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Whenever there was a lull in the party, Howard found himself straining to hear music that wasn’t there. Every Christmas, Chuck, who in his roundabout way, once admitted to knowing he possessed fewer social graces than the H’s in Hamlin Hamlin McGill, would take to the piano when he felt himself becoming tired or cross: light classical and jazz standards until someone (usually Cheryl’s former attending, a community theater devotee when his schedule allowed) suggested carols. They’d gather around the piano, Chuck leading the singers in an impressive tenor that Howard was initially surprised to hear come out of his mouth.
Well, Chuck wasn’t there, and his house didn’t have a piano, anyway. This was the first year he and Cheryl hosted; Chuck had always handled planning the Frankenstein’s monster of a holiday party, the HHM and Hamlin-Ruiz Law-Medical Holiday Party Slash Quasi-Official Fundraiser for The Local Homeless Shelter, which had ballooned with hospital employees and DA prosecutors over the years, to the point where Howard recognized maybe a third of the people there. He took a moment to try, but they passed in a blur—Dr. Ruiz’s daughter, when she’d get so big?—Viola—several… homeless shelter employees? Howard thinks?—no Kim Wexler yet—Ernie—purple dress woman—several people in candy-cane patterned scrubs— an African-American man who noticed his gaze and nodded before the head caterer was at Howard’s elbow.
Howard enjoyed the social whirlwind, always had. Not to toot his own horn, but he was in his element at parties. This was the part of lawyering he knew he was best at: the networking, the client maintenance. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Cheryl check her pager, frown, and head to the office phone. Howard smiled, at the thought of the cell phone hidden at his office, knowing her Christmas present wouldn’t come a minute too soon. One of HHM’s newest mailroom employees, Joaquin, was flirting with a candy-cane scrubbed woman—he thinks Dr. Ruiz said her name was Chelsea? Adorable. The African-American man caught his eye again, this time deliberate. He picked his way over to Howard.
“Excuse me, are you Mr. Hamlin?” His one concession to festivity was a burgundy knit tie, in sharp contrast with a subtly-textured gray suit and shiny black oxfords. Howard was suddenly conscious of the one iron-on snowflake applique that always curls up on his green sweater vest, even though it was under his own suit jacket.
“I am,” he said, reaching out to shake the man’s hand. “Call me Howard.”
“Gustavo Fring, but please, call me Gus,” he said in return. Howard couldn’t quite place his accent.
“Well Gus, it’s a pleasure.” There was a spark of recognition deep in his brain, but not association beyond that.
“Having a good time?” he asked, hoping to jog his memory before he embarrassed himself.
“Yes, it has been wonderful getting to know employees of the hospital—” That's it! He’s one of the hospital board candidates!
“And I’m sure that when you’re elected, you’ll be a wonderful addition to the board.” You can call his fried chicken trash all you want, I call it job security, delicious job security, that was the comment Cheryl distastefully relayed one of the cardiologists making.
“Thank you,” said Gus with a flash of white teeth before seriousness replaced it. “I’m afraid I have something awkward to bring up with you. May we speak privately?”
Howard felt his smile grow forced, his forehead wrinkle. He really wished people didn’t do this at parties, but he understood that some people had difficulty finding legal advice “Of course.”
There were very few private places in the house at the moment. He took Gus out on the porch, distantly noting the cigarette butts filling up the one of his father’s ashtrays he and Cheryl dug out of the attic.
Gus looked both ways before eyeing Howard again; Howard mentally reviewed his employment law. “I’m concerned one of your guests has stolen from you.”
“I—I beg your pardon.” He felt his brain freeze like an old computer, struggling to absorb the unexpected turn.
“I know, this isn’t pleasant.”
“Are you sure? That’s a serious accusation to make—did you actually see—” Only decades as a lawyer stopped him from falling completely silent.
“Howard, I wouldn’t bring this up with you if I weren’t completely sure. Unfortunately, I’ve dealt with thieves in the course of my work often enough to know what it looks like.”
“My apologies, I didn’t mean to doubt you.” Gus waved it off.
“I understand, I know this is unexpected. The donations are safe, that I know of. I saw a woman put a coaster from your living room in her purse. Then, I saw her open a desk drawer in your office to pull out a letter-opener.”
The coaster isn’t important, but the letter opener belonged to his mother. That decided it.
Could you please describe the woman?” he asked.
“A brunette white woman wearing a knee-length purple dress,” he said in the practiced tone of a man accustomed to pointing out troublemakers to the police.
This was not how he wanted to spend the evening. Howard had other things to do.
Howard sighed. “I’m sorry.” He pinched his brow. “Thank you, I’m sorry. I’ll keep an eye out for her.”
Gus nodded, lips slightly pursed. Howard wondered if he regretted being a good citizen.
“It’ll be easier if I point her out for you inside.”
“So, Howard,” Gus said, sunny tone back as they wended their way through the packed house, alert for signs of theft. “How long has your firm had this relationship with the homeless shelter?”
