managed to find some properties in a high class area, real beauties. I'll take you out to them, just call me and arrange a day. Listen, two of them are pre foreclosure, one is already at action, and I got three of them where the banks are swearing up and down that they'll take a short sale. I just need the cash. I'm telling you, you pick up one of these properties, you got a real chance at developing a solid investment pool. Think of what that will mean! You could do anything with that!” Bernie ordered his wine and they sat there looking at eachother for a long time. Harold didn't know what to say.

“I know you're thinking, what do I say?”

“I have two questions, how much, and when?”

“Obviously as soon as possible, how much really depends on how much you can give. I'm offering you a piece of one, all, some, or most of these properties. It's your oyster. I'm telling you, we've been plotting this, you know I've been scouting buyers, they practically don't exist. All I'm asking is for you to put up the cash on one or some of these deals. I promise you you're looking at a return as soon as we get renters in. I'll show you the areas, we'll look at comps, I mean I'll lay all the research right out on the table for you. I want you to make an informed decision, this isn't me trying to swindle you bud!”

Jessica nudged Harold's leg accidentally, his brow furled and his eyes tightened as he studied the man across the table. Madoff had a smile plastered on his mug that was working over time with a fine sheen polish thrown in for shits and giggles. Harold hadn't matched wits with a man like this in quite some time. This breed seemed to circumvent counter points with even more smooth talking. The conversation continued and Madoff laid out the plan. He had located a small block of properties hit particularly hard in the housing boom. The good news? They were all in within a five mile radius of one another. A remarkable find, “Easy to maintain, close to home. Frankly, I couldn't have asked Santa Claus to deliver me a better deal. I want to jump on this, but in this market cash is king. See what you can do for me. You're lady friend here, my you are a lovely thing, she knows how to get a hold of me.”

Dinner came to the table, the waiter held warm plates with a towel in his palm. His greasy face bunched up as he smiled at the table. Madoff licked his lips, “Pasta, my absolute favorite. Say, how are the Laker's doing this year?”

“Shitty.” Jessica smiled at Madoff and prodded her food.

“Cute, and you follow sports.” Madoff managed to mutter through a full mouth of food. They all ate for a while. Madoff seemed full of himself, but shot glances to Jessica from time to time. She humored him, but Harold saw the disdain in her eyes. He made a mental note to ask her opinion of the man later.

“How is New York these days?” Jessica asked in her innocent conversational tone.

“Have you ever been? It's a marvelous city that will swallow you whole if you're not careful. These days, I stay at home. I don't often visit the city, I've got other matters to attend to. That's part of the reason I flew here to meet with you Mr. Crowley. Can't tell you how hard it is to find a reliable investor an property management.”

“You didn't say anything about property management.”

“I don't have to, the money I'm asking for covers it.” Madoff reached into a suitcase that Jessica noticed had been placed by his feet, “it's all outlined in my expense report. I've given comparable home values, damage estimates, what I think I can talk the bank into, the whole nine yards. I mean, I expect you to conduct your own form of due dilligence, don't take my word for it. Go ahead, I think you'll find the paper work is solid. I've got you and two others interested enough to buy me dinner, and I like to think of these meetings as good faith. I don't often waste my time.”

“I see. You understand this will take some time.”

“I would have it no other way. I cannot wait to hear from you Jessica, you may even have to send warning so I'm properly dressed for the occasion.”

“You flatter me Mr. Madoff.”

“I flatter all women, it helps my charisma. They say if you get the support of the women, the room quickly turns in your favor.”

“Who says that?” Harold chirped in with a tinge of bitterness.

“They do Mr. Crowley,” and Madoff swept his palm out into the air in a broad gesture, “those more progressive in thought than you or I. I'm sure your assistant is well acquainted with these fore runners of human ingenuity.”

Jessica could not resist a chuckle. The waiter slipped the bill unnoticed and collected the dishes. Harold studied the receipt and reluctantly removed a gold card. Madoff detected his apprehensiveness.

“Come now Harold. A simple two hundred dollars can't be causing you to shake like the San Andreas. Maybe I should have stuck to my guns and passed on you. My sources said you were good.”

“I am good. I just don't normally waste my money on expense reports and shoddy explanations topped off with air tight alibi's and challenges to find holes in an argument.” He set the bill on the table, “but you'll pardon my cynicism. I do believe we have work to do.”

Madoff collected his things and the trio shook hands.

The beginning of a new Harold Story, and some randomness at the end

Once upon a time, Harold Crowley got up every mornng at 6 AM sharp. He had a rigid routine, first to the bathroom, take a piss, hop in the shower, dress himself and run down stairs. Jessica, Harold's maid, would have been awake for some time by then. She would have needed to press his pants and shirts, pick out a tie and jacket, arrange for a car and start breakfast. She had originally resisited Harold's endless demands, but soon saw their necessity, at least as far as her obedience as concerned. Harold saw her change, maybe she could understand that his was a life meant to be conducted by two people. There simply was too much to get done.

The kicker about Jessica, and this was the thing Harold liked most about her, was that she was more than just a maid. Harold reffered to her as a maid, but only in the mornings, and only because her duties were that of a maid. That was until he had found another usage for her. He walked in on her reading one of his case law journals, and figured her for inquisitive. This was when she was not living in his apartment, merely a passer by. Harold had never been one for marriage and could have honestly cared less one way or another for the affections of females, but Jessica's quiet demeanor suggested a profound and hidden agenda.

He did not waste time thinking about her reading of his journal, for longer than it took time for him to notice that the event had occurred. He was merely that type of person. Self centered, though with a purpose. Harold had once considered his work of the utmost importance, that is until he met Bernie Madoff.

Jessica had never met Mr. Madoff, had only very briefly overheard conversations between him and Mr. Crowley. One day, at random, Harold approached Jessica and asked her, “Jessica, what is it that you want to do most in life.”

