“Can I help you?” she said with great suspicion.
David looked at her but didn’t see her. He looked around the room, wobbled, squinted as he tried to focus.
“Sir?” she said.
“I love this place,” he said to her. “I really, really love this place.”
“How nice. Could I—”
“I’m looking for a job, and this is where I want to work.”
AC smelled trouble and walked around the corner of Rochelle’s desk. “How cute!” David said loudly, giggling. “A dog. What’s his name?”
“AC.”
“AC. All right. Help me out here. What does AC stand for?”
“Ambulance Chaser.”
“I like it. I really, really like it. Does he bite?”
“Don’t touch him.”
The two partners had moved quietly into view. They were standing in the door of Oscar’s office. Rochelle gave them a nervous look.
“This is where I want to work,” David repeated. “I need a job.”
“Are you a lawyer?” Wally asked.
“Are you Figg or Finley?”
“I’m Figg. He’s Finley. Are you a lawyer?”
“I think so. As of eight o’clock this morning I was employed by Rogan Rothberg, one of six hundred. But I quit, snapped, cracked up, went to a bar. It’s been a long day.” David leaned against the wall to steady himself.
“What makes you think we’re looking for an associate?” Oscar asked.
“Associate? I was thinking more in terms of coming straight in as a partner,” David said, then doubled over in laughter. No one else cracked a smile. They were not sure what to do, but Wally would later confess he thought about calling the police.
When the laughing stopped, David steadied himself again and repeated, “I love this place.”
“Why are you leaving the big firm?” Wally asked.
“Oh, lots of reasons. Let’s just say I hate the work, hate the people I work with, and hate the clients.”
“You’ll fit in here,” Rochelle said.
“We’re not hiring,” Oscar said.
“Oh, come on. I went to Harvard Law School. I’ll work part-time—fifty hours a week, half of what I’ve been working. Get it? Part-time?” He laughed again, alone.
“Sorry, pal,” Wally said dismissively.
Not too far away, a driver hit the horn, a long frantic sound that could only end badly. Another driver slammed his brakes violently. Another horn, more brakes, and for a long second the firm of Finley & Figg held its collective breath. The crash that followed was thunderous, more impressive than most, and it was obvious that several cars had just mangled themselves at the intersection of Preston, Beech, and Thirty-eighth. Oscar grabbed his overcoat. Rochelle grabbed her sweater. They followed Wally out the front door, leaving the drunk behind to take care of himself.
Along Preston, other offices emptied as lawyers and their clerks and paralegals raced to inspect the mayhem and offer solace to the injured.
The pileup involved at least four cars, all damaged and scattered. One was lying on its roof, tires still spinning. There were screams amid the panic and sirens in the distance. Wally ran to a badly crumpled Ford. The front passenger door had been torn off, and a teenage girl was trying to get out. She was dazed and covered in blood. He took her arm and led her away from the wreckage. Rochelle helped as they sat the girl on a nearby bus bench. Wally returned to the carnage in search of other clients. Oscar had already found an eyewitness, someone who could help place blame and thus attract clients. Finley & Figg knew how to work a wreck.
The teenager’s mother had been in the rear seat, and Wally helped her too. He walked her to the bus bench and into the waiting arms of Rochelle. Vince Gholston, their rival from across the street, appeared, and Wally saw him. “Stay away, Gholston,” he barked. “These are our clients now.”
“No way, Figg. They’re not signed up.”
“Stay away, asshole.”
A crowd grew quickly as onlookers rushed to the scene. Traffic was not moving, and many drivers got out of their cars to take a look. Someone yelled, “I smell gas!” which immediately increased the panic. A Toyota was upside down, and its occupants were trying desperately to get out. A large man with boots kicked at a window but could not break it. People were yelling, screaming. The sirens were getting closer. Wally was circling a Buick whose driver appeared to be unconscious. Oscar was handing out business cards to everyone.
In the midst of this mayhem, a young man’s voice boomed through the air. “Stay away from our clients!” he yelled, and everyone followed the voice. It was an amazing sight. David Zinc was near the bus bench, holding a large, jagged piece of metal from the wreckage, waving it near the face of a frightened Vince Gholston, who was backing away.
“These are our clients!” David said angrily. He looked crazed, and there was no doubt he would use the weapon if necessary.
Oscar moved next to Wally and said, “That kid may have some potential after all.”
Wally was watching with great admiration. “Let’s sign him up.”
CHAPTER 8
When Helen Zinc pulled in to the driveway at 418 Preston, the first thing she noticed was not the well-worn exterior of Finley & Figg, Attorneys-at-Law; rather, it was the flashing neon sign next door advertising massages. She turned off the lights and the engine and sat for a moment to gather her thoughts. Her husband was alive and safe; he’d just had “a few drinks,” according to one Wally Figg, a somewhat pleasant man who’d phoned an hour earlier. Mr. Figg was “sitting with her husband,” whatever that meant. The digital clock on the dash gave the time as 8:20, so for almost twelve hours now she had been worrying frantically over his whereabouts and safety. Now that she knew he was alive, she was thinking of ways to kill him.
She glanced around, taking in the neighborhood, disapproving of everything about it, then got out of her BMW and slowly headed for the door. She had asked Mr. Figg how, exactly, her husband made his way from the tall buildings of downtown Chicago to the blue-collar neighborhood around Preston Avenue. Mr. Figg had said he didn’t have all the details, and it would be best if they talked about it later.
She opened the front door. A cheap bell rattled. A dog growled at her but made no effort to attack.
Rochelle Gibson and Oscar Finley were gone. Wally was sitting at the table, clipping obituaries from old newspapers, and dining on a bag of chips and a diet soda. He stood quickly, swiped his hands on his pants, and offered a big smile. “You must be Helen,” he said.
“I am,” she said, almost flinching as he thrust out a hand to shake.
“I’m Wally Figg,” he said, already sizing her up. A very nice package. Short auburn hair, hazel eyes behind chic designer frames, five feet eight, slender, well dressed. Wally approved. He then turned and waved an arm in the direction of the cluttered table. Beyond it, against the wall, was an old leather sofa, and on the sofa was David Zinc, dead to the world, comatose again. His right pants leg was torn—a small wound from the car smashup and its aftermath—but other than that he looked quite undisturbed.
Helen took a few steps over and gave him a look. “Are you sure he’s alive?” she asked.
“Oh yes, very much so. He got into a scuffle at the car wreck and tore his pants.”
“A scuffle?”