Howard hoped he looked nonchalant as he scanned the kitchen for the guest. “My partner, Chuck McGill, kept them from being evicted from the neighborhood in the eighties, and we’ve had the fundraiser ever since. It feels good to contribute.”
“She’s not here,” Gus whispered. Howard nodded, and they moved on to the living room.
“What made you decide to run for hospital board?” he volleyed back as he and Gus stood at the edge of the room. Against his better judgment, Howard felt himself becoming swept up in the intrigue, like living out a Hardy Boys mystery.
“I relish any opportunity to contribute to the community. I grew up with nothing, and I have never forgotten what it feels like.”
Then, sotto voce: “Her, next to the lamp.” She looked…normal, there was no other way of putting it. An ordinary woman, maybe early to mid-thirties. Her body language as she talked was simultaneously extroverted and tightly coiled, a familiar combination to him. A brown suede purse, more casual than her dress, was slung across her body.
“Thank you,” Howard whispered. He thought he saw her glance at him, but then she turned back, and he concluded he probably imagined it.
Then, louder. “Ah, the opposite of why I do it. My father was a lawyer too, and I never wanted for anything.” He kept a close eye on her hands while he and Gus exchanged pleasantries, mostly about Howard’s hobbies.
The woman seemed to grow antsy. She touched her hand to the man’s shoulders, excusing herself.
“What sort of animals do you see most frequently on your hikes?” Gus was a pleasant companion, Howard decided. His artificiality was well-enough honed to be pleasant instead of grating. And Howard considered himself a discerning consumer of superficial conversation.
“For some reason, I seem to attract rattlesnakes….” She stood there somewhat awkwardly. Her eyes roved around, but she didn’t talk to anyone. Then, she was on the move again, pushing through a throng of people he mostly recognized from the DA’s office, towards the bedrooms.
As she pulled the door to the guest bedroom half-closed behind her, Howard found himself mentally trying to explain her actions. He couldn’t judge someone for taking a breather, could he? For closing the door almost all of the way? Howard positioned himself so he could watch out of the corner of his eye, continuing his story of the cougar and her cubs he had to hide from for an hour. She almost knocked over the spare CPAP machine Cheryl’s mother left there so she wouldn’t have to take hers every time she visited, then clutched her bag more closely to herself.
When she could no longer see him, he didn’t bother hiding his interest. And then there it was—delicately reaching behind herself, deliberately causal, to put the palm tree tchotchke from his and Cheryl’s honeymoon in that suede bag.
“I’m sorry I doubted you,” he said out of the corner of his mouth.
“Not at all, it’s the sort of thing you want to be sure of,” said Gus, though Howard saw the corner of his mouth briefly turn down before fixing his smile back on.
Howard sighed, then said “I guess I have to. Thank you.” He was tempted to let it go, but. The palm tree, purchased from a roadside stand. He would miss it. He assumed Cheryl would miss it, too.
Gus’s cell phone had the same ring as Chuck’s old one, and for a second Howard felt like he was there.
“Excuse me,” he said, lifting his suit jacket to pull it out of a belt holder. “I have to take this.”
Howard waved him off, and Gus disappeared with a brisk walk.
He took a deep breath, and “Excuse me—” a quick glance at her hand, engagement and wedding rings gleaming, “ma’am.”
“Oh hi! Are you the famous Mr. Hamlin? What a lovely house you have,” she said with superficial cheeriness.
“Thank you, I’ll pass along the compliment to my wife.” After several sentences of increasingly forced conversation, Howard took a deep breath.
“I’m terribly sorry, I have a slightly awkward request to make of you. I’m concerned some things in my house might’ve ended up in your purse, and I’d really appreciate it if we could go through the contents of your bag together to make sure any items in there are returned to me.”
No matter how gently he phrased it, Howard didn’t expect it to go well, and it didn’t. Two spots of red appeared on her cheeks, but her eyes remained steely.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said sharply.
“If you didn’t take anything, that should be easy to prove, right?”
“I don’t have to prove anything to you!” Her voice cut through the crowd easily.
“Please, Mrs.—” he began, hoping to prompt her into telling him her name.
“I have never been so offended in my life!” she started, and continued. Under the onslaught of her opprobrium, Howard reflected that he felt sorry for this woman. His small spark of interest in why this woman would choose to steal from him hadn’t quite vanished, but he didn’t feel like he was living out a low-stakes mystery novel anymore. She pushed past him to stride further down the hall. Nobody else moved to stop her, choosing to stare.
“My wife and I bought that palm tree statuette on our honeymoon, it’s important to me,” he called as he strode to catch up, deliberately soft.
“Once again,” she spat, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Marie?” Howard could immediately tell he was her husband by the way he looked at her, a mixture of tender concern and annoyed confusion. Oh great, Howard thought, just what I need: she has backup.
“This man is accusing me of—I can’t believe he’s—”
“Marie. Marie. It’s okay.” He put his hand on her shoulder, his blazer so poorly-fitted that the collar rode up with it, revealing even more of his red Hawaiian shirt.
