Then I heard my phone buzz.
“Germaine Law Office.”
“Is this Griffin Germaine?”
“Yes, who’s this?” I said.
“This is Colt Jackson. Just who the fuck do you think you are?”
It took me a second to orient myself to the call. “Sorry, what did you... What are you calling about?”
“That goddamn message you left on my machine! Threatening to go to Judge Stancil. For shit’s sake, he and I went to Stanford Law together. You really think he’ll grant a motion to compel for some nobody like you?”
I was speechless. I’d dealt with enormous assholes before, but this guy won the prize.
“Look,” I said, “I don’t give a gigantic turd if you went to Stanford Law and sucked off all nine judges on the Supreme Court. Just send the damn insurance policy. My client has a right to it, and that’s the law.”
He laughed. “You really don’t know shit about torts, do you? The law is what we say it is. And you’re not getting that policy. I’ve sent over all the docs you’re going to get.”
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll file the motion to compel. Your judge buddy denies it, I’ll file a writ of mandamus with the appeals court.”
“Hoo boy, you really are stupid, aren’t you? You file for mandamus against the judge, you’ll never win a case in his court again. My advice to you, Chief Geronimo or whatever you call yourself, is that you stick to your little criminal cases and go back to your teepee—”
I hung up. I’d reached my tolerance for racist shitheads for one day. I shut down my computer and starting walking to La Morena for some cheap beer and good tequila. It was karaoke night, and with any luck they’d play some rock and roll. I’d drink and pretend that I was on some faraway beach, safe from bigots and deadlines and doubt, just for a few hours.
The next morning, I shook off my hangover and turned to Louise’s matter. She’d given me the ex-husband’s name, date of birth, and last known addresses. Roger T. Haskell, formerly of Aurora, Denver, Wheat Ridge, and Commerce City. I did a Google search but didn’t find anything beyond the usual outdated social media profiles, voter registration, and family history sites. The state government databases didn’t yield anything useful either.
Having come up dry on the standard searches, I went to the site I saved for the most important cases. Only law firms, collection agencies, and law enforcement had access to the MegaUnion MLOxr database, but it wasn’t cheap. The company could track unlisted landline phones, legal judgments, arrests and convictions, assets and licenses, as well as names and aliases. But an extensive search could run a thousand bucks or more. I wanted to help Louise, but a thousand dollars paid for two months’ rent in my crappy office. Or some advertising in the Thrifty Nickle. Or maybe just some decent hooch and a box of Omaha Steaks. I entered Roger’s name and information and hovered over the Submit button.
What the hell. I clicked on it, and tried to mute the voices in my head telling me I was an idiot. After a few minutes, an email appeared in my inbox from MLOxr. The report was eighty-seven pages. Ten dollars per sheet plus a processing fee. As I’d feared, I was out nearly a grand.
I downloaded the report and started to read. The first part contained his complete job history since he was eighteen, his electric, gas, and water utility history, and a list of his relatives and associates and their addresses. The next section listed his bankruptcy and lawsuit history. He’d taken a Chapter 7 bankruptcy about fifteen years ago and discharged all of his debts. Interesting. There’d also been a civil lawsuit filed against him for nonpayment of debts around the same time. His criminal history revealed a third-degree assault charge in Denver that had been dismissed. I wondered if Louise knew about all this.
The last section of the report listed the trade names he’d registered with the state for his businesses. He’d filed a new business trade name just a year ago. End Zone Construction, registered in Highlands Ranch at an address I hadn’t seen anywhere else. Then I went to the list of relatives and associates, and found what I’d been looking for. The address for End Zone Construction matched the one for his associate, Sherry Chamberlain, and her name appeared on the trade name registration along with his.
It was possible that Roger had created a legit business with a new partner, but my money was on the likelihood that Sherry Chamberlain was his new girlfriend, and he was living with her and running his business from that address. Maybe he’d created the company to avoid paying child support or perhaps there was something else shady going on. Either way, I’d found him and could serve him with a motion for back child support. I’d call Louise and tell her the good news. Better yet, I’d go over to the Zephyr this afternoon and tell her in person. We’d have some celebratory drinks and toast a victory for the good guys.
Later in the day, I stuck the MegaUnion report in a folder and strolled down Colfax. It was a nice day, and I decided to walk the mile and half or so to the Zephyr Lounge. No point in driving, especially if I was going to have some drinks. First, I passed by Pasternack’s giant pawn shop and looked inside the windows. A few years ago, I’d had to pawn some electronic gear when I couldn’t afford groceries. Thankfully, Nestor’s case would pay out soon, or I’d have to pawn even more of my stuff. Then I walked by the old Fox theater and the Weedstar cannabis dispensary, which looked to be packed as usual. I came to Havana Street where Nestor had his unfortunate accident, and made sure to look both ways before crossing. There were a couple of food trucks by the Mexican supermarket, and I could smell the tacos al pastor they were selling. I sidestepped the line of people waiting to get inside the Guadalajara Mexican Buffet, and then walked by the Golden Chalet, the swingers’ motel that had been there for decades. The place had survived recessions, wars, and catastrophes — a testament to the enduring power of hook-up culture. For all of its flaws, I loved Colfax Avenue and its people. I missed the reservation, but Colfax had become my home.
Thirty-five minutes later, I made it to the Zephyr and walked inside, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. It had been a few years since I’d been there, but the décor looked to be unchanged. Lots of neon, velvet paintings of Jesus, Elvis, and Santa Claus, and old stuffed animals propped up on the stage in back. The place was empty, and I spotted Louise sitting down behind the bar, staring at her phone.
“Hello there,” I said.
“Hey, stranger!” She stood up. “Are you joining me for a happy hour cocktail?”
“Why not? Pour me your favorite.”
She grinned. “We don’t carry my favorite booze, but I can whip up some pretty good dirty martinis.”
She mixed the gin along with the other ingredients, then poured it into some old-fashioned martini glasses. We toasted and took a sip. The juniper taste of the gin complemented the saltiness of the olive juice.
“What brings you in, sir?”
“Got some good news for you. Outstanding news. I found Roger.”
“You did? Already? That’s so great!”
I opened the manila folder and took out the MegaUnion report. “I used one of the big skip-tracing sites to check him out. Some interesting stuff. Take a look at this.” I pointed to one of the pages.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“He took bankruptcy and got rid of his debt. All of it. You know about that?”
She shook her head. “Sure didn’t. Makes sense, though. Hey, you want another round?”