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She laughed. “See? That’s why you’re the best. You’re honest. Thank you for that. I hope you will consider my offer. Please.”
After we finished eating, Linda said she needed to go back to the office right away. She flagged the waiter over, pulled her wallet from her shoulder bag, and retrieved an Amex credit card. A platinum Amex credit card to be exact. The waiter hustled over through the nearly empty room and presented the bill in its folder, like an engraved invitation. Linda gave it a cursory glance, nodded, then stuck the credit card in the slot and handed it back. The waiter hurried off.
“Here’s my card, Sam,” Linda said, pulling a shiny, gold-colored metal cardholder from her shoulder bag. She popped it open with her thumb and retrieved a business card with her agency’s logo on it from the stash within. “I’ll write my home and cell number on here, too.”
While she scribbled that down, I fished around for a business card and a pen, finding both. I paused, then wrote down my cell phone, which I normally don’t give out to clients. That was my second mistake, after thinking I’d gotten a free lunch.
CHAPTER TWO
I left the fake World War I French restaurant, hopped in my old purple Mustang convertible, and rejoined the ugly reality of twenty-first century College Park and good old Route One. I could’ve taken the Baltimore-Washington Parkway instead of Route One, but frankly I was screwed either way. Traffic in this area is a bitch no matter what road you take. Since they began making improvements on the Parkway, the traffic has become even more annoying, no matter what time you’re on it.
The trip back to my palatial sublet office took me well north of the University of Maryland campus proper, right into the thick of Beltsville. Older suburbs of brick ranchers. The kind of houses they don’t build anymore, because people are looking to buy bigger houses that are made more cheaply. Lovely.
Through some miracle, I found a place to park out front of the old Victorian house where I sublet, instead of having to pull into the lot in back and walk around to the front door. I know, I know . . . I sound lazy, but I walk all the time. And I ride a bicycle to stay in shape, so no one can say I’m not working it.
Once I’d parked, I grabbed my shoulder bag and marched up the walkway, then climbed the three short, gray-painted wooden steps to the little porch before the front door. To the right, a small slanted ramp ran alongside the steps. My landlord, the accounting firm of Milt Kressler & Associates, had installed the ramp, requiring a complete architectural redesign of the front porch to accommodate disabled employees and clients in accordance with the Americans with Disabilities Act. They’d also had to get permission from various Laurel zoning and historical authorities. Milt Kressler must really love having his business in Laurel to go through all that shit, huh?
I entered the waiting area where Sheila, my landlord’s elderly receptionist, was nodding and making “umm-hmm” sounds into her headset while typing on her keyboard. I waved hello and kept going toward the stairs leading up to my plush digs on the second floor. Sheila punched the hold button, apparently, because her head swiveled and she said, “Hang on. We need to talk.”
Oh, shit. I froze in place. I could’ve ignored her, but why put off the inevitable?
Once Sheila finished nodding and murmuring into the phone, she hung up and turned to me and said, “Sam, could you step outside with me, while I take a short smoke break?”
How interesting, I thought. Sheila keeps her silver-gray hair tied back in a bun, giving her the look of a skinny, chain-smoking librarian. One who’s never felt any compunction about smoking in the office, despite the law that says you shouldn’t. That woman smokes like . . . well, a house afire. Obviously, she wanted to talk to me where certain busybodies couldn’t hear her.
So Sheila and I went outside and huddled on the small porch together.
Not one to waste words, Sheila got right to the point. She said, “I hate to bring this up, but Milt is getting on my ass about the rent.”
I nodded. “I know, Sheila. You guys have been more than kind to cut me so much slack during this tough time. But I’ve got what looks like a promising client. Just give me a little more time to square my accounts with you, okay?”
She took a long pull on the cigarette, and the exhaust fumes streamed from her nostrils. “I could loan you part of what you owe.”
I held up a hand. “No. Don’t even think of it. That’ll just complicate an already bad situation. But I appreciate your offer.”
Sheila peered at me through the smoke, with clear blue eyes that didn’t miss much. “Sam, you’re our only tenant. I don’t want to see you go out of business or move, simply because Milt Kressler is too greedy to see that you’re an asset, not a drain on us. If you need help, find it and find it quick or you may not have a choice.”
*****
Back at my desk, I pondered my options: finding a new office I could actually afford and moving all my shit; begging for a loan I’d have to pay back eventually (with or without interest); finding a part-time job to supplement my income; or, taking the damn zoning case, $8,000 retainer and all.
I decided to call Jamila.
Much to my surprise, I managed to catch her between meetings and putting out the fire du jour. “How’s it going, Sam?” she said. “I’ve only got a moment to talk, but it’s great to hear from you.”
“Yeah, me too.” The words slipped out, even though they made no sense. “I just have a quick question. What do you know about zoning law?”
“Zoning? That’s not really my thing. I could hook you up with someone here who does that, if you have a question.”
Well, that was better than nothing, I supposed. I stared out the window and breathed deeply, trying not to freak out.
“Sam, are you okay?”
“Well … not really.” I sounded like my vocal chords were paralyzed. I explained the situation to Jamila as quickly as I could. “Now, this case has come along and it involves an old friend, but it would pay the bills. However, I’m not a zoning expert, so I’d really need to know there’s someone I could count on to assist me with the down-and-dirty details.
“I’d be more than willing to cut your firm in for a percentage of the fee,” I continued, “since you or whoever at your firm would essentially be consulting with me on this. I’d much rather do it this way than borrow money and create yet another debt to be paid. This way, your firm will get something, I’ll get something, and my client will get an attorney. How does that sound?”
“Well, that sounds reasonable.” Jamila paused. “I wonder if I should refer you to our zoning department or if I could liaise with them and work with you.”
