“She doesn’t want to move.”

“It’s just a move. She’ll find a better place. It’s no big deal.”

“Not to her.”

“We only want to spruce the place up, sell the new units, make some money. We’re not bad guys here.”

“I know.”

“How much money are we talking about to get her out within the month?”

“Money’s not the point. It never is with her.”

“I find that distressing.”

“Don’t get me started.”

“You know, Victor, it sounds a little Zen, but change happens. The building is going condo. Can you talk to her, please? Can you see what we can work out before we have to start arguing about the Sixteenth Amendment in front of the judge?”

“I’ll try,” I said.

Beth was sitting on a bench in a strangely passive position, hands on knees, head lolling slightly to the side. Normally before court she was a bundle of energy, sitting on the edge of her chair, her body in constant motion as she worked out the arguments in her head. But not today, not here, in the unusual position of litigant in the case of Triad Investments, LP. v. Derringer.

I sat down next to her. “I bought you some more time,” I said.

“Thank you.”

“I can try to string it out a little longer. I have some arguments for the judge.”

“I read the brief. Your arguments are hopeless.”

“I know, but I liked the way Franks there must have sputtered when he read them. And the judge can always take longer than expected to make a ruling. I could talk to the clerk. I think I know his brother.”

“Okay. That might work.”

“But you know, Beth, this Eugene Franks, he’s not such a bad guy after all.”

“In that suit he looks like a frog.”

“And the people he represents are not evil. They’re just businesspeople.”

“They’re kicking me out of my home.”

“They’re allowed. By law. You’re eventually going to have to move.”

“So they say.”

“And fighting it isn’t really the answer.”

“But it sure feels good.”

“Beth, what’s going on, really?”

“I don’t know, Victor. I feel… paralyzed. It’s not that I even like my place so much. It’s just that I can’t face the idea of packing everything up, looking for a new apartment, moving, unpacking everything again, and it all being the same, the same bed, the same table, the same existence. Ever since that thing with François and the dredging up of the memories of my father, my life has taken on this weird momentum, just rolling along of its own accord toward nowhere. I don’t find it particularly satisfying, and I don’t seem to have the courage to direct it in any particular direction. But maybe, I think, if I can just stay in my stinking apartment for a few more stinking years, everything would be perfect.”

“Your logic is impressive. But things aren’t as bad as you make them out to be. Look at the firm. Business is better every day.”

“We’re getting by, and it seems like that’s all we’ve been doing for years now. Getting by.”

“We’re fighting the good fight. What about Theresa Wellman? We’re going to win her back her kid.”

“You’re going to win her back her kid. I feel like I’m just along for the ride. I need to do something, but I don’t know what.”

“What do you want to have happen here, today? How about getting some money?”

“Okay.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Money’s good. It would be fun to have a yacht, don’t you think? Blue blazers, white pants.”

“It’s a good look for you.”

“I should have been born a Pierpont.”

“It won’t be much, but I can get you something. Though you’ll have to move out by the end of the month.”

“All right.”

“Really? I’m surprised. It’s not like you to give in to the lure of easy cash.”

“I’m sorry, Victor. This whole thing is stupid. I should never have dragged you into it, especially with Theresa’s case coming to trial and you running around making a deal for Charlie Kalakos. I should have looked for a new place as soon as I got the notice. I guess I’m a little lost.”

“We’re lost together.”

“I don’t know, you’ve looked happier lately.”

“It’s because I’m in love. With a reporter.”

“Really?”

“At least today. Yesterday it was a girl on a bike.”

“I guess you’re looking for something, too.”

“Guess so. And remember when that dental hygienist tore up my apartment?”

“Sure.”

“I haven’t fixed it up yet.”

“Victor?”

“It’s still trashed.”

“Victor.” She laughed darkly. “That’s pretty bad.”

“Yeah.”

“All it would take is one visit to IKEA.”

“But I hate IKEA, all that blond wood and Swedish cheer. My name’s not Sven, I’m not still in college, I don’t even know what a loganberry is. An IKEA apartment would be the death of me.”

“My God, Victor, you’re in worse shape than I am.”

I pressed my chest, felt the sting of the new tattoo still on my flesh. “And you don’t know the half of it. Always remember, Beth, however much trouble you’re in, I’m in more. Why don’t I go now and see what kind of money I can get for you?”

“Okay.”

I stood up and turned toward Eugene Franks, who was staring at us with hope on his face.

“How much are you looking for?” I said to her quietly.

“Whatever.”

“I think that can be arranged.”

I shook my head as I made my way over to Franks. He raised his eyebrows.

“No deal,” I said. “Sorry. She absolutely, positively could not be bought. She intends to stay in her apartment until the very last hour. It’s the principle of the thing, she said.”

“I hate principles,” said Franks. “They have no place in the practice of law.”

“Tell me about it,” I said. “But that’s the kind of woman she is.”

“There’s nothing you can say?”

“I tried,” I said. “I tried everything. Let’s go in and stand in line, tell the judge we’re going to trial. We’re somewhere at the end of the list, so we should get called by midafternoon.”

He looked at his watch. “I can’t be here all day waiting for this stupid case. I have a meeting with the managing partner and a new client.”

“Stanford Quick, right? The guy who represents the Randolph Trust.”

“That’s his pro bono client. The rest are all corporate giants.”

“What’s his story?”

“Typical bastard. Doesn’t like to be kept waiting by mere associates.”

“Sorry, Eugene, but she’s adamant. If you want a continuance, I’d have no objection-”

“Do you have any idea how much we’ll lose every day construction is delayed? I have to handle this today.”

“Okay, then. I guess we have no choice but to take this to the judge.”

We stepped together toward the courtroom doors, swung them open. The noise and smell hit us all at once. Housing court that day was like the Emma Lazarus poem at the base of the Statue of Liberty come alive: the tired, the poor, the huddled masses, the wretched refuse, homeless and tempest-tossed.

Franks sniffed and took one step back. “What about, Victor, if we come up with a figure that just out-and-out wows her?”

“Well, Eugene,” I said, shaking my head with a sad certainty, “I doubt that will do it, but we could always try.”