I’m delightedly dragging my fourth king into place when a discreet knock on my door interrupts my progress. I glance up to find Mama Brooks standing in the doorway.
She says, “Your one o’clock appointment is here.”
“Please inform Mr. Likens that I shall be with him presently.”
“Certainly, Mr. Valenti,” she replies in mock deference as she backs away.
I frown at my interrupted game—I might have won this one, damn it!—and unfold my lanky frame out of my chair. It would be extremely poor form to keep Mr. Likens waiting while I finish the game.
“How the hell are you, Billy?” I boom as I stride into the reception area, pluck my visitor off the ground, and give him a heartfelt hug while his feet dangle several inches off the floor. Billy is five foot eight or so. I’m six foot five. I wrinkle my nose at the sickly-sweet scent of whatever new floral air freshener Joan has plugged in today to do battle with the cooking smells that permeate our office from our neighbor, The Golden Dragon. I prefer the smell of Chinese food to most of the scents Joan tries to smother it with.
“Put me down!” Billy whispers furiously. “You know I hate it when you do this.”
“I can’t help myself,” I say with a laugh as I set him down. “You’re just so darned cute!”
Billy, the baby brother of the probable love of my life, Melanie Likens, blushes like a little beef tomato. It looks adorable on his cherubic face, which still sports a little baby fat in the cheeks at forty-three or whatever age he is now. I’ve been picking him up since he was nine or ten years old. It’s been pissing him off since he was eleven or twelve. His dark, curly hair echoes my own, albeit without the touch of gray I’m developing. That said, when his baseball cap is off—which isn’t often—his mane has started to show the first hint of receding. He’s dressed up for his visit. New blue jeans, a dark-blue Chicago Cubs windbreaker over a Cubs polo shirt, and hiking boots. His customary attire is ratty jeans or sweatpants, logoed T-shirts, and sneakers.
Something in the blue eyes set into his angelic face gives me pause. Real anger over being manhandled? Nope. I see worry on Billy’s face. Maybe even fear. I wrap an arm around his shoulders and walk him into my office, where I close the door and wave him toward a worn chrome-and-fabric stacking chair positioned in front of my desk. We drop into our assigned seats and stare at each other.
“What’s up?” I ask.
Billy doesn’t seem to know where to begin.
“Have you had lunch yet?” I ask. “I haven’t eaten.”
“Too nervous to eat, but you go ahead,” he mutters. Spoken like a true lunch-bucket guy who brings his midday meal to work every morning.
Me? I don’t even own a lunch box. “We attorneys generally dine out with clients.”
Billy looks at me uncertainly. My sparkling wit doesn’t seem to be putting him at ease.
“Sorry for the jackass humor,” I add with a frown.
He waves the apology aside.
“Seriously though, it’s after one o’clock and I haven’t eaten,” I continue. “There’s a sandwich place down the block. We can talk there if you don’t mind.”
He nods and gets to his feet, tucking a manila envelope into the pocket of his jacket. I hadn’t noticed it. Maybe he’s actually here on a legal matter? I figured he was just dropping by to bullshit for a bit. We’ve been getting together to do so every couple of months since I moved back to Cedar Heights a year ago.
We stick to small talk while briskly covering the two blocks to the imaginatively named The Sandwich Emporium, which is located in a converted 1920s-era bungalow. I open the door for Billy and inhale deeply of the yeasty aroma of freshly baked bread. I’m disappointed that the co-owner who usually greets guests is conspicuously absent. Maiko is a big part of the attraction of coming here. Day off, I guess. We cross the black-and-white checkerboard floor to a little counter topped with a very old-style cash register. After ordering a pair of eight-inch Italian grinder sandwiches, a couple of kosher dill pickles, and two glasses of whatever beer is on tap, we sit on a pair of unbalanced chairs at a wobbly Formica-topped table set against a wall. We talk about his kids while we wait for our food. I pick it up when it’s ready, pay, and carry it back to the table.
When Billy pulls out his wallet, I hold up a hand, grin, and wave him off. “I can’t accept, pal. If, as I suspect, you’ve come to avail yourself of my legal expertise, the cost of this meal will end up on your bill.”
He shakes his head and chuckles. “You’re in fine spirits today. Working in a run-down noir law office seems to agree with you.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Noir… that’s good. We think of it as a dump. Noir is much better!”
His expression turns serious as he pulls the manila envelope out of his jacket pocket. “Actually, I am here for legal help.”
I don’t like the fear and worry radiating off my friend. I promised his sister before she died that I would keep an eye out for her baby brother. He’d run a little wild in his midteens but sorted himself out on the baseball diamond as one of the top junior ballplayers in Chicagoland. When his Major League Baseball dreams petered out, he settled down and started a family. My job is to make sure he doesn’t backslide. I’ve always called him on Mel’s birthday to keep in touch. Back in the days when I lived in Atlanta, I made a point of hooking up with Billy for lunch or a beer at least once a year when I was in Chicago.