She responded, “what you do, but I never could.”

This did not shock Harold, rather lent itself to his internalized curiosity. “Why is it that you think you could not do what I do?”

“Because you have brains for it.”

“And you do not?”

“I do not care much for the language.”

“Legal language is hard to decipher. How can I help you?”

“You cannot help me. I have no desire to learn, only to dream of learning.”

This did not shock Harold either. “Should you ever change your mind, I'd be glad to make time for you. On another note, I need a lady to appear with me tonight. I have a meeting with Mr. Madoff and I need a bit of eye candy. Something for him to ooh and awe at. I've arranged for a conservative dinner dress. I'd like you to come along.”

Jessica folded her arms across her chest. “But I am only your cleaning lady.”

“That's exactly the problem. I'd like you to become more for me. I need an assistant, someone to help me plan out and run my life. Someone I can trust in my business affairs. I saw you reading one of my legal journals once, and it had me thinking that I'd like you to help me out more.”

Jessica smiled and brushed her hands on her hips. “and how do you suppose I should go about doing that Mr. Crowley?”

“For starters, if we work together it's first name basis, second off, I want you to get your paralegal's licence. I need you to know at least an ounce of what I know otherwise this will never work. And if you think, even for a second that I'm wasting my time on you, I am and I'll ask you to leave. Is that understood?”

She had looked him in his eyes, those cold business man's eyes. “And if I refuse?”

“I will fire you as my maid, and you'll go down as one in history for all I care.”

His curt demeanor said it all. Maybe she figured she had no other choice, maybe she recognized that no one else was going to help her along. Whatever made her say yes had been irrelevant in Harold's eyes, and since then Jessica had proven the worth of the human female infinite times over. A brilliant young mind hidden behind the exterior of a good cook. Harold used her for all sorts of projects, various research, calling high profile clients, even work at the clerk's office and dinner with bankers and investors.

Some day she would leave, and she often told him that when he would lose his temper with her, but while the two of them worked together, there was nothing Harold couldn't do. She did not seem to care for men, or the pursuits of other women, over the years Harold watched her grow into a shrewd business woman with eyes like a Hawk. A sharp legal editor that could assemble one hell of a defense over a weekend.

Harold trained her, honed her skills, while he worked on his dealings. The life of an investment attorney is a busy schedule, from 9 to 9, easily. She would leave for hours throughout the day and though Harold never liked it, she said she was visiting her family so he tolerated it. Harold wanted a family, he simply had no time for them, and no desire to raise them. He was content watching the families of others, appreciating them from afar. Both his parents had died when he was young, and Harold had no other siblings.

It was acceptable, even enviable to imagine Jessica off at some cafe drinking coffee with her mother or out shopping with a brother or sister. Even seeing a young man for a drink or making time for friends. He liked to imagine her youth, her spirit, but rationale told him that she was probably at home catching up on sleep. Harold routinely worked her very hard, and she seemed to share his enthusiasm, but her body and mind were not conditioned for the intensity of 12 hour days five days a week.

When he had first started, when he had got going rather, the days would end so quickly and leave him in a daze. Often he'd slump down into the couch and not say anything until he passed out, usually in the suit he was wearing that day. He could not imagine what his regiment did to her, but he knew that guiding her was the right thing to do.

Harold would not have been very rich, by any standard of modern definition, but he had achieved a massive amount of money. Enough to put Jessica through paralegal school hundreds of times over, enough to invest in whatever he saw fit.





For a long time, there were no words. There was only the thin piece of paper sitting delicately in Harold's hands. Where she had gone, or what became of her was already an irrelevant concern, but he couldn't thrust his mind from its confining grip. Somewhere, she was out there, maybe thinking of him, of everything she left behind.

Harold had never felt much for women. A deep void that they could never fill and only seemed to contribute to. Jessica had been different. Timid at first, but she unfolded into something indescribably lovely, a woman, a machine capable of men's work. Business demeanor, the confident stride that only comes with a delicate mastery. A woman utterly and completely able in every way to stand by Harold'd side.

It's true, his life had become too much for the weight of one person. Where did she go?

None of that was important any more. Harold wanted to go for a drive. Parked outside his porch was a sleek black BMW 5 series, it's clean interior, his Glenn Miller would put a troubled mind at ease. For this day would be a day of mourning. Harold needed to deal with his loss, needed to face it, would have to come home to listen to the empty halls of his home.

Harold stepped outside and shut and locked his door. Movies of the mind played sequences of driving home, south of Ventura into the hills of Mullholand, to dinner plates and quiet meals. Did she ever like the music he played? His Beethoven, his Bach, his Gershwyn? He had thought her too young, incapable of much more than food preperation. Harold held little hope for the coming generations. Theirs was a culture of text and incomprehensible words. He wondered what the Oxford Dictionary looked like these days while he watched kids walk down the streets of the Civic center. He's watch them skateboard with an odd fascination that came from not contempt, but pure honest curiosity. This culture seemed to have a death wish. To live and to die in extremes. It wasn't memorable if your skull didn't crack open.

And every other word out of these kids' mouths would be f this or that. The names they called each other didn't even betray whether or not they were meant as insults. Guys who led groupd of these kids around the city with names like Krotch, and Point Five Oh. The kids who were not kids in the eyes of the law. The kids who were not kids when Harold prosecuted them, one by one for their bank robberies and their murders and their auto theft and their desecration of public property. Their eyes held a sense of hidden madness, an agenda that seemed to suggest from the shadows that more was always to come. These children, these men and women, they knew full well what they were doing.

The hardest were the fourteen and below drug addicts. They were crazy enough to do anything because they think the state won't try them as adults. 9 times out of ten, they're right. (fact check)