“What?” I can’t think of anything worse at this moment than having a drink with Drummond.
“Business. Settlement possibilities. Could you run by my office, say, fifteen minutes from now? We’re just around the corner, you know.”
The word “settlement” has a nice ring to it. Plus, I’ve always wanted to see their offices. “It’ll have to be quick,” I say, as if there are beautiful and important women waiting for me.
“Sure. Let’s go now.”
I tell Deck to wait at the corner, and Drummond and I walk three blocks to the tallest building in Memphis. We chat about the weather as we ride to the fortieth floor. The suite is all brass and marble, filled with people as if it were the middle of the day. It’s a tastefully appointed
factory. I look for my old pal Loyd Beck, the thug from Broadnax and Speer, and hope I don’t see him.
Drummond’s office is smartly decorated but not exceptionally large. This building has the highest rent in town, and the space is used efficiently. “What would you like to drink?” he asks, tossing his briefcase and jacket on his desk.
I don’t care for hard liquor, and I’m so tired I’m afraid one drink might knock me out. “Just a Coke,” I say, and this disappoints him for a second. He mixes himself a drink at a small wet bar in the corner, scotch and water.
There’s a knock on the door, and, much to my surprise, Mr. M. Wilfred Keeley steps in. We haven’t seen each other since I grilled him for eight hours on Monday. He acts like he’s delighted to see me again. We shake hands, say hello like old buddies. He goes to the bar and mixes himself a drink.
They sip their whiskey as we sit around a small, round table in a corner. For Keeley to return here so soon means only one thing. They want to settle this case. I’m all ears.
I cleared six hundred dollars last month from my struggling practice. Drummond makes at least a million a year. Keeley runs a company with a billion in sales, and probably gets paid more than his lawyer. And they want to talk business with me.
“Judge Kipler concerns me a great deal,” Drummond says abruptly.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Keeley is quick to add.
Drummond is famous for his immaculate preparation, and I’m sure this little duet has been well rehearsed.
“To be honest, Rudy, I’m afraid of what he might do at trial,” Drummond says.
“We’re being railroaded,” Keeley says, shaking his head in disbelief.
Kipler is a legitimate cause for their concern, but they’re sweating blood because they’ve been caught red-handed. They’ve killed a young man, and their murderous deed is about to be exposed. I decide to be nice, let them say what they want.
They sip in unison, then Drummond says, “We’d like to settle this thing, Rudy. We feel good about our defense, and I mean that sincerely. Given an even playing field, we’re ready to tee it up tomorrow. I haven’t lost in eleven years. I love a good courtroom brawl. But this judge is so biased it’s frightening.”
“How much?” I ask, cutting off the drivel.
They squirm in perfect hemorrhoidal harmony. A moment of pain, then Drummond says, “We’ll double it. A hundred and fifty thousand. You get fifty or so, your client gets a—”
“I can do the math,” I say. It’s none of his business how much my fee will be. He knows I’m broke, and fifty thousand will make me rich.
Fifty thousand dollars!
“What am I supposed to do with this offer?” I ask. They exchange puzzled looks.
“My client is dead. His mother buried him last week, and now you expect me to tell her there’s some more money on the table.”
“Ethically, you’re obligated to tell her—”
“Don’t lecture me about ethics, Leo. I’ll tell her. I’ll convey the offer, and I’ll bet she says no.”
“We’re very sorry about his death,” Keeley says sadly.
“I can tell you’re really broken up, Mr. Keeley. I’ll pass along your condolences to the family.”
“Look, Rudy, we’re making a good-faith effort to settle here,” Drummond says.
“Your timing is terrible.”
There’s a pause as we all take a drink. Drummond starts smiling first. “What does the lady want? Tell us, Rudy, what will it take to make her happy?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“There’s nothing you can do. He’s dead, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“So why are we going to trial?”
“To expose what you’ve done.”
More squirming. More pained expressions. More whiskey being gulped.
“She wants to expose you, then she wants to break you,” I say.
“We’re too big,” Keeley says smugly.
“We’ll see.” I stand and pick up my briefcase. “I’ll find my way out,” I say, and leave them sitting there.
