I step into my new office, and am pleasantly surprised. It’s about fifteen by fifteen with a window overlooking the street. It’s empty and clean, nice flooring.
“And over here is the third room. Thought we’d use it as a conference room. I’ll work outta here, but I won’t make a mess.” He’s trying hard to please, and I almost feel sorry for him. Just relax, Deck, I like the offices. Good job.
“Down there is the john. We’ll need to clean and paint it, maybe get a plumber in.” He backtracks to the front room. “Whatta you think?”
“It’ll work, Deck. Who owns it?”
“The junk dealer downstairs. Old man and his wife. By the way, they have some stuff we might want: tables, chairs, lamps, even some old file cabinets. It’s cheap, not bad-looking, sort of goes with our decorative scheme here, plus they’ll allow us to pay by the month. They’re kinda happy to have someone else in the building. I think they’ve been robbed a coupla times.”
“That’s comforting.”
“Yeah. We gotta be careful here.” He hands me a sheet of color samples from Sherwin-Williams. “I think we’d better stick with some shade of white. Less work to apply and easier on the budget. The phone company’s coming tomorrow. Electricity is already on. Take a look at this.” Next to the window is a card table with some papers scattered about and a small black-and-white TV in the center of it.
Deck has already been to the printer. He hands me various layouts of our new firm stationery, each with my name emblazoned in bold letters across the top, and his name in the corner as a paralegal. “Got these from a print shop down the street. Very reasonable. Takes about two days to fill the order. I’d say five hundred sheets and envelopes. See anything you like?”
“I’ll study them tonight.”
“When do you wanna paint?”
“Well, I guess we—”
“I figure we could knock it out in one hard day, that is if we get by with only one coat, you know. I’ll get the paint and supplies this afternoon, and try to get started. Can you help tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
“We need to make a few decisions. What about a fax. Do we get one now or wait? Phone guy’s coming tomorrow, remember? And a copier? I say no, not right now, we can hold our originals and once a day I’ll go down to the print shop. We’ll need an answering machine. A good one costs eighty bucks. I’ll take care of it, if you want. And we need to open a bank account. I know a branch manager at First Trust, says he’ll give us thirty checks a month free and two percent interest on our money. Hard to beat. We need to get the checks ordered because we’ll need to pay some bills, you know.” Suddenly, he looks at his watch. “Hey, I almost forgot.”
He punches a button on the television. “Indictments came down an hour ago, a hundred and something different counts against Bruiser, Bennie ‘Prince’ Thomas, Willie McSwane and others.”
The noon report is already in progress, and the first image we see is a live shot of our former offices. Agents guard the front door, which is unchained at the moment. The reporter explains that the firm’s employees are being allowed to come and go, but can’t remove anything. The next shot is from outside Vixens, a topless club the feds have also seized. “Indictment says Bruiser and Thomas were involved in three clubs,” Deck says. The reporter echoes this. Then there’s some footage of our former boss, skulking around a courthouse corridor during an old trial. Arrest warrants have been issued, but there’s no sign of either Mr. Stone or Mr. Thomas. The agent in charge of the investigation is interviewed, and it’s his opinion that these two gentlemen have fled the area. An extensive search is under way.
“Run Bruiser run,” Deck says.
The story is juicy enough because it involves local thugs, a flamboyant lawyer, several Memphis policemen and the skin business. But it’s spiced up considerably by the element of flight. Prince and Bruiser have obviously hit the road, and this is more than the reporters can stand. There’s footage of policemen being arrested, of another topless club, this time with naked dancers shown from the thighs down, of the U.S. Attorney addressing the media to announce the indictments.
Then there’s a shot that breaks my heart. They’ve closed Yogi’s, wrapped chains around the door handles and posted guards at the doors. They refer to it as the headquarters of Prince Thomas, the kingpin, and the feds seem surprised because they found no cash when they crashed in last night. “Run Prince run,” I say to myself.
The related stories consume most of the noon report.
“Wonder where they are,” Deck says as he turns off the TV.
We think about this in silence for a few seconds. “What’s in there?” I ask, pointing to a storage box beside the card table.
“My files.”
“Anything good?”
“Enough to pay the bills for two months. Some small car wrecks. Workers’ comp cases. There’s also a death case I took from Bruiser. Actually, I didn’t take it. He gave me the file last week and asked me to review some insurance policies in it. It sort of stayed in my office, now it’s here.”
I suspect there are other files in the box which Deck may have lifted from Bruiser’s office, but I shall not inquire.
“Do you think the feds will wanna talk to us?” I ask.
“I’ve been thinking about that. We don’t know anything, and we didn’t remove any files that would be of interest to them, so why worry?”
“I’m worried.”
“Me too.”
Twenty-five
I know Deck’s having a hard time controlling his excitement these days. The idea of having his own office and keeping half the fees without the benefit of a law license is terribly thrilling. If I stay out of his way, he’ll have the offices in top shape within a week. I’ve never seen such energy. Maybe he’s a little too gung-ho, but I’ll give him a break.
However, when the phone rings for the second straight morning before the sun is up, and I hear his voice, it’s difficult to be nice.
“Have you seen the paper?” he asks, quite chipper. “I was sleeping.”
“Sorry. You won’t believe it. Bruiser and Prince are all over the front page.”
“Couldn’t this wait for an hour or so, Deck?” I ask. I’m determined to stop this rude habit of his right now. “If you want to wake up at four, then fine. But don’t call me until seven, no, make it eight.”
“Sorry. But there’s more.”
“What?”
“Guess who died last night?”
Now, how in hell am I supposed to know who, in all of Memphis, died last night? “I give up,” I snap at the phone.
“Harvey Hale.”
“Harvey Hale!”
“Yep. Croaked with a heart attack. Fell dead by his swimming pool.”
“Judge Hale?”
“That’s the one. Your buddy.”
I sit on the edge of my bed and try to shake the fuzz from my brain. “That’s hard to believe.”
“Yeah, I can tell you’re really distraught. There’s a nice story about him on the front page, Metro, big photo, all suited up in a black robe, real distinguished. What a prick.”
“How old was he?” I ask, as if it matters.
“Sixty-two. On the bench for eleven years. Quite a pedigree. It’s all in the paper. You need to see it.”
“Yeah, I’ll do that, Deck. See you later.”
The paper seems a bit heavier this morning, and I’m sure it’s because at least half of it is dedicated to the exploits of Bruiser Stone and Prince Thomas. One story follows the next. They have not been seen.
I skim the front section and go to Metro, where I’m greeted with a very dated photo of the Honorable Harvey Hale. I read the sad reflections of his colleagues, including his friend and old roommate, Leo F. Drummond.