I have thought about the fact that I’m surely the only person who worked for both fugitives, but I honestly never dreamed the feds would be watching me. My appetite has vanished. My mouth remains dry. Every slight sound causes me to jump.
We both withdraw into our thoughts, and stare at various items on the table. We don’t speak again until the pizza arrives, and we eat in complete silence. I’d like to know the details: How did Bruiser contact Deck? Who paid for his trip to Vegas? Is this the first time they’ve talked since the fugitives disappeared? Will it be the last? Why is Bruiser still concerned about me?
Two thoughts emerge from the fog. One, if Bruiser had enough help tracking Deck’s movements to Vegas to know that he was followed the entire way, then he would certainly be able to hire people to fetch the money from Memphis. Why worry about us? Because he doesn’t care if we get caught, that’s why. Second, the feds haven’t bothered to interview me because they didn’t want to alert me. It’s been much easier to watch me because I haven’t been worried about them.
And another thought. There’s no doubt my little buddy across the table wanted to open the door to a serious discussion about the money. Deck knows more than he’s told me, and he started this conference with a plan.
I’m not foolish enough to believe he’s giving up this easily.
The daily mail is an event I’m learning to dread. Deck picks it up after lunch, as usual, and brings it to the office. There’s a thick, legal-sized envelope from the good folks at Tinley Britt, and I hold my breath as I rip it open. It’s Drummond’s written discovery: a set of interrogatories, a series of requests for every document known to the plaintiff or his lawyer and a set of requests for admissions. The latter is a neat device to force an opposing party to admit or deny certain facts set forth in writing within thirty days. If the facts are not denied, then they are forever deemed admitted. The package also contains a notice to take the deposition of Dot and Buddy Black, in two weeks, in my office. Normally, I’m told, lawyers chat for a bit on the phone and agree on the date, time and place for a deposition. This is called professional courtesy, takes about five minutes, and makes things run much smoother. Evidently, Drummond either forgot his manners or has adopted a hardball strategy. Either way, I’m determined to alter the date and place. Not that I have a conflict, it’s just for the sake of principle.
Remarkably, the package contains no motions! I’ll wait for tomorrow.
Written discovery must be answered within thirty days, and can be filed simultaneously. My own is almost complete, and the receipt of Drummond’s spurs me into action. I’m determined to show Mr. Bigshot that I can play the paper war. He’ll either be impressed, or he’ll once again realize he’s competing with a lawyer who has nothing else to do.
It’s almost dark when I pull quietly into the driveway. There are two strange cars next to Miss Birdie’s Cadillac, two shiny Pontiacs with Avis stickers on the rear bumpers. I hear voices as I tiptoe around the house, hoping to make it to my apartment without being seen.
I stayed at the office until late, mainly because I wanted to avoid Delbert and Vera. I should be so lucky. They’re on the patio with Miss Birdie, drinking tea. And there’s more company.
“There he is,” Delbert says loudly as soon as I’m visible. I break stride, look toward the patio. “Come on over, Rudy.” It’s more of a command than an invitation.
He rises slowly as I walk over, and another man also gets to his feet. Delbert points to the new guy. “Rudy, this here is my brother Randolph.”
Randolph and I shake hands. “My wife June,” he says, waving at another aging leathered tart in the Vera vein, this one with bleached hair. I nod at her. She gives me a look that would boil cheese.
“Miss Birdie,” I say politely, nodding to my landlord.
“Hello, Rudy,” she says sweetly. She’s sitting on the wicker sofa with Delbert.
“Join us,” Randolph says, waving at an empty chair.
“No thanks,” I say. “I need to get to my apartment, see if anybody’s been pilfering.” I glance at Vera as I say this. She’s sitting behind the sofa, away from the rest, probably as far away from June as she can get.
June is between forty and forty-five. Her husband, as I recall, is almost sixty. Now I remember that she’s the one Miss Birdie referred to as a tramp. Randolph’s third wife. Always asking about the money.
“We haven’t been in your apartment,” Delbert says testily.
In contrast with his gaudy brother, Randolph is aging with dignity. He’s not fat, permed, dyed or laden with gold. He’s wearing a golf shirt, bermuda shorts, white socks, white sneakers. Like everybody else, he’s tanned. He could easily pass for a retired corporate executive, complete with a plastic little trophy wife. “How long are you gonna be living here, Rudy?” he asks.
“Didn’t know I was leaving.”
“Didn’t say you were. Just curious. Mother says there’s no lease, so I’m just asking.”
“Why are you asking?” Things are changing rapidly. As of last night, Miss Birdie wasn’t discussing the lease.
“Because from now on, I’m helping Mother handle her affairs. The rent is very low.”
“It certainly is,” June adds.
“You haven’t complained, have you, Miss Birdie?” I ask her.
“Well no,” she says, waffling, as if maybe she’s thought about complaining but just hasn’t found the time.
I could bring up mulching and painting and weed-pulling, but I’m determined not to argue with these idiots. “So there,” I say. “If the landlord’s happy, then what are you worried about?”
“We don’t want Momma taken advantage of,” Delbert says.
“Now, Delbert,” Randolph says.
“Who’s taking advantage of her?” I ask.
“Well, no one, but—”
“What he’s trying to say,” Randolph interrupts, “is that things are gonna be different now. We’re here to help Mother, and we’re just concerned about her business. That’s all.”
I watch Miss Birdie while Randolph is talking, and her face is glowing. Her sons are here, worrying about her, asking questions, making demands, protecting their momma. Though I’m sure she despises her two current daughters-in-law, Miss Birdie is a very content woman.
“Fine,” I say. “Just leave me alone. And stay out of my apartment.” I turn and walk quickly away, leaving behind many unspoken words and many questions they’d planned to ask. I lock my apartment, eat a sandwich, and in the darkness, through a window, hear them chatter in the distance.
I spend a few minutes trying to reconstruct this gathering. At some point yesterday, Delbert and Vera arrived from Florida, for what purpose I’ll probably never know. Somehow they found Miss Birdie’s last will, saw that she had twenty million or so to give away and became deeply concerned about her welfare. They learned she had a lawyer living on the premises, and this concerned them too. Delbert called Randolph, who also lives in Florida, and Randolph hurried home, trophy wife in tow. They spent today grilling their mother about everything imaginable, and have now reached the point of being her protectors.
I really don’t care. I can’t help but chuckle to myself at the entire gathering. Wonder how long it’ll take for them to learn the truth.
For now, Miss Birdie is happy. And I’ll be happy for her.
Thirty
I arrive early for my nine o’clock appointment with Dr. Walter Kord. A lot of good it does. I wait for an hour, reading Donny Ray’s medical records, which I’ve already memorized. The waiting room fills with cancer patients. I try not to look at them.