Thirty-eight
S
LOWLY, OUR OFFICES ARE ACCUMULATING the evidence of commercial activity, however humble and nonlucrative it may be. Thin files are stacked here and there, always in plain view so that the occasional visiting client can see them. I have almost a dozen court-appointed criminal cases, all serious misdemeanors or lightweight felonies. Deck claims to have thirty active files, though this number seems a bit high.
The phone rings even more now. It takes great discipline to talk on a phone with a bug in it, and it’s something I fight every day. I keep telling myself that before the phones were tapped a court order was signed allowing such an invasion. A judge had to approve it, so there must be an element of legitimacy in it.
The front room is still crowded with the rented tables, which are covered with documents for the Black case, and their presence gives the appearance of a truly monumental work in progress.
At least the office is looking busier. After several months in business, our overhead is averaging a miserly
seventeen hundred dollars a month. Our gross income is averaging thirty-two hundred, so Deck and I are splitting, on paper, fifteen hundred dollars before taxes and withholding.
We’re surviving. Our best client is Derrick Dogan, and if we can settle his case for twenty-five thousand, the policy limits, then we can breathe easier. We’re hoping it’ll hit in time for Christmas, though I’m not sure why. Neither Deck nor I have anyone we’d like to spend money on.
I’ll get through the holidays by working on the Black case. February is not far away.
THE MAIL TODAY is routine, with two exceptions. There is not a single piece from Trent & Brent. This is so rare it’s actually a thrill. The second surprise shocks me to the point of having to walk around the office to collect my wits.
The envelope is large and square, with my name and address handwritten. Inside is a printed invitation to attend a dazzling pre-Christmas sale of gold chains and bracelets and necklaces at a jewelry store in a local mall. It’s junk mail, the type I’d normally throw away if it had a preprinted address label.
At the bottom, below the store’s hours, in a rather lovely handwriting is the name: Kelly Riker. No message. Nothing. Just the name.
I WALK THE MALL for an hour after I arrive. I watch children ice-skate on an indoor rink. I watch groups of teenagers roam in large packs from one end to the other. I buy a platter of warmed-over Chinese food and eat it on the promenade above the ice-skaters.
The jewelry store is one of over a hundred shops under
this roof. I saw her punching a cash register the first time I slinked by.
I enter behind a young couple, and walk slowly to the long glass display counter where Kelly Riker is helping a customer. She glances up, sees me and smiles. I ease away a few steps, lean with my elbows on a counter, study the dazzling array of gold chains as thick as ski ropes. The store is crowded. A half-dozen clerks chatter and remove items from the cases.
“Can I help you, sir?” she says as she stands across from me, just two feet away. I look at her, and melt.
We smile at each other for as long as we dare. “Just looking,” I say. No one is watching us, I hope. “How are you?”
“Fine, and you?”
“Great.”
“Can I show you something? These are on sale.”
She points and we’re suddenly looking at chains fit for a pimp. “Nice,” I say, just loud enough for her to hear. “Can we talk?”
“Not here,” she says, leaning even closer. I get a whiff of her perfume. She unlocks the case, slides the door open and removes a ten-inch gold chain. She holds it for me to see, and says, “There’s a cinema down the mall. Buy a ticket for the Eddie Murphy movie. Center section, back row. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
“Eddie Murphy?” I ask, holding and admiring the chain.
“Nice isn’t it?”
“My favorite. Really nice. But let me look around some more.” She takes it from me, says, “Come back soon,” like the perfect salesperson.
My knees are weak as I float down the mall. She knew I’d come, and she had it planned—the cinema, the movie, the seat and the section. I drink coffee near an over
worked Santa, try to imagine what she’ll say, what’s on her mind. To avoid a painful movie, I wait until the last minute to buy a ticket.
There are less than fifty people in the place. Some kids, too young for an R-rated movie, sit close to the front, snickering at each obscenity. A few other sad souls are scattered through the darkness. The back row is empty.
She arrives a few minutes late, and sits next to me. She crosses her legs, the skirt inches above her knees. I cannot help but notice.
