“I haven’t seen your newest work,” Spiridon said. By newest, he meant the stuff I’d drawn in the last few days. Lately, he’d been asking to see my sketches on a daily basis. He always said nice things and offered me little pointers here and there.
Spiridon motioned with his hand, so I gave him my sketchbook, opened to the Wombat sketches I’d done recently. He blurted out laughter and Christos chuckled over his shoulder as they flipped through it.
“These are hilarious, agápi mou,” Christos said.
“Your daughter has a definite talent for cartooning,” Spiridon said before handing the sketchbook to my parents.
My mom took one look at my cartoons of Potty the Pot Smoking Wombat and grimaced as if someone had shown her crime scene photos of a beheading. She didn’t say a word. She just nodded absently as my dad turned the pages.
My dad, on the other hand, surprised me. “Not bad,” he said. “These drawings sort of remind me of Dennis the Menace, but not nearly as refined.”
I had to pause. That was actually sort of a compliment. My dad loved Dennis the Menace. It was one of his favorite comic strips and he still read it daily.
“But I don’t see how you can make any money with these,” Dad finished. “Hank Ketcham has the Dennis the Menace market all locked up.”
I think from now on, whenever I thought of the phrase, “thinking outside the box,” I’d picture my dad literally building a wooden crate around himself with hammer and nails, and as he was about to lower the lid on his own head forever, he’d say “Bye bye, everybody. If you need me, I’ll be inside my box. Where I live with all my thoughts. Which, by the way, are the only thoughts worth having.” I’d gladly nail the lid shut for him. I glanced around Christos’ studio for hammer and nails. Drat. I didn’t see any.
Christos’ phone rang, distracting everyone. He pulled it out of his pocket and examined it. “Excuse me,” he said to everyone, “I need to take this call.” He walked out of the studio.
“What could be so important he had to answer his phone while he’s entertaining guests?” Mom muttered sourly, as if we couldn’t hear what she was saying.
Because, yeah, this was totally entertaining. Maybe if your idea of fun was a weekend of water-boarding followed by hourly whippings.
Kill me now. Please.
CHRISTOS
I walked out the French doors of the studio to the back deck with my ringing phone in hand.
Russell Merriweather was calling.
Fantastic. I’d debated answering it in the studio and putting the phone on speaker so Samantha’s parents could listen in. Yeah, right. I’m sure they’d want to hear all about the recent civil charges Hunter Fucking Blakeley had slapped on my ass. After her parents heard all the gory details, maybe I could get them up to speed about my recent criminal trial. Samantha’s parents would totally love me after hearing about that shit.
When I was half way around the swimming pool and out of ear shot from the house, I answered. “What up, Russell?”
“Christos! How are you enjoying freedom, son?”
“Freedom rocks,” I joked.
“Yes it does. I’m somewhat inclined to it myself.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “The good news for you is, if you’re smart, you can enjoy as much freedom as your heart desires. All you have to do is stay out of trouble. You think you can do that?”
“I can give it a shot,” I chuckled.
“Don’t shoot anything,” he laughed, “just stay out of trouble. As in, no fighting. Feel me?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I sighed.
“I’m serious, son. No fights. As in, none. Zero. Nada.”
I shook my head and chuckled. “Man, you’re as subtle as brass knuckles.”
His voice turned humorous again. Russell was never long on lecturing. “I don’t want you crying to me on the phone at three in the morning, waking my ass up to tell me that you’re in the can again. I need my beauty rest,” he laughed.
Russell always put me in a good mood. Not only was he a badass attorney, he was the nicest guy. “You know, you’re pretty cool for an old dude,” I said sarcastically.
“Watch your mouth,” he said with good humor, “I can still whup your ass, young man.”
“What, you trying to get me in more fights?”
“I won’t press charges, so it’s okay. And I will kick your ass into next year if I find out you’ve so much as given someone a dirty look.”
“All right, all right,” I smiled. “No fighting. So what’s so pressing you had to call me so late in the day? Shouldn’t you be relaxing behind a bloody steak at the Yard House by now?” I gazed at ruby clouds glowing in front of the golden sun hovering above the Pacific Ocean. My grandad’s house had the best damn view.
“My dinner has been delayed because your pal Hunter Blakeley may have a valid claim against you, my boy. It turns out, he does in fact do a fair amount of modeling, and his broken nose has been costing him jobs.”
I shook my head. I should’ve known Hunter was a total pussy. “What, does the prick want? A bunch of plastic surgery or some shit?”
“That’s putting it lightly. He also wants lost wages and substantial pain and suffering. You should see the bills his attorney is sending me for the high class shrinks Hunter Blakeley has been visiting.”
“Shrinks?” I rolled my eyes. “Why, because he has PTSD after the vicious beating I gave him?”
“You took the words right out of my mouth.”
I sighed, “Do you have any good news?”
“I’m brimming over with good news,” Russell joked, “I’m the Santa Claus of good news.”
“Well?”
“I need the contact information of your friend Jake. I need to get his deposition and add it into the mix. Also, I’ve got people talking to the Hooters wait staff, see if they can corroborate your story that Hunter was in cahoots with three friends.”
“Of course he was.”
“Not according to his statement. He’s making it sound like his friends watched the incident from a block away while you roughed up poor Hunter.”
“Fuck. His buddies were ready to jump in until I put Hunter in his place. The guy is a total liar.”
“A liar he may be, but if I can’t prove he’s whistling Dixie on the stand, the jury is going to have a hard time believing your side of things. Remember, this isn’t a criminal trial, where the prosecution has to convince the jury beyond all reasonable doubt that you’re guilty. This is a civil trial. If Hunter’s attorney can convince the jury that it’s 51% likely that you’re at fault, instead of an even fifty-fifty, they will rule against you. That’s not much elbow room for us. Even if I present the greatest defense of all time, Hunter’s case need only be one percent more convincing than ours, and you’re gonna end up having to pay damages. And right now, Hunter’s attorney is asking for your left nut on top of all the other damages.”
“Maybe we can send him my left nut and call it even,” I grinned.
Russell chuckled, “Last time I checked, the nut market is in a recession, and you won’t get a quarter of what you’re hoping for.”
“Fine. I keep my nut and you win my case. Deal?”
“I’ll do my best. But I’d start looking into prosthetic testicles. I hear you can hardly tell the difference,” Russell laughed.
“Thanks, man. You’re all heart.”
“Don’t worry, son. I’ll take care of this. I’ve got plenty of people looking into things. We’ll track down Hunter’s friends and drag the truth out of them with pliers and tongs.”
“You do that.”
“I’ll have more good news the next time we talk,” Russell said. “Oh, and one other thing.”