She took a drink of tea and said, “Well, sorta glad we asked them to go light on the spices. This stuff is hot.”
“It’s delicious though,” Simon said. He drank some tea and decided to lunge forward. There was really no way around it. “There’s another matter, Netty, that is somewhat delicate.”
“Oh dear. You lawyers.”
“Yes, you’re spot-on. Lawyers work by the hour. Our time is all we have to sell, and I’m spending a lot of it handling your legal matters.”
“Where is this going?” she asked suspiciously. Her look and tone were so cautious, Simon thought he was making a mistake. But it didn’t matter anymore. He couldn’t work for free.
“I need to get paid, Netty, same as any other lawyer in town. You’re my favorite client right now, but all clients have to pay their lawyers. It’s that simple.”
“Harry didn’t believe in paying lawyers.”
“Yes, and Harry’s been dead for ten years. I’m not being disrespectful, but I really don’t care what Harry thought about lawyers. I have an office to pay for and a family to support, and I need to be paid.”
“How much?”
What a question. Simon had struggled with it for weeks. If he went high she might be offended and walk out the door. He doubted that would happen, but he did not want to appear greedy. Bigger bucks were around the corner. He had to keep Netty happy. And if he went low, he would not get the fees he had earned and so desperately needed. He had decided to aim for the middle, and said, “Just over three thousand dollars.”
She waved him off with a casual flick of the wrist and said, “Is that all?”
What beautiful words. He could always make up later with a heftier bill. “Yes, Netty, my fees are very fair. I enjoy my clients.”
What a lie.
“I’ll take care of it,” she said as she took a bite. “When do we go to court?”
She was thinking of traffic court. Simon had his mind on probate. They were in different worlds.
“Couple of weeks. I’ll check the docket.” Oh how lawyers loved the word docket. It implied important trials and hearings in crowded courtrooms with justice hanging in the balance. But in traffic court it was little more than a sign-up sheet hanging on a clipboard.
The meatballs arrived with an aroma that was even more sumptuous. Netty said, “You promised me I’d meet your family, Simon. I’ll bet your wife and kids are adorable.”
Not exactly. Janie was a delight to be around, but the others were too troubled. Paula would never consent to meeting someone like Netty, not with the divorce hanging over their heads. She wanted nothing to do with her husband or his practice. Buck and Danny were awkward teenagers who had never learned to shake hands and introduce themselves to adults. They had no desire to meet anyone over the age of eighteen.
Simon smiled and lied, “I promise, I promise. Everybody is just so busy. School, soccer, drama, choir, piano, homework. Seems like every day is booked. I’ll try to get them all together sometime.”
Dessert was rice pudding topped with pistachios and sliced almonds, with strong coffee that Simon needed for the afternoon. Ninety minutes after they sat down, the waitress placed the check on the table. Once again, Eleanor, who constantly gazed about the dining room while eating and seemed to miss nothing, commenting occasionally on other dishes being served, on the decor, on what another cultured lady might be wearing, was totally oblivious to the bill.
This was at least their seventh lunch. Simon finally put down a credit card and paid again. $77.35. An expensive lunch for rural Virginia. He’d get it back.
Driving to the office, he schemed to rework his monthly bill, add in a lunch or two, and pad things a bit. She had scoffed at his initial amount with words he would remember: Is that all? He vowed to send her a more impressive bill.
Truthfully, he didn’t care what the lunch had cost because he and Netty had cleared the air about his fees. He was about to get paid for the first time in the many months he had known her.
Since it would be impossible to hide the billing and receipts from his secretary, he met with her that afternoon and described his business with Eleanor Barnett. Some of it. He was billing her several hours for two matters: (1) representation in traffic court, and (2) consultation for estate planning. The bill was $3,650 and Tillie mailed it that afternoon.
He did not tell Tillie that he had prepared a will for Eleanor, saying only that they were still discussing her estate, one that had become more “complicated.” Tillie took this in stride, knowing full well that he was lying.
Chapter 21
The line of credit was stretched yet again. Simon received an email notice from the bank informing him that $12,000 had just been deposited in his personal checking account.
The money provided several options. The first, and the most sensible and obvious, was to write a check to Paula so she would sign the property settlement agreement and get the divorce filed.
The second was to make a withdrawal, stuff $7,900 in an envelope, try to find Chub somewhere away from his clubs, and pay off his gambling debts once and for all.
The third was to take all the money, pack a bag, book a flight to the Virgin Islands, and disappear. No more fear of being watched by the FBI, no more worries about debts, no more nitpicking phone calls from disgruntled clients, no more stress from Paula, no more sleeping on a bed with all the comforts of a surplus army cot, and no more scheming of ways to get rich off Eleanor Barnett. Drinking on the beach seemed like the perfect solution.
That would last for about a month before the money ran out. But what a great month it would be. Reentry would be another nightmare.
He withdrew $7,900 and went to find his bookie. For a man who lived in the shadows, sipped beer until midnight, and locked the doors to his nightclubs until almost noon, Chub was not an early bird. He stumbled forth around ten and made his way to a greasy spoon on the edge of town. It was a working-class joint with a menu dominated by bleached flour and lard. Chub needed grease every morning of his life. If you wanted to see him before noon, head on over to Bobby’s Biscuits.
Simon saw his truck parked on the street. Chub was wealthy but lived a modest life, doing nothing to attract the attention of those dreadful people who carried badges. His truck was a muscled-up late-model Ford with a thick brush guard, huge rims, and tires that could claw up the sides of mountains. Though built for off-road adventures, it was shined and spotless and gave the impression that it never left the pavement.
Inside, the smell of grease greeted Simon like a blast of tropical air. A thick layer of smoke, not from cigarettes, hung close to the ceiling. Chub was not hard to spot because he wore, as always, one of his red, orange, or yellow jogging suits. Today was orange.
He was alone at his favorite table, readers on the tip of his red, bulbous nose, studying a folded newspaper. “Well, well, what brings a lawyer to this part of town?” he asked with a genuine smile. But he knew immediately that something was amiss.
“Mind if I join?” On the off chance that Chub was being wired these days, Simon had planned this surprise visit at a place they’d never met before. If he had a wire, it was still in his truck or his backpack.
“No, not at all.” Chub put away his newspaper. Simon could see he had circled some horse-racing results. The sparse remains of biscuits, eggs, and country ham were on his plate. “You hungry? Have a seat.”
“No thanks.” Simon’s mild hunger pains of five minutes earlier had dissipated in the fog of smoke and grease. He sat down as a waitress hustled by and barely stopped long enough to fill the two cups. Simon quickly handed over the envelope and said, “Seventy-nine hundred, cash. Zeroes out my account.”