“Well, first of all, Boo, your mother and I don’t plan on dying anytime soon, so this is all hypothetical.”
“All what?”
“Hypothetical. You know, what if. But don’t worry, your mother and I are going to be here to take care of you.”
Pajamae said, “Mama says all my kin are dead or in prison.”
“So what if?” Boo said.
“What if what?”
“What if you and Mother die?”
“I don’t know, Boo. I guess I haven’t thought much about it.”
Boo held out a handful of one-dollar bills and assorted coins. “We want to hire you as our lawyer, but we’ve only got thirteen dollars between us, so you’ll have to work really fast.”
“And what do you want me to do?”
“Write us a will that says if Pajamae’s mother dies, we get her and she gets to live with us, and if you and Mother die, her mother gets me and I get to live with them.”
“In the projects?” Scott said before he could catch himself.
“ No. I’ll get this house, we’ll live here.”
Both girls were nodding now. And Scott smiled for the first time that day, at the image of Shawanda Jones as the woman of the house at 4000 Beverly Drive in the heart of Highland Park.
SEVENTEEN
McCall’s an asshole.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
It was nine the next morning, and Scott was slumped on the sofa in Dan Ford’s office. His senior partner was sitting behind his desk, his hands folded, like a priest taking a confession.
“But he’s rich and powerful, Scott, which makes him a very dangerous asshole.”
“He’s your friend.”
“I didn’t say he was my friend. Fact is, I wouldn’t turn my back on the bastard. But he’s going to be the next president, and we want him to be this firm’s friend.”
“Dan, you tell him I can live without the Downtown Club and the athletic club and the country club-taking my memberships…okay, fine, that’s playing hardball. But taking Consuela, hurting a poor Mexican girl who never hurt a soul in her life…that ain’t hardball, Dan, that’s just plain fucking mean. You tell him he’s a mean son of a bitch to do that.” Scott had awakened that morning itching for a fight. “Matter of fact, why don’t you give me McCall’s number, I’ll tell him myself.”
Dan smiled. “I don’t think so, Scotty.”
“You know, Dan, I was never carried off the field. I took the best shot any team could give me, and I always got up.”
Dan nodded. “You were tough.”
“I’m still tough.” Scott tapped his index finger to the side of his head. “Up here. That’s where real toughness is, in your head. Everyone hurts physically, but the guys who are mentally tough get up off the ground and keep playing. McCall gave me his best shot, and I got up. You tell him that. I’m still playing-and I’m gonna play harder now. You tell him that, too.”
Scott stood and walked to the door but stopped when Dan said, “Scotty?”
“Yeah?”
“How do you know that’s his best shot?”
Five minutes later, Mack McCall was saying to Dan, “The boy don’t break easy.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Dan said.
“Well, he will…or everyone in Dallas is gonna know his wife is screwing the assistant pro at the club.”
“ Trey? Jesus, that boy’s cutting a wide swath through the wives out there. He ought to be paying us. How’d you find out?”
“Delroy’s been snooping.”
“Damn, Mack, hold off on that, see if Scott gets on board. His wife cheating on him…that’s gonna be tough on him.”
“You sound like you care about Fenney.”
“He’s the best young lawyer I’ve ever met…he’s like a son to me.”
“Dan, a son can be a dangerous thing.” The morning mail was waiting for Scott when he returned to his office. But instead of billing a thousand dollars for reading his mail, today’s mail was going to cost him many times that sum: one letter was from the Internal Revenue Service, demanding $75,000 for back nanny taxes, penalties, and interest in the matter of Consuela de la Rosa. And Scott knew Dan’s words had been a warning: Mack McCall was not yet through with Scott Fenney.
Scott sat at his desk and assessed his financial condition. He had $100,000 cash, more or less-actually, $25,000 less since he had sent a check over to Rudy Gutierrez yesterday-in his savings account, which was generating almost nothing in interest income, and another $200,000 in his 401(k) account, all in tech stocks, all under water, all worth half what he paid for them.
He owed $2.8 million on the house, $175,000 on the Ferrari, and another $150,000 on the Mercedes and Range Rover, and $25,000 on credit cards. Three million one hundred fifty thousand in debt. The cars were probably at breakeven, debt to value, and the house was worth maybe a million over the debt, although the high-end housing market in Dallas had slowed recently.
His only income was his monthly partnership draw, $62,500 gross, but only $42,000 after taxes, which disappeared faster than a raindrop on the sidewalk in July: $4,000 in monthly payments on the Ferrari, $3,000 on Rebecca’s Mercedes and the Rover, $16,000 in monthly interest payments on the house note, $10,000 a month in property taxes and insurance premium escrows, and $4,000 a month in utilities and upkeep. Which left only $5,000 a month for groceries, clothes, eating out, entertainment, and club dues-at least he wouldn’t have to pay club dues anymore. He had never worried about saving money; the house was his savings account, retirement account, and rainy-day fund. Of course, he could access those accounts only by selling the place or refinancing the mortgage, which was not a likely option since Dan Ford had called in a personal favor with the bank president to get the $2.8 million loan in the first place.
So Scott wrote a check on his savings account for Seventy-Five Thousand and no/100 Dollars to the “Internal Fucking Revenue Service.” And then he sat back in his chair and wondered what McCall would take next.
From the sofa in Scott’s office, Bobby said, “Seventy-five thousand bucks? Shit, I sell everything I own and pay my debts, I’m still seventy-four thousand shy of that. And you wrote a check?”
Bobby had arrived and Scott had brought him up to date.
“Yeah. But it was all of my cash.”
“You know, Scotty, McCall’s taken this way further than I thought he would. I mean, being pissed off is one thing, but trying to destroy your life, man, he’s into Stephen King territory now.”
“He can’t destroy my life, Bobby. He can take my maid, my memberships, and my cash, but he can’t destroy me. I’ve still got clients that pay me three million dollars a year.”
“Mr. Fenney?”
Sue was standing in the door.
“Yeah?”
“Mr. Dibrell called, said he needs to see you ASAP.”
The beautiful blonde Dibrell Property Company receptionist did not inquire about Scott’s marital status today, and Marlene did not smile at Scott. Instead she averted her eyes as he walked past her workstation and into Tom Dibrell’s inner sanctum. From Tom’s pained expression, Scott figured he would have to negotiate sexual harassment settlements with two receptionists this time. And he wondered if he could.
“What’s up, Tom?”
Tom motioned to the sofa. “Sit down, Scott.”
