goodies to get the family on board.
Buoyed by this good news, Oscar walked over to the table and said, “Good morning.”
“Morning, Oscar,” Wally said.
“Any of our clients make the obituaries?”
“I haven’t got that far yet.”
“You should start with the obituaries.”
“Thank you, Oscar. Any more tips on how to read a newspaper?”
Oscar was already walking away. Over his shoulder he asked Ms. Gibson, “What’s on my calendar for today?”
“The usual. Divorces and drunks.”
“Divorces and drunks,” Oscar mumbled to himself as he stepped into his office. “What I need is a good car wreck.” He hung his overcoat on the back of the door, placed his umbrella in a rack by his desk, and began unpacking his briefcase. Wally was soon standing nearby, holding the newspaper. “Does the name Chester Marino ring a bell?” he asked. “Obit. Age fifty-seven, wife, kids, grandkids, no cause given.”
Oscar scratched his close-cropped gray hair and said, “Maybe. Could’ve been a last will and testament.”
“They got him down at Van Easel amp; Sons. Visitation tonight, service tomorrow. I’ll snoop around and see what’s up. If he’s one of ours, you wanna send flowers?”
“Not until you know the size of his estate.”
“Good point.” Wally was still holding his newspaper. “This Taser thing is out of control, you know. Cops in Joliet are accused of Tasering a seventy-year-old man who went to Walmart to buy Sudafed for his sick grandchild. The pharmacist figured the old man was using the stuff for a meth lab, so the pharmacist, being a good citizen, called the cops. Turns out the cops all got themselves brand-new Tasers, so five of these clowns stop the old man in the parking lot and Taser his ass. Critical condition.”
“So we’re back doing Taser law, are we, Wally?”
“Damn right we are. These are good cases, Oscar. We gotta get a few.”
Oscar sat down and sighed heavily. “So this week it’s Taser guns. Last week it was diaper rashes-big plans to sue the makers of Pampers because a few thousand babies have diaper rashes. Last month it was Chinese drywall.”
“They’ve paid four billion bucks already in the drywall class action.”
“Yes, but we haven’t seen any of it.”
“That’s my point, Oscar. We have got to get serious about these mass tort cases. This is where the money is. Millions in fees paid by companies that make billions in profits.”
The door was open, and Rochelle was listening to every word, though this particular conversation was getting a bit stale.
Wally was talking louder. “We get us a few of these cases, then hook up with the mass tort specialists, give them a piece of the cake, then ride their coattails until they settle, and we walk away with a truckload. It’s easy money, Oscar.”
“Diaper rashes?”
“Okay, that didn’t work. But this Taser thing is a gold mine.”
“Another gold mine, Wally?”
“Yep, I’ll prove it.”
“You do that.”
T he drunk at the end of the bar had rallied somewhat. His head was up, his eyes were partially open, and Abner was serving him coffee and chatting away, all in an effort to convince the man it was time to leave. A teenager with a broom was sweeping the floor and arranging tables and chairs. The little pub was showing signs of life.
With his brain coated with vodka, David stared at himself in the mirror and tried in vain to put things into perspective. One moment he was filled with excitement and proud of his bold escape from the death march at Rogan Rothberg. The next moment he was fearful for his wife, his family, his future. The booze gave him courage, though, and he decided to keep drinking.
His phone vibrated again. It was Lana at the office. “Hello,” he said quietly.
“David, where are you?”
“Just finishing breakfast, you know.”
“David, you don’t sound so good. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I’m fine.”
A pause, then, “Are you drinking?”
“Of course not. It’s only nine thirty.”
“Okay, whatever. Look, Roy Barton just left here, and he’s in a rage. I’ve never heard such language. All kinds of threats.”
“Tell Roy to kiss my ass.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“You heard me. Tell Roy to kiss my ass.”
“You’re losing it, David. It’s true. You’re cracking up. I’m not surprised. I saw this coming. I knew it.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re drunk and you’re cracking up.”
“Okay, I may be drunk but-”
“I think I hear Roy Barton again. What should I tell him?”
“To kiss my ass.”
“Why don’t you tell him, David? You have a phone. Give Mr. Barton a call.” With that, she hung up.
Abner was easing over, curious to get the scoop on this latest phone call. He was rubbing the wooden counter again, for the third or fourth time since David had planted himself at the bar.
“The office,” David said, and Abner frowned as if this were bad news for everyone. “The aforementioned Roy Barton is looking for me, throwing things. Wish I could be a fly on the wall. Hope he has a stroke.”
Abner moved closer. “Say, I never caught your name.”
“David Zinc.”
“A pleasure. Look, David, the cook just got here. You want something to eat? Maybe something loaded with grease? French fries, onion rings, a big thick burger?”
“I want a double order of onion rings and a large bottle of ketchup.”
“Attaboy.” Abner disappeared. David drained his latest Bloody Mary and went to look for the restroom. When he returned, he assumed his seat, checked the time-9:28-and waited for the onion rings. He could smell them back there somewhere sizzling in hot oil. The drunk to his far right was gulping coffee and struggling to keep his eyes open. The teenager was still sweeping floors and arranging furniture.
The phone vibrated on the counter. It was his wife. David made no move to answer it. When the vibrating was over, he waited, then checked the voice mail. Helen’s message was about what he expected: “David, your office has called twice. Where are you? What are you doing? Everyone is very worried. Are you all right? Call me as soon as possible.”
She was a doctoral student at Northwestern, and when he had kissed her good-bye that morning at 6:45, she was still under the covers. When he arrived home the night before at 10:05, they had dined on leftover lasagna in front of the television before he fell asleep on the sofa. Helen was two years older and wanted to get pregnant, something that was looking more and more unlikely given her husband’s perpetual exhaustion. In the meantime, she was pursuing a Ph. D. in art history, and doing so at a leisurely pace.
A soft beep, then a text message from her: “Where are you? Are you okay? Please.”
He preferred not to speak to her for several hours. He would be forced to admit he was cracking up, and she would insist he get professional help. Her father was a shrink and her mother was a marriage counselor, and the entire family believed that all of life’s problems and mysteries could be solved with a few hours in therapy. At the same time, though, he couldn’t stand the thought that she was frantically worrying about his safety.
He sent a text: “I’m fine. I had to leave the office for a while. I’ll be okay. Please don’t worry.”
She replied: “Where are you?”