“If you didn’t do it, like you said, it should be easy to prove him wrong. Why don’t I take your bag, and you get another glass of wine.”
“Hank, we don’t have to give this man the time of day, clearly he’s—”
“I’ve only had one beer, I’ll drive home. Get yourself a drink,” he said in a sterner tone that, though Howard was grateful that he was being helpful, he didn’t particularly like hearing a man use on his wife. His hand curled around the strap of her bag. Howard’s hand itched to clap her shoulder or pat her hand, to comfort her, but he didn’t think it would be received well. She held on a second, slipped the bag off her shoulder, and left for the bar. The other guests weren’t bothering to hide their stares anymore.
“Can we, uh?” He gestured with his thumb to a counter.
“Of course.” Howard moved several discarded plates into the sink. He could feel the eyes on them as Hank emptied her bag with practiced ease: wallet that he briefly opened and searched before setting down, mini pack of Kleenex, makeup bag that he unzipped and emptied neatly, car keys that he pocketed. He could see unshed tears shining in Marie’s eyes, round over her rapidly-disappearing glass of white wine.
Cheryl appeared behind Hank, a very put-upon expression on her face. She’d exchanged heels for running shoes and put her white coat over her dress. Her hospital ID lanyard managed to become tangled in both her necklace and her stethoscope.
Day planner, ballpoint pen, sunglasses. Really? Cheryl mouthed at him. Howard wasn’t sure what he should’ve done, let her steal from them? The party had grown noticeably quieter.
Finally, the coaster. His mother’s heavy silver letter-opener. The little palm tree.
“These yours?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“I’m sorry for the trouble.” And then, under his breath, Jesus Christ, Marie. The objects fit awkwardly in Howard’s hands.
“No problem, buddy.” It was clear from his tone he didn’t consider Howard a buddy, but it didn’t matter. Howard would probably never see them again. He swept the contents of Marie’s purse back in with considerably less care than he’d removed them, then, hand gentle on the small of her back, he silently led her out of the party.
“What did you want me to do, let her steal from us?” he asked. Cheryl blinked slowly in a way Howard knew meant she was trying not to roll her eyes, but gave Howard a small, fond smile when he reached to untangle the mess around her neck. As he watched her car pull out, he tried to be magnanimous; maybe she was more annoyed about being called in when she specifically asked the hospital not to than anything he did.
He put everything back in their places and tried to get back in his element; the night was still fairly young. The pall the confrontation cast over the party was starting to recede, but Cheryl’s annoyance irritated him in a small but unignorable way, like a toothache.
Howard brushed off a concerned guest. Suddenly the party was too loud. He snagged a glass of red wine on his way out for air.
And there was Gus, still on the phone. There was a hard look that seemed so out of place on his face, but when he saw Howard, the smile reappeared on his face and in his voice and he sipped from his own wine glass. If Howard tilted his head just so, he could see Joaquin and Chelsea hidden by the shed; their flirting had turned from friendly to heated.
“I hope we have reached an acceptable compromise.” There was the slightest edge to his voice. He snapped the phone shut without saying goodbye and considerately let Howard take a couple sips in silence.
“Everything you said she took was there,” said Howard.
“I’m glad to hear you recovered your things,” he replied smoothly.
“Her husband was there. He acted like she’d done it before.” Gus’s brow raised minutely before settling back down.
“I found it interesting,” Howard admitted. “It makes me wonder why she stole.”
They spent a pensive moment sipping wine, looking up at the sky that, while no match for a clear night out in the desert, is still starlit, still coldly beautiful.
“I don’t know. Sometimes, I think there’s no explanation. People just are what they are; they might be able to reform their behavior temporarily, but they can’t change their nature.”
Howard digested this Chuck-like sentiment. “I don’t know, I like to think people can change.” He couldn’t help but smile as he saw Joaquin and Chelsea exchange a kiss.
“Think I pissed off my wife, though,” Howard admitted. The wine loosened his tongue, and he felt his face burn in the near-dark.
Gus paused in a way that suggested he wasn’t expecting this line of conversation. This broke their contract, the chummy superficiality Howard had thus far been enjoying.
“For getting your things back?” he asked carefully.
“For that, for agreeing to host the fundraiser here in the first place, I don’t know.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I wasn’t blaming you,” Howard hastened to add.
“I didn’t think you were.” A slightly strained look of concern, then a warm hand on his shoulder. One, two gentle pats before withdrawing.
His and Gus’s eyes follow the couple kissing in the dim, reflected glow of the indoor light. Howard remembered when he and Cheryl were like that. Nostalgia overwhelmed him.
Gus pursed his lips before speaking again. “Catering’s doing a good job of cleaning up after themselves and your guests are generally polite, but perhaps you could hire a cleaning service, if you haven’t already? For your wife.”
“They’re coming tomorrow morning. I’m pretty sure she’ll be at the hospital until morning; I’ll get up early to give the crew a head start, and make her breakfast.”
“A good idea,” Gus said. A pause, then so quietly Howard wasn’t positive he knew he was saying it: “Love is worth getting up early for.”