” His smile broadens.
“Gideon it is.”
I leave, glad I could give him something to smile about.
3
I stand out in front of the jail like some derelict who has just been released from the drunk tank. The afternoon sun feels about five feet from my face. What now? So far my debut in private practice has been less than impressive. I can’t even get my first and only client bonded out of jail. If I don’t get out of the heat soon, I’ll spend my first night in a hospital as a stroke victim. To give myself time to think, I wander back over in the direction of the Blair Building, wondering if they have had to pry Martha off the bathroom fixtures. It is beginning to sink in how desperate my situation is. If I can ever get Chapman released, the first thing I’ll need to work out with him is a retainer. As if I’ve got something important to do, I walk against the light at the corner of Vance and Darrow. Unless you have a job, there’s not much to do except window-shop-not that there’s anything to buy downtown since developers figured out they could make a fortune accommodating whites who wanted to escape from blacks by moving to the western part of the county. The central business district is a checkerboard of urban blight.
The closest thing to a first-rate, high-quality retail store on Darrow is a black wig shop. Actually, there is a decent-looking men’s clothing store down the street, but I’ve never seen a white person in it. The assumption is that the stuff must be junk. And we say we’re no longer racists.
I jaywalk across the street to Beaumont Drugs, which has something for everybody, even unemployed lawyers. I make the sporting-goods section my temporary office and pretend I am pondering the eternal question: Wilson or Penn tennis balls? Bored with jogging and sick of racquetball, I have taken up tennis this summer. I wince at the price: $3.25 a can. At Wal-Mart a can costs $1.84. Given my prospective bank balance, running is looking attractive again. I find the phone booth next to the elevator and look up Chapman’s address: number 5 Clearwater Apartments. Damn! The guy lives in the whitest singles apartment complex in Blackwell County. What is he trying to prove? I have thought about moving into a singles building when Sarah goes to college, but then I look in the mirror and think I’m losing my mind.
The women in these buildings are young enough to be my daughters.
Out of the corner of my eye I notice a grizzled old black lady with a chinful of hair wistfully studying the phone in my hand and give her a thumbs-up sign that I’m almost through. In my new office we have to be generous about sharing the phone. I flip through the Yellow Pages, looking in the realty section, and remember an old friend in solo practice in the Layman Building almost directly across the street.
I give the old-goat lady a wink as I hand her the phone.
She responds to my rudeness with a “don’t-you-be-botherin’-me-white-man” stare, and I fairly prance out of Beaumont’s, relieved to have somewhere to go. As I find Clan Bailey’s name on the board in the Layman Building lobby, I begin to feel depressed again. I could write a book about what I still don’t know about general practice. I am going to have to find a floor full of lawyers who will take turns holding my hand and lending me their forms. I can handle a criminal case and have learned more than I want to know from the plaintiff’s side about personal injury litigation, but I can’t draw up a simple deed without wanting to check my malpractice coverage.
I realize suddenly that I am no longer covered by the firm. I’ll just have to fly without it for a while. One crash though, and I’ll be doing a forced feeding on bankruptcy law, another area I managed to avoid in school. What the hell did I learn? Confidence I do not have in abundance at the moment. As I head up to the sixteenth floor, I wonder how Clan is doing. Recently, I’ve come to the conclusion that he must be eating steroids for breakfast. Each time I’ve seen him lately, he looks as if he’s gained another fifty pounds.
The anxieties of solo practice, I fear. He had been in a firm after leaving the PD’s Office but went out on his own six months ago. He can give me a reasonably unbiased account of the virtues (but more likely the defects) of the Layman Building.
“Is Clan Bailey in?” I ask the receptionist, a strange young woman who is slowly threading a plastic soda straw into a mouth so small her effort seems as if it might be causing her some pain.
Considering my question, she noisily slurps the remains of a Diet Coke.
“Yeah, Dan’s in,” she says after a final gurgling sound bubbles up from the bottom of the container.
Hey, we’re really moving now.
“Could you tell him Gideon Page is here to see him?”
She purses her chicken lips in more thought.
“Why don’cha go on back? He doesn’t seem too busy.” She smiles pleasantly as if she is doing us both a big favor.
This woman, her hair a rat’s nest, is dressed more like a circus clown than a secretary. She is wearing green balloon pants and an aqua top. With her tiny mouth and pop eyes, she resembles some kind of prehistoric fish. Truly a receptionist from the depths. I flee down the hall until I get to 1613 and find Clan as promised, leaning back in his chair and gazing at his wall.
I walk through the open door.
“Your receptionist doesn’t seem particularly in awe of you,” I say, taking a seat in the only other chair in the office.
He grins, his now fat cheeks billowing outward like toy sails.
“It’s a mutual-non admiration society. Thank God she’s a temp. You should see the regular one-a Carol Doda look-alike.” He spreads both hands under his rib cage in the now time-dishonored manner.
I shake my head in wonder at my friend’s perpetual time warp. Carol Doda was, or is (for all I know), a stripper in San Francisco who surely would admit she was in her prime a quarter of a century ago, when, with all the protest marches and riots in the big cities, it seemed the country was on the verge of revolution. But Dan’s most precious memory of the period is a mental postcard of two giant breasts. Yet I must have drooled over the same issues of Playboy.
“You’re looking larger than life,” I say un diplomatically
“Jeez,” he complains, “if I get any fatter I’ll have to be driven to work on a forklift.”
I laugh, knowing I like him because I doubt he has censored a single thought since the day he got married. An hour before his wedding (a humongous affair with a catered outdoor reception at the Arts Center), he knew he was making a horrible mistake.
“Brenda could handle the fact that her husband-to-be had an emotional age of fifteen,” he told me once after work over a couple of beers, “but when she discovered afterward I really was only two, it freaked her. I should have called it off, but I didn’t have (he balls.” I put my feet up on his desk and selectively rehash my year at Mays amp; Burton. Clan loves gossip the way my kid loves grease disguised as food.
“Shitfire!” he exclaims.
“They really fucked you, didn’t they?” I nod, marveling at how high Dan’s voice gets when he becomes indignant. At the PD’s Office we joked that if he could make his voice sound that shrill for a few more seconds he could market it as a dog whistle.
“I escaped with a client, though,” I say, feeling a need not to sound too pathetic and tell him about Andrew Chapman.
His Razorback red tie choking his bulging neck, Clan loosens his collar as if my story sticks in his craw.
“Aren’t you a little worried,” he mumbles, “that when this case hits the newspapers they might come after the fee?”
Feeling heat rising to my face, I practically shout, “He hadn’t signed their retainer agreement, damn it. Besides, it was me he wanted, not Mays amp; Burton. The odds were almost certain they wouldn’t have let me take it.”
Like a teenager wearing his first tie on a dinner date, Clan inspects it for stains. He says loyally, “You’re right. They wouldn’t get anywhere.”