They bonded over the fathers they never really knew. 2 hurt people tilting against the injustices of the world. And all that. She liked listening to what she dubbed Chester’s “love rants” (so named, he thought, because he got so passionate; she called him Chester, never Chess). The latest was on class-action suits. There were apparently attorneys who specialized in suing banks for the clever little wrongs regularly committed against customers. Judges forced settlements—5,000,000 here, 10 or 20 there — and the lawyers took half. The rest was distributed, minus a mysterious calculus of deductions, to X number of the public, who never even knew they were involved in a class-action suit to begin with. That would explain how one day he got a check in the mail for “Zero and 23/100 Dollars”—23¢. (Laxmi went on a mucousy laughing jag when he dug through a drawer to show her the perforated stub.) The Internet said if you didn’t cash it, the 23¢, or whatever, would go to a shadowy “charity,” the beneficiary details of which the banks refused to disclose. He spent an hour at Washington Mutual, standing there while pain shot up his leg, just so he could endorse his 23¢. (Laxmi went on another jag.) Worse than that, Chess was convivial with the teller, who was some kind of mongrel bitch that wouldn’t even joke along through the bullet-proof glass; the microphone system was so fucked that when he wasn’t cupping his ears from feedback he was practically doing sign language.
(Laxmi nearly crapped her pants.)
He dared to wonder how much he could squeeze out of Friday Night Frights. There had to be a formula to it, one of those statistical templates accountants dispassionately applied and attorneys rubberstamped. Had to happen each and every day. Buyouts and hush money settlements made the world go round! Shit, they were still giving so-called falsely accused Rampart scandal cops 5,000,000 apiece — and they’d already compensated the bad guys to the tune of 50 or 60 mil. Chess thought it would probably be hard for him to get a mil, but you never knew. He wasn’t even close to plumbing the litigable depths of his physical trauma, no real diagnosis seemed on the horizon, plus Remar said it was the type of thing juries would automatically be sympathetic toward because “plain folks” could definitely relate. Everyone could see themselves in exactly this kind of unjust situation; for reality shows (like frequently sued tabloids), settlements were the cost of doing business. The popularity of the genre was definitely on the wane and jurors would probably want to sock it to em, for fun. Nobody liked to be made a fool of for free — it was unAmerican. Besides, Remar said he’d scored with a bunch of similar cases. Chess hadn’t yet had the giddy conversation with counsel about how much he might expect monetarily. The lawyer would take a 3rd but hadn’t even clarified if the award was taxable. Part of him didn’t want to know. Part of him knew that whatever anyone got in this world would be chopped off like that knight in the Monty Python movie, arm by arm, leg by leg, until only a dancing torso remained.
He just needed to make sure his slice of the piñata had enough cash stuffed inside: if it was ¾s of a million, then Remar and the MDs could take the arms and legs. ¾ s of a mil was a lot, as long as you made sure to move your ass out of the country. Go subtropical and comport yourself like a king. Set up shop in a walled compound in San Miguel de Allende, right next to Remar and his gay caballero’s homo hacienda. Laxmi told him that in Costa Rica you could get a hundred acres easy, plus servants, chef, and private yoga instructor — for the rest of your livelong days.
For now, he had other concerns. He needed about $5,000 until mind and body were wrapped a bit tighter. Something to float him for the next few months. He put the call in to Marj. She had plenty of bread and he’d never asked for much; that had to count for something. He didn’t want to give too many details about the FNF fiasco (the whole thing embarrassed him — an authentic part of the pain and suffering angle) but would think of an “alternate history,” as Laxmi put it about various aspects of her journal.
XL.Marjorie
IT’S some kind of bone spur but they don’t think I’ll need surgery. It’s pressing against a nerve — the sciatica. Yoga’s really helping. I know a girl, a real yogahead. She takes me to this studio and we do Bikram. They keep it over a hundred degrees. It’s a sweatbox but you feel a thousand times better when you’re done. I’ve been doing some Pilates too, but it’s costly. They have these beautiful machines, beautifully designed. One of em’s called a Cadillac — leather padding, gorgeous wood, nice straps. Elongates the muscles. No, they work with injured people all the time. I think they were originally designed for people with injuries. Anyway, it’s not an injury, Ma, we’re not really sure what it is yet. An “inflammatory process.” That’s the big phrase. The main thing is it’s limited the amount of time I can spend in the car. Which is where I spend most of my time, as you know, because of the nature of my work, which was going very well until a few weeks ago. I didn’t want to bother you about it. I’m holding off on an epidural. I’ve already had an MRI and X-rays, and the epidural is next. I’ve talked to a lot of people who’ve had em and they’re pretty successful. They can really pinpoint the pain. Usually you need 3 of them and there’s one they do that really targets the problem, they go in real deep. It’s all outpatient. No, no, the last thing I want is surgery. The insurance thing is hard right now but I got a great attorney and we’re working that out. Oh yeah! I had to get an attorney. I’m not looking to make a killing, Ma, I’m just looking to feel better. So I’m spending a helluva lot less time in the car, which is a