I am eventually forced to explain what happened with those awful folks at the Lake firm. A conflict of strategy.
They weren’t moving fast enough to suit me. They didn’t like my hard-charging approach to the case. And on and on.
They really don’t care. The lawsuit has been filed, and they have proof. They can read it all they want. They want to know what will happen next, how soon might they know something? What are the chances of a quick settlement? These questions knock the wind out of me. I know it will take much too long, and I feel cruel concealing this.
I cajole them into signing a letter addressed to Barry X. Lancaster, their old lawyer. It tersely fires him. There’s also anew contract with the firm of J. Lyman Stone. I talk real fast as I explain this new batch of paperwork. From the same seats at the kitchen table, Donny Ray and I watch as Dot stomps through the weeds again and quarrels with her husband to get his signatures.
I leave them in better spirits than when I found them. They’re taking a fair amount of satisfaction in the fact that they’ve sued this company they’ve hated for so long. They’ve finally fought back: they’ve been stepped on, and they’ve convinced me that they’ve been wronged. Now, they’ve joined the millions of other Americans who file suit each year. It makes them feel somewhat patriotic.
I sit in my hot little car in rush hour traffic, and think about the insanity of the past twenty-four hours. I’ve just signed a quicksand employment contract. A thousand dollars a month is such a paltry sum, yet it frightens me. It’s not a salary, but a loan, and I have no idea how Bruiser plans for me to immediately start generating fees. If I collect on the Black case, it’ll be many months away.
I’ll continue to work at Yogi’s for a while. Prince still pays me in cash — five bucks an hour plus dinner and a few beers.
There are firms in this town that expect their new associates to wear nice suits every day, to drive a presentable vehicle, to live in a respectable house, even to hang out at the fashionable country clubs. Of course, they pay them a helluva lot more than Bruiser’s paying me, but they also weigh them down with a lot of unnecessary societal burdens.
Not me. Not my firm. I can wear anything, drive anything, hang out anywhere, and no one will ever say a word. In fact, I wonder what I’ll say the first time one of the guys in the office wants to dart across the street for a quick table dance or two.
Suddenly, I’m my own man. A wonderful feeling of independence comes over me as the traffic inches forward. I can survive! I’ll put in some hard time with Bruiser, and probably learn much more about law than I would with the boys in the buildings downtown. I’ll endure the snubs and quips and put-downs from others about working in such a seedy outfit. I can handle it. It’ll make me tough. I was a bit haughty not long ago when I was safe and secure with old Brodnax and Speer, and then with Lake, so I’ll eat a little crow.
It’s dark when I park at Greenway Plaza. Most of the cars are gone. Across the street, the bright lights of Club Amber have attracted the usual crowd of pickup trucks and corporate rental cars. The neon swirls around the roof of the entire building and illuminates the area.
The skin business has exploded in Memphis, and it’s difficult to explain. This is a very conservative town with lots of churches, the heart of the Bible Belt. The people who seek elective office here are quick to embrace strict moral standards, and they’re usually rewarded accordingly by the voters. I cannot imagine a candidate being soft on the skin trade and getting elected.
I watch a carload of businessmen unload and stagger into Club Amber. It’s an American with four of his Japanese friends, no doubt about to top off a long day of deal-making with a few drinks and a pleasant review of the latest developments in American silicon.
The music is already loud. The parking lot is filling fast.
I walk quickly to the front door of the firm and unlock it. The offices are empty. Hell, they’re probably across the street. I got the distinct impression this afternoon that the firm of J. Lyman Stone is not a place for workaholics.
All the doors are closed and I presume locked. No one trusts anyone around here. I certainly plan to lock mine.
I’ll stay here for a few hours. I need to call Booker and update him on my latest adventures. We’ve been neglecting our studies for the bar exam. For three years we’ve been able to prod and motivate each other. The bar exam is looming like a date with a firing squad.
Sixteen
I survive the night without an arrest, but with little sleep as well. At some point between five and six, I surrender to the muddled thoughts racing wildly through my mind, and get out of bed. I haven’t slept four hours in the last forty-eight.
The phone number is listed, and I punch the numbers at five minutes before six. I’m on my second cup of coffee. It rings ten times before a sleepy voice says, “Hello.”
“Barry Lancaster please,” I say.
“Speaking.”
“Barry, Rudy Baylor here.”
He clears his throat and I can see him lurching up from his bed. “What’s up?” he asks, his voice much sharper.
“Sorry to call so early, but I just wanted to mention a couple of things.”
“Like what?”
“Like the Blacks filed suit yesterday against Great Benefit. I’ll send you a copy as soon as you boys get yourselves a new officé. They’ve also signed a release, so you’ve been terminated. No need to worry about them again.”
“How’d you file suit?”
“That’s really none of your business.”
“The hell it’s not.”
“I’ll send a copy of the lawsuit, you’ll figure it out. You’re a bright guy. Do you have a new address yet, or does the old one still work?”
“Our box at the post office was not damaged.”
“Righto. Anyway, I’d appreciate it if you’d leave me out of this arson business. I had nothing to do with the fire, and if you insist on implicating me, then I’ll be forced to sue your thieving ass.”
“I’m petrified.”
“I can tell. Just stop throwing my name around.” I hang up before he can respond. I watch the phone for five minutes, but he doesn’t call. What a coward.
I’m very anxious to see how the fire plays in the morning paper, so I shower, dress and leave quickly under the cover of darkness. There’s little traffic as I head south toward the airport, toward Greenway Plaza, a place that’s beginning to feel like home. I park in the same spot I left seven hours ago. Club Amber is dark and quiet, the lot littered with trash and beer cans.
The slender bay next to the bay which I think houses my office is rented by a stocky German woman named Trudy who runs a cheap coffee shop. I met her last night when I walked over for a sandwich. She told me she opened at six for coffee and doughnuts.
She’s pouring coffee as I enter. We chat for a moment as she toasts my bagel and pours my coffee. There are already a dozen men cramped around the small tables, and Trudy has things on her mind. For starters, the doughnut man is late.
I get a paper and sit at a table by the window as the sun is rising. On the front page of the Metro section is a large photo of Mr. Lake’s warehouse in full blaze. A brief article gives a history of the building, says that it was completely destroyed, and that Mr. Lake himself estimates the loss at three million dollars. “The renovation has been a five-year love affair,” he is quoted as saying. “I’m devastated.”
Weep some more, old boy. I scan it quickly and do not see the word “arson” used. Then I read it carefully. The police are tight-lipped — the matter still under investigation, too early to speculate, no comment. The usual cop-speak.