Trip needed something with more drama, so he grabbed a thick law book off the table and tossed it through a front window. Glass shattered and rattled across the porch. AC yelped but retreated to a hiding place under Rochelle’s desk.
Trip’s eyes were shiny and glazed. “I’ll snap your neck, Figg. You got that?”
“Hit him, Trip,” DeeAnna urged.
David glanced at the sofa and saw Wally’s briefcase. He eased closer to it.
“We’ll be in court tomorrow, Figg. You gonna be there?” Trip took another step closer. Wally braced for the assault. Rochelle moved in the direction of her desk, and this upset Trip. “Don’t move! You’re not calling the cops!”
“Call the police,” Oscar barked again, but made no effort to do so himself. David inched closer to the briefcase.
“Talk to me, Figg,” Trip demanded.
“He embarrassed me in open court,” DeeAnna whined. It was obvious she wanted bloodshed.
“You’re a slimeball, Figg, you know that?”
Wally was about to say something clever when Trip finally made contact. He pushed Wally, a rather benign little shove that seemed tame in light of the buildup, but it was an assault nonetheless. “Hey, watch it!” Wally barked, slapping at Trip’s hand.
David quickly opened the briefcase and withdrew the long black .44 Magnum Colt. He was not certain if he had ever touched a revolver, and he wasn’t sure he could do so now without blowing his hand off, but he knew to avoid the trigger. “Here, Wally,” he said as he placed the gun on the table. Wally snatched it and jumped from his chair, and the rules of engagement changed dramatically.
Trip blurted “Holy shit!” in a high-pitched voice and took a long step back. DeeAnna ducked behind him, whimpering. Rochelle and Oscar were as stunned as Trip was by the weapon. Wally did not aim the gun at anyone, not directly anyway, but he handled it in such a way that there was little doubt he could and would unload a few rounds in a matter of seconds.
“First, I want an apology,” he said as he moved toward Trip, who had lost his swagger. “You got a lotta balls coming in here and making demands when your girl there won’t pay her bills.”
Trip, who no doubt had some experience in handguns, stared at the Colt and said meekly, “Yeah, sure, you’re right, man.”
“Call the police, Ms. Gibson,” Wally said, and she dialed 911. AC poked his head out and growled at Trip.
“I want three hundred bucks for the divorce and two hundred bucks for the window,” Wally demanded. Trip was still backing away, with DeeAnna practically unseen behind him.
“Be cool, man,” Trip said, both palms facing Wally.
“Oh, I’m very cool.”
“Do something, baby,” DeeAnna said.
“Like what? You see the size of that thing?”
“Can’t we just get outta here?” she asked.
“No,” Wally replied. “Not until the cops get here.” He raised the gun a few inches, careful not to point it directly at Trip.
Rochelle backed away from her desk and went to the kitchen. “Be cool, man,” Trip pleaded. “We’re leaving.”
“No you’re not.”
The police arrived in minutes. Trip was handcuffed and placed in the backseat of a patrol car. DeeAnna cried without effect, then she tried flirting with the cops, and this proved slightly more useful. In the end, though, Trip was hauled away to face charges of assault and vandalism.
When the excitement was over, Rochelle and Oscar went home, leaving Wally and David to sweep up the broken glass and finish signing the Krayoxx letters. They worked for an hour, mindlessly signing Wally’s name and also discussing what to do about the broken window. It could not be replaced until the following day, and the office wouldn’t survive the night with a missing window. Preston wasn’t a dangerous neighborhood, but no one left keys in cars or doors unlocked. Wally had just made the decision to sleep at the office, on the sofa, next to the table, with AC nearby and the Colt within reach, when the front door swung open and dear DeeAnna popped in for the second time.
“What are you doing here?” Wally demanded.
“We need to talk, Wally,” she said in a voice that was unsteady and much softer. She sat in a chair near Rochelle’s desk and crossed her legs in such a way as to leave most of the flesh exposed. She had very nice legs and was wearing the same hooker’s heels she had displayed in court that morning.
“Ooh la la,” Wally said under his breath. Then, “And what would you like to talk about?” he asked.
“I think she’s been drinking,” David whispered as he kept signing.
“I’m not sure I should marry Trip,” she announced.
“He’s a brute, a real loser, DeeAnna. You can do better than that.”
“But I really want my divorce, Wally, can’t you help me out here?”
“Then pay me.”
“I can’t get the money before court tomorrow. I swear that’s the truth.”
“Then too bad.”
David decided that, had the case been his, he would do whatever necessary to get the divorce so DeeAnna and Trip would be history. An extra $300 wasn’t worth all the hassle.
She recrossed her legs, and her skirt inched up even higher. “I was thinking, Wally, that maybe we could make some other arrangements. You know, just me and you.”
Wally sighed, looked at the legs, thought for a second, and said, “Can’t do it. I gotta stay here tonight because some jackass knocked out the front window.”
“Then I’ll stay too,” she cooed, licking her bright red lips.
Wally had never possessed the willpower to run from these situations, not that he encountered them all the time. Seldom had a client been so open and obvious. In fact, he could not, at that dreadful yet thrilling moment, remember one being so easy. “We might work something out,” he said, leering at DeeAnna.
“I’m outta here,” David said, jumping to his feet and grabbing his briefcase.
“You can hang around,” she said.
The visual was instantaneous and ugly—happily married David romping around with a cute slut who’d had as many divorces as her chubby and naked lawyer. David ran for the door and slammed it behind him.
Their favorite late-night bistro was within walking distance of their home in Lincoln Park. They had often met there for a quick dinner just before the kitchen closed at eleven, just as David staggered home from another crushing day at the office. Tonight, though, they arrived before nine and found the place bustling. Their table was in a corner.
At some point, about halfway through his five-year career at Rogan Rothberg, David had adopted the policy of not discussing his work, of never bringing it home. It was so unpleasant and distasteful, and boring to boot, he simply could not dump it on Helen. She happily went along with this policy, and so they usually talked about her studies or what their friends were doing. But things were suddenly different. The big firm was gone, as were the faceless clients and their tedious files. Now David worked with real people who did incredible things that had to be retold in great detail. Take, for example, the two near gun-fights David had survived with his sidekick, Wally. At first, Helen flatly refused to believe that Wally had actually fired a shot in the air to scatter the street thugs, but she eventually softened under David’s relentless narrative. Nor did she believe the Trip story on the first telling. She was equally skeptical of the Wally–Judge Bradbury shakedown of DeeAnna Nuxhall in open court. She was incredulous that her husband would fork over all of his cash to Iris Klopeck, then sign an IOU for more. Oscar getting mauled by an angry (female) divorce client was slightly more believable.