“You come here often?” she says, and I laugh. She doesn’t appear to be nervous. I certainly am.
“Are we safe?” I ask.
“Safe from whom?”
“Your husband.”
“Yeah, he’s out with the boys tonight.”
“Drinking again?”
“Yes.”
This has enormous implications.
“But not much,” she says as an afterthought.
“So he hasn’t—”
“No. Let’s talk about something else.”
“I’m sorry. I just worry about you, that’s all.”
“Why do you worry about me?”
“Because I think about you all the time. Do you ever think about me?”
We’re staring at the screen but seeing nothing.
“All the time,” she says, and my heart stops.
On-screen, a guy and a girl are suddenly ripping each other’s clothes off. They’re falling onto a bed, pillows and undergarments flying through the air, then they embrace hotly and the bed starts shaking. As the lovers love each other, Kelly slides her arm under mine and inches closer. We don’t speak until the scene changes. Then I start breathing again.
“When did you start to work?” I ask.
“Two weeks ago. We need a little extra for Christmas.”
She’ll probably earn more than me between now and Christmas. “He allows you to work?”
“I’d rather not talk about him.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“How’s the lawyer stuff?”
“Busy. Got a big trial in February.”
“So you’re doing well?”
“It’s a struggle, but business is growing. Lawyers starve, and then if they’re lucky they make money.”
“And if they’re not lucky?”
“They keep starving. I’d rather not talk about lawyers.”
“Fine. Cliff wants to have a baby.”
“What would that accomplish?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t do it, Kelly,” I say with a passion that surprises me. We look at each other and squeeze hands.
Why am I sitting in a dark theater holding hands with a married woman? That’s the question of the day. What if Cliff suddenly appeared and caught me here cuddling with his wife? Who would he kill first?
“He told me to stop taking the pill.”
“Did you?”
“No. But I’m worried about what might happen when I don’t get pregnant. It’s been rather easy in the past, if you’ll recall.”
“It’s your body.”
“Yeah, and he wants it all the time. He’s becoming obsessed with sex.”
“Look, uh, I’d rather talk about something else, okay?”
“Okay. We’re running out of topics.”
“Yes, we are.”
We release each other’s hand and watch the movie for a few moments. Kelly slowly turns and leans on her elbow.
Our faces are just inches apart. “I just wanted to see you, Rudy,” she says, almost in a whisper.
“Are you happy?” I ask, touching her cheek with the back of my hand. How can she be happy?
She shakes her head. “No, not really.”
“What can I do?”
“Nothing.” She bites her lip, and I think I see moist eyes.
“You have a decision to make,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“Either forget about me, or file for divorce.”
“I thought you were my friend.”
“I thought I was too. But I’m not. It’s more than friendship, and both of us know it.”
We watch the movie for a moment.
“I need to go,” she says. “My break is almost over. I’m sorry I bothered you.”
“You didn’t bother me, Kelly. I’m glad to see you. But I’m not going to sneak around like this. You either file for divorce or forget about me.”
“I can’t forget about you.”
“Then let’s file for divorce. We can do it tomorrow. I’ll help you get rid of this bum, and then we can have some fun.”
She leans over, pecks me on the cheek and is gone.
WITHOUT FIRST CONSULTING ME, Deck sneaks his phone from the office and takes it to Butch, then together they take it to an acquaintance who once allegedly worked for some branch of the military. According to the acquaintance, the bugging device still hidden in our phones is quite dissimilar to the bugs typically used by the FBI and other law enforcement agencies. It’s manufactured in Czechoslovakia, of medium grade and quality, and feeds a
transmitter located somewhere close by. He’s almost certain it wasn’t planted by cops or feds.
I get this report over coffee a week before Thanksgiving.
“Somebody else is listening,” Deck says nervously.
I’m too stunned to react.
“Who would it be?” asks Butch.
“How the hell am I supposed to know?” I snap angrily at him. This guy has no business asking these questions. As soon as he’s gone, I’ll take Deck to task for involving him this deep. I glare at my partner, who’s looking away, jerking around, waiting for strangers to attack.
“Well, it ain’t the feds,” Butch says with great authority.