Nicky shakes her hand.
“You seem surprised. Don’t worry. I’m not going to ask you for free legal advice,” she says, beaming. “You must get that all the time.”
Nicky nods. “I’m not sure I’m the kind of lawyer you need.”
Her smile sinks.
“Sorry,” he says. “It was a compliment-a ridiculous one. I just mean you don’t appear to be injured.” There isn’t the slightest thing wrong with her physically. “You’re even more beautiful in person.”
He’s hit a soft spot, apparently-to think, a blushing anchorwoman. She seems genuinely moved, her hand fluttering at her brow, as if about to swoon.
“Are you okay?” Nicky says. He feels a rush of confidence. “Here, sit.”
“Just a little drunk, is all.”
Nicky offers Stacy the adjacent stool he’s been saving for himself, knowing he’ll have to evacuate the corner spot once Victor arrives-and, speak of the devil, here’s Victor now, an enormous beast of a man in an orange polo shirt, lumbering across the barroom, muttering to himself, it seems, until he adjusts what looks like the chrome husk of a locust in his ear and barks a familiar threat to one of his fourteen managers stationed throughout the city, each prepared for at least one such nightly call-and one such personal visit. Before Nicky can relinquish his seat, Victor is already bearing down on him, stabbing his thumb in the air, delivering his graceless eviction notice.
“Good boy,” Victor mutters to Nicky, his wad of keys spraying on the bar top. He reaches for the bulging back pocket of his madras pants and plants his sixteen-ounce wallet next to his BlackBerry, which his immense finger resumes pounding.
Heart in his throat, Nicky rotates and stands, now, over Stacy Fredericks, who doesn’t seem to have heard a thing, and in fact appears charmed by his spontaneous generosity. “A lawyer
Janet delivers Victor’s sparkling water with lime, along with a refill on the Inquisition Fizz and a smirk Nicky can’t help interpreting as more baffled than impressed.
“I’m done with lawyers, by the way,” Stacy says.
“I didn’t mean anything by that,” Nicky huffs, trying to forget about Victor, who coughs and growls, his back to the world. Nicky imagines himself mid-flight, roundhouse kick about to split that pumpkin head in two.
“Divorce lawyers, I mean-though I don’t plan on needing a personal injury lawyer anytime soon either.”
“Let’s hope not.” Nicky takes a deep breath and tries to mirror Stacy’s smile. “What are you drinking?”
She shakes her head. “I almost didn’t recognize you with the spiky hair and makeup.”
Nicky nudges his full glass. “Try mine.”
Her eyes expand as she sips. “That’s
There is silence for a moment, and he is spellbound-not just by her obvious beauty, but by her vitality; her luscious flesh, bound in black leather, seems imbued with optimism, her taut skin humming with intelligence. Beyond her, Victor Gold has transformed-Nicky sees him as not just monstrous, but miserable, doomed. A mere minute in the presence of Stacy Fredericks, and for the first time in his life Nicky believes that the world is nothing but what one makes of it, and that he is, or could be, a man of extraordinary potential.
“So tell me about a case,” she says, setting down the glass, “your most interesting one, or one you’re working on now.”
“Sure,” he says, with a confidence he doesn’t feel. But then, in a flash, he sees himself at a table with a dozen Amish men in Lancaster County, he in an Armani suit, they in straw hats and beards, all there to discuss a fair settlement on the case of the kid whose head was rammed by the hoof of a horse that smashed through the windshield of his father’s car on a certain rainy Wednesday night last March. He paints the picture for Stacy. “See, the Amish don’t buy insurance,” he explains. “They don’t believe in damages for pain and suffering. So I have to go in there and make them understand that this kid was in the hospital for a month with his skull literally sawed off so that his swollen brain could return to its normal size. I show them pictures, and I explain that any jury who saw these pictures would award a million, minimum. I’m asking half a mil. And this old Amish guy starts saying how pain and suffering is part of life, God’s plan for the human race.”
“This is amazing. They really sawed off his skull? It sounds like a million-dollar case to me.”
“Problem is,” Nicky says, “the kid’s practically retarded to begin with…”
On the bar, Nicky’s vibrating cell phone moves in place. He sees that it’s Chris calling, just as Stacy says, “Is that a problem?”
He should answer the phone, tell Chris he’s ready to be his own man-or that he’s
“I mean, isn’t that good for your case?” she asks. “Doesn’t that add sympathy, if he’s, you know, mentally challenged?” She’s looking at him as if he has something to say worth listening to.
“See, you have to prove real loss,” he says.
Stacy sips, her eyes unflinching. “The whole thing is unbelievable. I could never do what you do.”
Again, Nicky’s cell phone vibrates. He turns it to silent mode.
“So I say to the father, ‘Go get your son,’ and at first he refuses, but then he comes back in twenty minutes with his kid, who’s smart enough to know he can’t fake being stupid. So we’re all standing there, and I ask the kid, ‘Who’s the president of the United States?’ and the kid just stares at me, clueless. Then I ask the kid, ‘Who’s the football team in Philadelphia?’ and the kid says, ‘Eagles!’ I say, ‘Who’s the quarterback of the Eagles?’ and the kid says, ‘Donovan McNabb!’ and I say, ‘That’s right.’ The old Amish guy interrupts and says, ‘We don’t know football. We wouldn’t know if these are the correct answers or not. What does any of this prove?’” Nicky stops. He can’t remember where his brother was heading with all of this.
“So?”
“So? Well, I say, ‘You’re right. They are the right answers, Mr. Stoltzfus, and what it proves is that I’m not a liar, and I’m not lying when I tell you that this case is worth at least the half-million we’re asking for, because your horse went through this man’s windshield and his son was in the hospital for a month with his skull sawed off so that his brain could return to normal-and it’s only right that your people take responsibility for what happened.’”
Stacy is grinning, anticipating the jackpot finish. Nicky wishes that there were more to the story-or that he could remember the rest of it. He remembers Chris explaining how the Amish collected the money from the community, how, when Chris asked why they didn’t buy insurance, the old Amish guy told him,
“So did you
“Yeah,” he blurts, takes a deep breath. “Five hundred thousand dollars.”
The bluish face of Nicky’s phone lights up a third time.
“Someone’s trying to track you down,” Stacy says.
“My brother,” Nicky says, shaking his head. He turns the phone over.
“You have a brother?”
Nicky goes silent, his thoughts tangled.
“Older or younger?” She’s nearly finished the drink. She offers him the rest before polishing it off.
“Younger.”
“Is he as cute as you?”
Behind her, Victor Gold sets his glass down. The drone of his furious rattle goes on. Stacy seems suddenly flushed again, perhaps embarrassed for her compliment, which has gone unanswered. Nicky wants to say something, but he’s lost in the space of her exposed neck, pinkish in the shadow of her flared collar.
“Is everything all right?” she says.
“Of course, no, it’s fine,” he stutters. “My brother, that’s all. He’s, uh, he’s a bit of a fuckhead. Good-looking, yes, cute, handsome as hell, actually, but a fuckhead. He calls a lot-or
