“Who you callin’ an old coot?”
“You,” she said. “It’s time you started actin’ your age.”
Whoosh dismissed that with a wave of his hand.
“So what happened this morning?” I asked.
“Mario came into the store waving a pistol and demanding money. Said he needed at least fifty grand to start a new life out of state. I told him no fuckin’ way. That the ten grand I already gave him was all he was gonna get. So he locked the front door, herded me and Doreen into the office, and ordered me to open the safe. I worked the combination and showed him there wasn’t nothing in it but my Walther, my coded record book, and maybe twelve grand in cash.”
“Then what?”
“I gave him the twelve grand and closed the safe. He asked where I kept the rest of the money. ‘The Caymans,’ I told him, and that’s when the fucker pistol-whipped me.”
“Sweetie,” Maggie said, “you know I don’t like that kind of language.”
“And when he hit you, Shortstop jumped him?” I asked.
“Yeah. Leaped through the air like he was Michael Fuckin’ Jordan and chomped down like he was Mike Fuckin’ Tyson.”
Maggie scowled and wagged her finger. I wasn’t keen on Whoosh’s choice of words either. Jordan had played a little baseball, but neither he nor Tyson had ever been a shortstop. I would have gone with “leaped like Ozzie Smith,” but I couldn’t come up with a shortstop who’d ever bitten anybody. Ty Cobb was mean enough to have done it, but he’d played the outfield.
“And that’s when the gun went off and shot Mario in the foot?” I asked.
“Served the cocksu-” Whoosh hesitated and glanced at Maggie. “Served him right.”
After I left them, I called the Providence cops and asked what Mario was being charged with. They wouldn’t tell me anything.
45
I was stuffed, but I didn’t know how to unsnap my jeans in a way that wasn’t suggestive.
“Yolanda, that was the best soul food I ever tasted.”
“How many soul food meals have you had?”
“Counting tonight?” I asked.
“Counting tonight.”
“One. But damn, it was good.”
“The smothered chicken was my mama’s recipe. It was the first thing I ever learned to cook.”
“If this keeps up, I’ll need my own ZIP code.”
Her dining room table was scattered with china we’d scraped clean of the onions-and-gravy-lathered chicken, the fried okra, the collard greens, and the sweet potato pie. I helped her clear it and load the dishwasher.
“Go get comfy in the living room,” she said. “I’ll be there in a sec.”
I sank into the sofa in a room that was all mint green and light, the setting sun burning gold through the open mullioned windows. Yolanda strode in, set a birdbath-size glass of white wine on the glass coffee table, and handed me a tumbler half filled with amber liquid.
“Gimme one more minute, baby,” she said, and turned back to the kitchen.
I rolled the drink around on my tongue and knew instantly that it was better than my brand of Irish whiskey. She returned with an open bottle of Locke’s Single Malt and placed it on the table. Then she flopped down beside me, tucked those long legs under her, picked up her wineglass, and laid her head on my chest.
“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” she said. “I definitely could get used to this.”
“I know I could.”
She dropped her hand to my thigh.
“Are you really wearing Bruins boxers?”
“No. I don’t have any. That was just a joke.”
“Actually, I picture you in Blackhawks briefs. Maybe I’ll get you some.”
“I’ve already got what I need,” I said. And then I kissed her.
“You know I’m breaking a rule here, right?” she said.
“The one about not dating white guys?”
“The one about not dating clients.”
“I’m a client?”
“You gave me a five-dollar retainer.”
“Give it back. I don’t need a lawyer.”
“Oh, yes you do.”
‘What? Why?”
“Because I think you’ve got a solid wrongful termination case.”
“I never thought of that.”
“Let me ask you a couple of questions,” she said, her voice suddenly lawyerly. “Did The Dispatch give you an opportunity to explain before they fired you?”
“No. My boss never even told me why I was being fired. He just ordered me to collect my personal stuff and get out.”
“He offer to hire you back?”
“Yeah. With a raise, too.”
“What did you say?”
“I don’t remember. I wasn’t exactly sober at the time.”
“But you didn’t accept?”
“No.”
“That’s good. We can show damages.”
“Huh,” I said. I was warming to the idea.
“I’ve already done my homework on General Communications Holdings International,” Yolanda said. “Over the last decade, three dozen wrongful termination complaints have been brought against them. Only eleven had merit, and they were all settled out of court.”
“For how much?”
“The amounts varied, but the average was a hundred and forty thousand.”
“Sounds like a lot.”
“It’s nowhere near what the legal costs would have been if the cases had gone to trial.”
“How do you know about this?” I asked. “There’s no public record of out-of-court settlements.”
“One of my law school classmates used to work for the firm that represents them. He quit a couple of months ago when they didn’t come through with the partnership he’d been promised, so he was more than willing to rat them out.”
“You really think I should sue the paper?”
“I do. I’ll take the case on a contingency basis.”
“Meaning what, exactly?”
“The firm gets twenty-five percent if they settle before we file.”
“And if they don’t?”
“If we file and they settle before trial, our fee goes up to thirty-five percent.”
“And if they don’t settle?”
“They will,” she said.
I took a moment to mull it over.
“I got fired because of Grandison,” I said. “Isn’t that a conflict of interest for you?”
“Not anymore. I’ve informed her that her actions created a conflict with another client and that she will have to seek other representation.”
“Okay, Yolanda. Let’s do it. After I collect, will you marry me for my money?”
“My annual salary is four times what you’re likely to get.”
“Can I marry you for your money?”
“I don’t think my money’s what you’ve got your eye on.”
She rose, slipped out of her dress, took me by the hand, and pulled me into the bedroom.
46
When I stepped into McCracken’s suite in the Turk’s Head Building, I observed that Sharise had chosen a very short skirt today. Or maybe it was just a very wide belt. I also saw that the “Shamus Mulligan” nameplate had been mounted on one of the interior office doors.
“Mr. McCracken is expecting you,” Sharise said. “You can go right in.”
He greeted me with his customary bone-crushing handshake, and we seated ourselves on the leather couch. The coffee table had already been set with a fresh pot and all the fixings, and this morning, there were also doughnuts. I snagged a leaking jelly as the P.I. poured us each a cup.
“So,” he said, “when can you start?”
“Look,” I said, “I’m not ready to give up writing just yet. Any chance I could work for you part-time?”
“Full-time would be better, but if that’s what it takes to get you started. For now, I’ll pay you sixty bucks an hour for the time you put in on each case. How’s that sound?”
“Works for me.”
“As an operative of McCracken and Associates, you can work under my P.I. license, but you ought to have your own. Sharise has done the paperwork, so sign the forms on your way out… Oh, and is it okay if I keep your name on the door?”