“What’s the score?” he asked as he stood beside her without looking at her.
“One — zip. Janie scored a goal in the first thirty seconds. You missed it.”
“Chalk up another one for you.”
“She’s really quite good. Her coach wants her to play on a summer travel team.”
Simon’s shoulders sagged a bit as he exhaled with frustration. “A travel team? There goes the summer. How many games?”
“Dozens. Six weekend tournaments. Washington, Baltimore, Charlotte, Atlanta, can’t remember the rest.”
“Great. And I suppose you’ve already said yes.”
“No. She mentioned it for the first time this morning at breakfast.”
“How much?”
“Forty-two hundred.”
“You must be kidding.”
“Nope. Fancy uniforms, travel, tournament fees, the works. Plus, a paid coach.”
“A paid coach? She’s nine years old, Paula.”
“Yes. I know.”
They had yet to look at one another. A month or so earlier they had sat together in the bleachers and a little chat grew somewhat testy. It was best if they stayed away from the other fans.
He said, “And I’m sure Janie wants to spend her summer playing soccer.”
“I think so. Her therapist says she wants to stay away from the house as much as possible.”
“Her therapist?”
“Yes. She’s had two sessions.”
“Why didn’t I know this?”
“You haven’t been home. I’m raising the kids now. Solo, it seems.”
He wanted to start yelling and cursing loudly but figured that might disrupt the game and embarrass his daughter. Plus, it would only give Paula more ammunition. He had to stay cool at all times. He ground his teeth and made himself smile.
“How much for the therapist?”
“Two-fifty an hour.” Same rate as the Honorable Simon F. Latch, Attorney and Counselor at Law. He swallowed hard and asked, with as much sarcasm as possible, “Anybody else in the family seeing a shrink, other than you and Janie?”
“Not at this time. I’m going to protect the children, Simon. Whatever it takes.”
“As if I’m trying to harm them?”
“The divorce will do enough damage.”
“And the divorce is a mutual undertaking, right? We both want out and have agreed to get a divorce.”
“The sooner the better.”
The soccer ball bounced nearby, out of play, and Janie scooped it up for the inbounds. “Nice work, Janie! Atta girl!” Simon yelled intensely. Of course, his encouragement was not acknowledged. He glanced at Paula and she rolled her eyes in disgust. What a bitch. He couldn’t even cheer properly.
Simon knew that the odds of Janie earning a single dollar playing soccer were about as slim as him winning billion-dollar verdicts against Big Pharma. But his dreams were over. Janie’s were only beginning.
“Any comments about the property settlement agreement?” he asked, changing the subject to something other than soccer. Why did he pick the PSA?
She sighed and glanced around to check on their privacy. “Is this really the place?”
“No one’s listening. You want me to stop by the house and discuss it in front of the kids?”
“Who prepared it?”
“I did. I told you I would.”
“Figures. I’ll feel better if I have my own lawyer to review the agreement. And I don’t trust any lawyer around here because you know them all.”
“Of course I know them all. Sorta goes with being in the profession. And just because I know a lawyer doesn’t mean I trust him. In fact, I distrust at least half of the lawyers in town and don’t like most of them.”
“I’ll find one.”
“Great. And pay him or her five grand to nitpick a PSA that is straightforward, fair, and includes everything we’ve already agreed to?”
“You’re raising your voice, Simon, please.”
The game dragged on as Simon boiled and Paula seethed and both wanted to walk away but neither would be the first to leave. Janie would know instantly if one of them left. Late in the game she scored a third goal. Simon faked a cheer while wondering how much it might cost him. When the ball went out of bounds at the other end, he turned and walked away without another word.
Chapter 14
The following week, a rather belligerent gentleman, badly dressed and reeking of alcohol, made a noisy entrance into the reception area of the law office of Wally Thackerman, across Main Street from Simon’s building.
Fran, the secretary, who had years of experience handling riffraff from the street, sized him up quickly and asked, “May I help you?”
“I wanna see Wally Thackerman, the lawyer,” he demanded.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Aren’t you in charge of appointments? Sure you are, and if you were doing a half-ass job you’d know that I don’t have an appointment. And I’m not leaving either.”
“Okay. May I have your name and the nature of your business.”
“Name’s Clyde Korsak and my business ain’t none of your business.”
“Well, be that as it may, Mr. Thackerman is with a client right now. I’ll be happy to make an appointment for tomorrow, say around three P.M.”
“Oh how efficient. I’m not coming back tomorrow because I’m not leaving today. I’ll see the sonofabitch right now because I’m not going away.”
Wally happened to be in his firm’s library, which was closer to the front than his office, and when he heard a loud, aggressive voice he inched forward to investigate. “Everything okay, Fran?” He was peeking around from the hallway.
“You Thackerman?” the man snarled.
“Well, yes, I’m Walter Thackerman. And who are you, sir?”
“I’m Clyde Korsak, stepson of Eleanor Barnett, and we need to talk.”
Fran hurriedly made fresh coffee, not that Clyde wanted any, but it seemed necessary at the moment. Wally got him situated in the library, at the big table, and managed some small talk as they waited for the coffee.
The man was frightening. He had reluctantly entered his fifties but was still clinging to his thirties, with long, thick, oily, badly dyed dark hair that fell to his shoulders, much like a washed-up 1980s rocker still touring the small venues. Gaudy tattoos covered both forearms, and some sort of green spider was crawling up his neck. He had patches of wrinkles around his red, puffy eyes, and layers across his forehead. Cheap trinkets hung around his wrists. Both ears were adorned with gold crosses. An ancient black leather jacket. Biker’s boots.
Wally thought about calling the police before they sat down.
Clyde said, “Momma says you’re giving her advice on her will and such.”
Momma? When Wally counseled Eleanor Barnett he had certainly quizzed her about children, the usual questions. She had none. Wally could vaguely recall a reference to a child or two belonging to Harry Korsak, but there were no details.
Rattled, Wally said, “Well, I, uh, sir, I don’t recall Eleanor saying anything about having children. I’m certain she said she has none.”
“You’re a damned liar.”
“I am not. You said you are a stepson?”
“I am, me and my brother. Momma raised us, with Daddy’s help of course.” His red eyes glowed at Wally, who was becoming more unsettled.
Clyde said, “Momma says you been working on a will and testament for her. That right?”
Wally puffed up with ethical indignation and said, “Look, sir, I cannot discuss anything Ms. Barnett said to me. It’s confidential and privileged. She’s my client and I will not discuss her legal affairs.”
Clyde seemed ready to explode just as Fran walked in with a pot of coffee, two mugs, and a chirpy “Here, gentlemen. Fresh coffee.”