The Flanders, though, were not smiling. They had gone silent, both glaring at him, each hating the other. When the siren faded away, Oscar returned to his chair and said, “Look, folks, if you’re going to fight, I can’t represent both of you.”
Both were tempted to bolt. Once on the street, they could go their separate ways and find more reputable lawyers, but for a second or two they were not sure what to do. Then Mr. Flander blinked. He jumped to his feet and headed for the door. “Don’t worry about it, Finley. I’ll go find me a real lawyer.” He opened the door, slammed it behind him, then stomped past Rochelle and the dog as they were settling into their places. He yanked open the front door, slammed it too, and happily left Finley & Figg forever.
CHAPTER 7
Happy hour ran from five to seven, and Abner decided his new best friend should leave before it started. He called a cab, soaked a clean towel with cold water, then walked to the other side of the bar and gently punched him. “David, wake up, pal, it’s almost five o’clock.” David had been out for an hour. Abner, like all good bartenders, did not want his after-work crowd to see a drunk facedown on the bar, comatose, snoring. Abner touched his face with the towel and said, “Come on, big guy. Party’s over.”
David suddenly came around. His eyes and mouth flew open as he gawked at Abner. “What, what, what?” he stammered.
“It’s almost five. Time to go home, David. There’s a cab outside.”
“Five o’clock!” David shouted, stunned at the news. There were half a dozen other drinkers in the bar, all watching with sympathy. Tomorrow it could be them. David got to his feet and with Abner’s help managed to pull on his overcoat and find his briefcase. “How long have I been here?” he asked, looking around wildly as if he’d just discovered the place.
“A long time,” Abner replied. He stuffed a business card into a coat pocket and said, “Call me tomorrow and we’ll settle the tab.” Arm in arm they staggered to the front door and through it. The cab was at the curb. Abner opened the rear door, wrestled David into the seat, said “He’s all yours” to the driver, and closed the door.
David watched him disappear into the bar. He looked at the driver and said, “What’s your name?”
The driver said something unintelligible, and David barked, “Can you speak English?”
“Where to, sir?” the driver asked.
“Now, that’s a really good question. You know any good bars around here?”
The driver shook his head.
“I’m not ready to go home, because she’s there and, well, oh, boy.” The inside of the cab had started to spin. There was a loud honk from behind. The driver eased into traffic. “Not so fast,” David said with his eyes closed. They were going ten miles an hour. “Go north,” David said.
“I need a destination, sir,” the driver said as he turned onto South Dearborn. Rush-hour traffic was already heavy and slow.
“I might be sick,” David said, swallowing hard and afraid to open his eyes.
“Please, not in my car.”
They stopped and started for two blocks. David managed to calm himself. “A destination, sir?” the driver repeated.
David opened his left eye and looked out the window. Next to the cab was a city transit bus waiting in traffic, packed with weary workers, its exhaust spewing fumes. Along its side was an ad, three feet by one, proclaiming the services of Finley & Figg, Attorneys. “Drunk Driving? Call the Experts. 773-718-JUSTICE.” Address in smaller print. David opened his right eye and for an instant saw the smiling face of Wally Figg. He focused on the word “drunk” and wondered if they could help in some way. Had he seen such ads before? Had he heard of these guys? He wasn’t sure. Nothing was clear; nothing made sense. The cab was suddenly spinning again, and faster now.
“Four eighteen Preston Avenue,” he said to the driver, then passed out.
———
Rochelle was never in a hurry to leave, because she never wanted to go home. As tense as things could get around the office, they were far tamer than her cramped and chaotic apartment.
The Flanders’ divorce got off to a rocky start, but with Oscar’s skillful manipulation it was now on track. Mrs. Flander had hired the firm and paid a retainer of $750. It would eventually be worked out and settled on no-fault grounds, but not before Oscar clipped her for a couple of grand. Still, Oscar was fuming over the bingo card and lying in wait for his junior partner.
Wally rolled in at 5:30, after an exhausting day looking for Krayoxx victims. The search had turned up no one but Chester Marino, but Wally was undaunted. He was onto something big. The clients were out there, and he would find them.
“Oscar’s on the phone,” Rochelle said. “And he’s upset.”
“What’s up?” Wally asked.
“A bingo card showed up: $399.”
“Pretty clever, huh? My uncle plays bingo at the VFW.”
“Brilliant.” She gave him the quick version of the Flander situation.
“See! It worked,” Wally said proudly. “You gotta get ’em in here, Ms. Gibson, that’s what I always say. The $399 is the bait, then you pull the switch. Oscar did it perfectly.”
“What about false advertising?”
“Most of what we do is false advertising. Ever hear of Krayoxx? Cholesterol drug?”
“Maybe. Why?”
“It’s killing people, okay, and it’s gonna make us rich.”
“I think I’ve heard this before. He’s off the phone.”
Wally went straight to Oscar’s door, rapped it as he pushed it open, and said, “So you like my bingo card ads, I hear.”
Oscar was standing at his desk, tie undone, tired, and in need of a drink. Two hours earlier he’d been ready for a fight. Now he just wanted to leave. “Come on, Wally, bingo cards?”
“Yep, we’re the first law firm in Chicago to use bingo cards.”
“We’ve been the first several times, and we’re still broke.”
“Those days are over, my friend,” Wally said as he reached into his briefcase. “Ever hear of a cholesterol drug called Krayoxx?”
“Yeah, yeah, my wife’s taking it.”
“Well, Oscar, it’s killing people.”
Oscar actually smiled, then caught himself. “How do you know this?”
Wally dropped a stack of research onto Oscar’s desk. “Here’s your homework, all about Krayoxx. A big mass tort firm in Fort Lauderdale sued Varrick Labs last week over Krayoxx, a class action. They claim the drug vastly increases the risk of heart attack and stroke, and they have experts to prove it. Varrick has put more crap on the market than any of the Big Pharmas, and it’s also paid more in damages. Billions. Looks like Krayoxx is its latest boondoggle. The mass tort boys are just now waking up. This is happening now, Oscar, and if we can pick up a dozen or so Krayoxx cases, then we’re rich.”
“I’ve heard this all before, Wally.”
When the cab stopped, David was awake again, though semiconscious. With some effort, he managed to toss two $20 bills over the front seat and with even more effort managed to extricate himself from the cab. He watched it drive away, then vomited in the gutter.
Afterward, he felt much better.
Rochelle was tidying up her desk and listening to the partners bicker when she heard heavy footsteps on the porch. Something hit the door, then it swung open. The young man was wild-eyed, red-faced, unsteady on his feet, but well dressed.