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The thought niggled. It wasn’t a done deal until I had cash in the bank and a signature on the dotted line.
So how was worrying about it going to change anything? Get back to what little work you do have, Sam.
*****
I went back to the office to return messages from two possible clients. One wanted to have a simple will prepared. No problem. Of course, as so often happens, if I determined that she needed more than just a simple will after I checked her financial information, I’d have to find someone who knew what the hell they were doing to handle that part. I might possibly get a finder’s fee or perhaps we could work together on her paperwork, but rich people aren’t my forte. Many people don’t realize how much they have.
The other one was a woman who wanted a divorce. She gave me an earful over the phone about her husband’s lack of attention to her needs, his inability to listen to her, his late nights at the office, and so on. I had to bite my tongue to keep from yelling, “Would you shut the fuck up, lady! At least, you have someone in your life.” Divorce cases are the worst. I hate the bitterness. I hate the fighting over money. I hate the grudges over stupid things like who gets this DVD or that book or, who did what to whom, etc. And when kids are involved, they become pawns in the game. Take it from an orphan, who wishes she could see her parents again.
But I was desperate enough to arrange meetings with both potential clients.
Law is such a glamorous profession, isn’t it? Just like on TV. I tried to picture Julia Roberts playing me. I failed.
I walked home, leaving my car in front of the office, feeling lucky to live only two blocks from where I work, right off of Main Street in the Peachtree Garden Apartments. Unfortunately, any peach trees that may have once existed there were taken down to build the apartments.
I stopped in the open foyer to quickly retrieve my mail, hoping not to get caught in a conversation with my well-meaning but somewhat overly worried downstairs neighbor, Russell Burke. Russell was dark, handsome, well-groomed, and like the father I wish I still had. The fact that he was gay took nothing away from his paternal tendencies. In fact, he probably would have made a great father. There were times, however, when I could stand a little less quasi-parental guidance from Russell and a little more just plain friendship.
I inserted the key and opened the box, pulled out my mail, and slammed it shut. I bounded up the flight of stairs to my apartment, taking the stairs two at a time.
As I entered my apartment, I got the usual reception at the door from my ravenous feline friend, Oscar—all fifteen black-and-white pounds of him. He rammed his head into my ankles and intertwined himself between my legs, so I couldn’t walk without tripping. I tossed my shoulder bag onto the side table and looked down at him, hands on hips. He kept up the intertwining, with a lot of “meow, meow,” until he realized I wasn’t budging.
Then he sat and gave me the golden-eyed stare.
“Look here, asshole,” I said. “I love you, but I can’t feed you if I can’t move, okay?”
This elicited a protracted “mee-ooo-wwww” of eardrum-shattering proportions.
I hustled into the small kitchen with Oscar hot on my heels and poured dry cat food into his bowl. He pounced on it as though he were starving to death.
“Jesus, what an act!” I almost applauded, but I realized it would be a wasted gesture. Time to look after number one.
I had just switched on the TV to see how the Nats were doing when my cell phone rang. I figured it was Linda, but it was a name and number I didn’t recognize, so I ignored it. I went to the fridge and pulled out a pint of Ben and Jerry’s chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. My biggest vices these days are drinking excessive amounts of black coffee and eating this sugar and fat laden dairy product straight from the carton.
I’d just dropped onto the tan leather couch and started digging into the ice cream when the phone rang again. This time, I could see from the caller ID that it was Linda. I answered on the second ring.
“Hey, Linda. What’s the good word?”
“Well, actually, there’s good news and bad news.” Her tone suggested there was more bad news than good.
I set my spoon down, sat back on my couch, and took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly. “Linda, don’t sugarcoat it. What’s wrong?”
“The good news is that the group wants to go ahead with the appeal. The problem is that the vote was split. Some people are worried that we’re wasting time and money and making enemies in the bargain. But we voted, and the majority rules, so we’re going ahead with this. However . . .”
I knew what was coming next. “It’s about the eight thousand dollars, right?”
“Sam, I’m not letting her get away with this. You’re going to get eight grand. That’s a promise.”
I squinted. “Let who get away with what?”
“Ariel Lorenz. She co-founded the group with me. Suddenly, she’s being a real asshole about the money. Apparently, she thinks she can call the shots all by herself. Well, guess again.”
I rolled my eyes. “Hold on a sec.” I checked the caller ID for my last missed call and hit the speakerphone button. “Does Ariel by any chance have this number?”
I read the number off the caller ID and Linda said, “Yeah, that’s her cell phone. How did you know?”
“No, Linda. The question is how did Ariel know my number?”
“Oh. Oh . . . shit.”
