“I will not do a divorce for $400. I’ve been a lawyer for thirty-two years, and I will not prostitute myself for such a meager fee. Do you hear me, Ms. Gibson?”
“I’ve heard this before.”
“Let Figg do it. It’s his case. His bingo card. I’m too busy.”
“Right, but Figg’s not here, and you’re not really that busy.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s visiting the dead, one of his funeral laps around town.”
“What’s his scheme this time?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“This morning it was Taser guns.”
Oscar laid the bingo card on his desk and stared at it. He shook his head, mumbled to himself, and asked, “What kind of tormented mind could even conceive of the notion of advertising on bingo cards in a VFW?”
“Figg,” she said without hesitation.
“I might have to strangle him.”
“I’ll hold him down.”
“Dump this riffraff on his desk. Make an appointment. They can come back later. It’s an outrage that people think they can just walk in off the street and see a lawyer, even Figg, without an appointment. Give me a little dignity, okay?”
“Okay, you have dignity. Look, they have some assets and almost no debt. They’re in their sixties, kids are gone. I say you split ’em up, keep her, start the meter.”
By 3:00 p.m., Abner’s was quiet again. Eddie had somehow disappeared with the lunch crowd, and David Zinc was alone at the bar. Four middle-aged men were getting drunk in a booth as they made big plans for a bonefishing trip to Mexico.
Abner was washing glasses in a small sink near the beer taps. He was talking about Miss Spence. “Her last husband was Angus Spence. Ring a bell?”
David shook his head. At that moment, nothing rang a bell. The lights were on, but no one was home.
“Angus was the billionaire no one knew. Owned a bunch of potash deposits in Canada and Australia. Died ten years ago, left her with a bundle. She would be on the Forbes list, but they can’t find all the assets. The old man was too smart. She lives in a penthouse on the lake, comes in every day at eleven, has three Pearl Harbors for lunch, leaves at 12:15 when the crowd comes in, and I guess she goes home and sleeps it off.”
“I think she’s cute.”
“She’s ninety-four.”
“She didn’t pay her tab.”
“She doesn’t get a tab. She sends me a thousand bucks every month. She wants that stool and three drinks and her privacy. I’ve never seen her talk to anyone before. You should consider yourself lucky.”
“She wants my body.”
“Well, you know where to find her.”
David took a small sip of a Guinness stout. Rogan Rothberg was a distant memory. He wasn’t so sure about Helen, and he really didn’t care. He had decided to get wonderfully drunk and enjoy the moment. Tomorrow would be brutal, and he would deal with it then. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could interfere with this delightful slide into oblivion.
Abner slid a cup of coffee in front of him and said, “Just brewed it.”
David ignored it. He said, “So you work on retainer, huh? Just like a law firm. What could I get for a thousand bucks a month?”
“At the rate you’re going, a thousand won’t touch it. Have you called your wife, David?”
“Look, Abner, you’re a bartender, not a marriage counselor. This is a big day for me, a day that will change my life forever. I’m in the middle of a major crack-up, or meltdown, or whatever it is. My life will never be the same, so let me enjoy this moment.”
“I’ll call you a cab whenever you want.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
For initial client conferences, Oscar always put on his dark jacket and straightened his tie. It was important to set the tone, and a lawyer in a black suit meant power, knowledge, and authority. Oscar firmly believed the image also conveyed the message that he did not work cheap, though he usually did.
He pored over the proposed property settlement, frowning as if it had been drafted by a couple of idiots. The Flanders were on the other side of his desk. They occasionally glanced around to take in the Ego Wall, a potpourri of framed photos showing Mr. Finley grinning and shaking hands with unknown celebrities, and framed certificates purporting to show that Mr. Finley was highly trained and skilled, and a few plaques that were clear proof he had been justly recognized over the years. The other walls were lined with shelves packed with thick, somber law books and treatises, more proof still that Mr. Finley knew his stuff.
“What’s the value of the house?” he asked without taking his eyes off the agreement.
“Around two-fifty,” Mr. Flander replied.
“I think it’s more,” Mrs. Flander added.
“This is not a good time to be selling a house,” Oscar said wisely, though every homeowner in America knew the market was weak. More silence as the wise man studied their work.
He lowered the papers and peered over his drugstore reading glasses into the expectant eyes of Mrs. Flander. “You’re getting the washer and dryer, along with the microwave, treadmill, and flat-screen television?”
“Well, yes.”
“In fact, you’re getting probably 80 percent of the household furnishings, right?”
“I suppose. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, except he’s getting most of the cash.”
“I think it’s fair,” said Mr. Flander.
“I’m sure you do.”
“Do you think it’s fair?” she asked.
Oscar shrugged as if it weren’t his business. “Pretty typical, I’d say. But cash is more important than a trainload of used furniture. You’ll probably move into an apartment, something much smaller, and you won’t have enough room for all your old stuff. He, on the other hand, has money in the bank.”
She shot a hard look at her soon-to-be-ex-husband. Oscar hammered away. “And your car is three years older, so you’re getting the old car and the old furniture.”
“It was his idea,” she said.
“It was not. We agreed.”
“You wanted the IRA account and the newer car.”
“That’s because it’s always been my car.”
“And that’s because you’ve always had the nicer car.”
“That’s not true, Barbara. Don’t start exaggerating like you always do, okay?”
Louder, Barbara responded, “And don’t you start lying in front of the lawyer, Cal. We agreed we would come here, tell the truth, and not fight in front of the lawyer. Didn’t we?”
“Oh, sure, but how can you sit there and say I’ve always had the nicer car? Have you forgotten the Toyota Camry?”
“Good God, Cal, that was twenty years ago.”
“Still counts.”
“Well, yes, I remember it, and I remember the day you wrecked it.”
Rochelle heard the voices and smiled to herself. She turned a page of her paperback. AC, asleep beside her, suddenly rose to his feet and began a low growl. Rochelle looked at him, then slowly got up and walked to a window. She adjusted the blinds to give herself a view, then she heard it—the distant wail of a siren. As it grew louder, AC’s growl also picked up the volume.
Oscar was also at a window, casually looking at the intersection in the distance, hoping for a glimpse of the ambulance. It was a habit too hard to break, not that he really wanted to stop. He, along with Wally and now Rochelle and perhaps thousands of lawyers in the city, couldn’t suppress a rush of adrenaline at the sound of an approaching ambulance. And the sight of one flying down the street always made him smile.