Gone Girl(76)
‘I’m kinda freaking out,’ I added.
‘You’re doing the smart thing. Seriously.’
Another pause.
‘His name can’t really be Tanner Bolt, can it?’ I said, trying to make light.
‘I heard it’s an anagram for Ratner Tolb.’
‘Really?’
‘No.’
I laughed, an inappropriate feeling, but good. Then, from the far side of the room, the anagram was walking toward me – black pinstriped suit and lime-green tie, sharky grin. He walked with his hand out, in shake-and-strike mode.
‘Nick Dunne, I’m Tanner Bolt. Come with me, let’s get to work.’
Tanner Bolt’s office seemed designed to resemble the clubroom of an exclusive all-men’s golf course – comfortable leather chairs, shelves thick with legal books, a gas fireplace with flames flickering in the air-conditioning. Sit down, have a cigar, complain about the wife, tell some questionable jokes, just us guys here.
Bolt deliberately chose not to sit behind his desk. He ushered me toward a two-man table as if we were going to play chess. This is a conversation for us partners, Bolt said without having to say it. We’ll sit at our little war-room table and get down to it.
‘My retainer, Mr Dunne, is a hundred thousand dollars. That’s a lot of money, obviously. So I want to be clear on what I offer and on what I will expect of you, okay?’
He aimed unblinking eyes at me, a sympathetic smile, and waited for me to nod. Only Tanner Bolt could get away with making me, a client, fly to him, then tell me what kind of dance I’d need to do in order to give him my money.
‘I win, Mr Dunne. I win unwinnable cases, and the case that I think you may soon face is – I don’t want to patronize you – it’s a tough one. Money troubles, bumpy marriage, pregnant wife. The media has turned on you, the public has turned on you.’
He twisted a signet ring on his right hand and waited for me to show him I was listening. I’d always heard the phrase: At forty, a man wears the face he’s earned. Bolt’s fortyish face was well tended, almost wrinkle-free, pleasantly plump with ego. Here was a confident man, the best in his field, a man who liked his life.
‘There will be no more police interviews without my presence,’ Bolt was saying. ‘That’s something I seriously regret you did. But before we even get to the legal portion, we need to start dealing with public opinion, because the way it’s going, we have to assume everything is going to get leaked: your credit cards, the life insurance, the supposedly staged crime scene, the mopped-up blood. It looks very bad, my friend. And so it’s a vicious cycle: The cops think you did it, they let the public know. The public is outraged, they demand an arrest. So, one: We’ve got to find an alternative suspect. Two: We’ve got to keep the support of Amy’s parents, I cannot emphasize that piece enough. And three: We’ve got to fix your image, because should this go to trial, it will influence the juror pool. Change of venue doesn’t mean anything anymore – twenty-four-hour cable, Internet, the whole world is your venue. So I cannot tell you how key it is to start turning this whole thing around.’
‘I’d like that too, believe me.’
‘How are things with Amy’s parents? Can we get them to make a statement of support?’
‘I haven’t spoken with them since it was confirmed that Amy was pregnant.’
‘Is pregnant.’ Tanner frowned at me. ‘Is. She is pregnant. Never, ever mention your wife in the past tense.’
‘Fuck.’ I put my face in my palm for a second. I hadn’t even noticed what I’d said.
‘Don’t worry about it with me,’ Bolt said, waving the air magnanimously. ‘But everywhere else, worry. Worry hard. From now on, I don’t want you to open your mouth if you haven’t thought it through. So you haven’t spoken to Amy’s parents. I don’t like that. You’ve tried to get in touch, I assume?’
‘I’ve left a few messages.’
Bolt scrawled something on a yellow legal pad. ‘Okay, we have to assume this is bad news for us. But you need to track them down. Nowhere public, where some * with a cameraphone can film you – we can’t have another Shawna Kelly moment. Or send your sister in, a recon mission, see what’s going on. Actually, do that, that’s better.’
‘Okay.’
‘I need you to make a list for me, Nick. Of all the nice things you’ve done for Amy over the years. Romantic things, especially in this past year. You cooked her chicken soup when she was sick, or you sent her love letters while you were on a business trip. Nothing too flashy. I don’t care about jewelry unless you guys picked it out on vacation or something. We need real personal stuff here, romantic-movie stuff.’
‘What if I’m not a romantic-movie kind of guy?’
Tanner tightened his lips, then blew them back out. ‘Come up with something, okay, Nick? You seem like a good guy. I’m sure you did something thoughtful this past year.’
I couldn’t think of a decent thing I’d done in the past two years. In New York, those first few years of marriage, I’d been desperate to please my wife, to return to those loose-limbed days when she’d run across a drugstore parking lot and leap into my arms, a spontaneous celebration of her hair-spray purchase. Her face pressed up against mine all the time, her bright blue eyes wide and her yellow lashes catching on mine, the heat of her breath just under my nose, the silliness of it. For two years I tried as my old wife slipped away, and I tried so hard – no anger, no arguments, the constant kowtowing, the capitulation, the sitcom-husband version of me: Yes, dear. Of course, sweetheart. The f*cking energy leached from my body as my frantic-rabbit thoughts tried to figure out how to make her happy, and each action, each attempt, was met with a rolled eye or a sad little sigh. A you just don’t get it sigh.