Wes walked across the street and entered the creaking and peeling door of Mr. L. Trevor Carson, Attorney and Counselor-at-Law Wes was dressed in khakis and a pullover knit, loafers, no socks, and when Jan offered him her customary sneer she couldn't tell if he was a native or a tourist. "What can I do for you?" she asked.
"I really need to see Mr. Carson." Wes said with an air of desperation.
"Do you have an appointment?" she asked, as if her boss was so busy she couldn't keep track of his meetings.
"Well, no, it's sort of an emergency."
"He's very busy." she said, and Wes could almost hear the laughter from the rental.
"Please, I've got to talk to him."
She rolled her eyes and didn't budge. "What kind of matter is it?"
"I've just buried my wife." he said, on the verge of tears, and Jan finally cracked a bit. "I'm very sorry," she said. Poor guy.
"She was killed in a car wreck on I-95, just north of Jacksonville."
Jan was standing now and wishing she'd made fresh coffee. "I'm so sorry." she said. "When did this happen?"
"Twelve days ago. A friend recommended Mr. Carson."
Not much of a friend, she wanted to say. "Would you like some coffee?" she asked, putting the top on her nail polish. Twelve days ago, she thought. Like all good legal secretaries, she read the newspapers with a keen eye on the accidents. Who knows, one might walk in the door.
Never Trevor's door. Until now.
"No, thanks." Wes said. "She was hit by a Texaco truck. The driver was drunk."
"Oh my god!" she exclaimed, hand over her mouth. Even Trevor could handle this one.
Serious money, big fees, right here in the reception area, and that fool back there snoring off his lunch.
"He's in a deposition." she said. "Let me see if I can disturb him. Please have a seat." She wanted to lock the front door so he couldn't escape.
"The name's Yates. Yates Newman," he said, trying to help her.
"Oh yes," she said, racing down the hall. She knocked politely on Trevor's door, then stepped inside. "Wake up, asshole!" she hissed through clenched teeth, loud enough for Wes to hear up front.
"What is it?" Trevor said, standing, ready for a fistfight. He wasn't sleeping after all. He'd been reading an old People.
"Surprise! You have a client."
"Who is it?"
"A man whose wife got run over by a Texaco truck twelve days ago. He wants to see you right now"
"He's here?"
"Yep. Hard to believe, isn't it? Three thousand lawyers in Jacksonville and this poor guy falls through the cracks. Said a friend recommended you."
"What'd you tell him?"
"I told him he needed to find new friends."
"No, really, what did you tell him?"
"That you're in a deposition."
"I haven't had a deposition in eight years. Send him back."
"Be cool. I'll make him some coffee. Act like you're finishing some important stuff back here. Why don't you straighten this place up?"
"You just make sure he can't get out:"
"The Texaco driver was drunk." she said, opening the door. "Don't screw this up."
Trevor froze, slack jawed, glassy-eyed, his deadened mind suddenly springing to life. One third of $2 million, $4 million, hell, $10 million if he was really drunk and punitive damages kicked in. He wanted to at least straighten his desk, but he couldn't move.
Wes stared out the front window, stared at the rental, where his buddies were staring at him. He kept his back to the ruckus down the hall because he was struggling to keep a straight face. Footsteps, then Jan said, "Mr. Carson will see you in just a moment."
"Thanks." he said softly, without turning around.
Poor guy's still grieving, she thought, then walked to the dirty kitchen to make coffee.
The deposition was over in a flash, and the other participants miraculously vanished without a trace. Wes followed her down the hall to Mr. Carson's cluttered office. Introductions were made. She brought them flesh coffee, and when she was finally gone, Wes made an unusual request.
"Is there any place to get a strong latte around here?"
"Why, certainly, yes, of course," Trevor said, the words jumping across the desk. "There's a place called Beach Java just a few blocks away"
"Could you send her to get me one?"
Absolutely. Anything!
"Yes, of course. Tall or grande?"
"Tall's fine."
Trevor bounced out of his office, and a few seconds later Jan hit the front door and practically ran down the street. When she was out of sight, Chap left the rental and walked to Trevor's. The front door was locked, so he opened it with a key of his own. Inside, he latched the chain, so poor Jan would be stuck on the porch with a cup of scalding latte.
Chap eased down the hall and made a sudden entrance into the lawyer's office.
"Excuse me," Trevor said.
"It's okay," Wes said. "He's with me."
Chap closed and locked the door, then he yanked a 9-millimeter pistol from his jacket and almost pointed it at poor Trevor, whose eyes bulged and heart froze.
"What-" he managed to emit in a high-pitched painful voice.
"Just shut up, okay," said Chap, handing the pistol to Wes, who was sitting. Trevor's wild eyes followed it from one to the other, then it disappeared. What have I done? Who are these thugs? All my gambling debts are paid.
He was very happy to shut up. Whatever they wanted.
Chap leaned on the wall, pretty damned close to Trevor, as if he might lunge at any moment. "We have a client." he began. "A wealthy man, who has been snagged in the little scam run by you and Ricky"
"Oh my god." Trevor mumbled. His worst nightmare.
"It's a wonderful idea," Wes said. "Extorting from rich gay men who are still hiding in the closet. They can't complain. Ricky's already in prison, so what does he have to lose?"
"Almost perfect," Chap said. "Until you hook the wrong fish, which is exactly what you've done."
"It's not my scam," Trevor said, his voice still two octaves above normal, his eyes still searching for the pistol.
"Yes, but it wouldn't work without you, would it?" Wes asked. "There has to be a crooked lawyer on the outside to shuttle mail. And Ricky needs someone to direct the money and do a little investigative work."
"You're not cops, are you?" Trevor asked.
"No. We're private thugs," Chap said.
"Because if you're cops then I'm not sure I wanna talk anymore."
"We're not cops, okay"
Trevor was breathing and thinking again, the breathing going much faster than the thinking, but his training kicked in. "I think I'll record this." he said. "Just in case you're cops:"
"I said we're not cops."
"I don't trust cops, especially the FBI. The fibbies would walk in here just like the two of you, wave a gun around, and swear that they weren't fibbies. I just don't like cops. I think I'll get this on tape."
Don't worry, pal, they wanted to say. It was all being recorded, live and in high-density digital color from a tiny camera in the ceiling a few feet behind where they were sitting. And there were mikes planted all around Trevor's littered desk so that when he snored or burped or even cracked his knuckles somebody across the street heard it.
The pistol was back. Wes held it with both hands and examined it carefully.
"You're not recording anything," Chap said. "As I told you, we're private boys. And we're calling the shots right now" He took a step closer along the wall. Trevor watched him with one eye, and with the other helped Wes examine the pistol.
"In fact, we come in peace." Chap said.
"We have some money for you." Wes said, and put the damned thing away again.
"Money for what?" Trevor asked.
"We want you on our side. We want to retain your services."
"To do what?"
"To help us protect our client," Chap said. "Here's the way we see it.You're a conspirator in an extortion scheme operating from inside a federal prison, and you've been discovered by us.We could go to the feds, get you and your client busted, you'd be sent away for thirty months, probably to Trumble, where you'd fit right in. You'd be automatically disbarred, which means you'd lose all this." Chap casually waved his right hand, dismissing the clutter and dust and heaps of old files untouched in years.