Chapter
1
A
man with wild eyes burst into the office.
"Well
fuck me," I muttered and reached for my gun. It wasn't there
because of a prior incident. Stupid
progressives left me defenseless,
I thought.
"How
can I help you?" I ventured.
"They're
after me," he said. He clanged on my desk, leaning toward me.
His eyes were pink like he was on drugs or hadn't slept for days.
His
disheveled shirt, messed up hair, and scraped knuckles gave me an
idea of what he wanted. "I don't do criminal law anymore,"
I said. But upon noticing his Rolex and the fashionable bag hanging
over his shoulder I added, "I can read up on it, though."
This
won't be pro bono,
I promised myself.
"I
don't need a lawyer," the man raved. "I need help."
"Uh,
you know this isn't a psychologist's office, right?"
"Rose
recommended you," he took something out of his pocket and waved
it in my face. "She said you helped her with the government."
I
saw my card. One of my freeloading clients decided to ease her
conscience with a referral. I remembered the old lady. They'd
been sending her three social security checks under different names
for years and finally grew wise to the fact. Of course she couldn't
pay them back. Not with all those cruises she took.
"Oh,
well in that case," I said, opening a new browser tab and going
to Google.com, "what seems to be the problem?"
As
the man stammered about hearing voices and being followed, I typed
how to get rid of crazy people without a confrontation
in the search box.
"You're
taking notes?" the man said.
"Uh,
yeah." I scanned the search results. The
sooner I get rid of him, the sooner I can get back to enjoying one
star reviews on Amazon,
I thought.
"Is
that safe?"
"Oh,
absolutely."
Google
returned nothing helpful. I changed my search to making
crazy people leave.
The
man cocked his head, as if listening. "They know I'm here. Take
this." He whirled the bag over his shoulder and dropped it on
the table. It threw my pile filing system into chaos. Before I could
object he took out several crumpled sheets of paper and wads of cash.
He gave me a piercing stare, grabbed his bag, and disappeared out the
door.
"Wait.
What?" I said to the empty room.
The
phone rang and I reflexively answered. "Clancy."
There
was a man's voice, but I had trouble hearing him over my beating
heart.
"Sorry,
can you repeat that?"
"Mr.
Clancy, my name is Chuck and I'm calling from Consolidated Energy.
Collections Department."
Shit.
"Sir,
your account with us is in arrears. I'm calling to give you one last
chance to pay your bill before we're forced to cut your power."
That
didn't help the pounding in my chest.
"How
much do I owe you again, Jeff?"
"It's
Chuck, sir. That's $4,982.26."
"What?"
My wits slowly returned. "I don't use that much electricity. Do
you think this is a marijuana growing operation? What do you charge
per watt? Are you using some kind of 'green' technology?"
"Sir,
a lot of your bill is interest and penalties. The final notice
included a breakdown. Would you like to make your payment now? Since
your last check bounced, I am authorized to take your credit card
only."
I
glanced at the unpaid bills the lunatic made a mess of. One of the
threatening envelopes with a bank logo reminded me the credit card
wouldn't work.
"Sir?"
I
got an idea.
"Did
you file form SRV 379-J with the Department for the Aging?"
"Sir?"
"Are
you aware this is a law office? One of my clients is on special
assistance and would suffer great hardship if you cut my power.
That's Administrative Code section 3896 paragraph A subsection 29(g).
Did you also—"
"You
will have copies of those forms within a week," the man said
with a sigh and hung up.
I
dropped the phone and wiped my brow. Where
are my meds?
They rattled in their container as I struggled with the child safety
lock. It came loose with an unpleasant grating sound. I downed two
blood pressure pills with vodka and slumped in my seat. My heart
slowed enough not to warrant beta blockers.
My
attention turned to the money, tight rolls of Benjamin Franklins.
Hundreds of them in each roll. At
least ten rolls.
I swallowed and decided to take a beta blocker after all.
With
a comforting heat traveling down my throat and into my gut, my
head moved back and forth between my unpaid bills and the wads of
cash like I was saying no to one of the slower locals. After a long
time my stupid middle class morality prevailed. Or maybe it was just
motion sickness. Whatever the case, I decided to return the money. A
decision I regret to this day.
My
chair creaked as I got up to gather the money. I paused to glance at
the crumpled papers—drawings of brains with a bunch of writing. The
fuzzy text reminded me of the old xeroxes they used to hand out at
school when I was a kid. Resisting a sudden urge to sniff the papers,
I threw everything in the safe.
My
secretary was busy at her computer, a phone between her ear and
shoulder. "I know, right?" she said, typing.
"Hey
Tracy," I said. It took me ages to remember her name. I
have this condition where I forget names of regular people and
things. I don't recall what it's called.
She
paid me no mind.
"Tracy,"
I knocked on her desk.
"Hold
on a sec, he wants something," she said into the phone, grabbing
it and looking up. "What do you want?"
"The
man who was here, did he leave any information?"
Tracy
furrowed her brow. "What man?"
"The
tall guy with the white hair, kind of homeless looking..."
She
shrugged and turned back to Facebook. "So anyway..." she
resumed her phone conversation.
"Okay,
then," I returned to my office. I've
never been a boss before, but I don't think it's supposed to be this
hard to get people you're paying to do their job.
I
almost fired her at the start, but she got all weepy eyed and begged
for another chance. I gave in. Then, one day I saw her drinking diet
soda. I pointed out it wasn't working. I suggested she might as well
drink the real thing.
"I'm
pregnant, you asshole," Tracy had said.
That
was ten months ago. She's obviously grifting me, but I know if I get
rid of her she really will be pregnant and there's all kinds of
liability there. Plus, how's she going to support the kid without a
job? Send it to public school? No one deserves that.
"Now
what was that old hag's name?" I muttered as I searched my
computer for the Social Security scammer's contact info.
I
dialed Rose's home phone number, clearing my throat. I hoped I wasn't
getting a cold. Summer colds are the worst.
Rose
wasn't picking up. It appeared she didn't have an answering machine.
I cradled the phone after the dozenth ring. Maybe
she has caller ID,
I thought. Her house wasn't far. I refilled my flask and decided I
could use the walk.
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