“Tell you what, Billy. Let’s eat and finish our beer, then I’m yours all afternoon to talk about whatever you’ve come to discuss. Okay?”
He nods, lays the envelope down alongside his paper plate, and says, “Fair enough.” Then he digs into his sandwich with gusto.
I join in, downing a few mouthfuls of sandwich and quaffing half my beer before my eyes focus on Billy’s envelope. It’s addressed to his company, R & B Ramp Services, but it’s the return address that horrifies me. The envelope is from Butterworth Cole, a prestigious legal behemoth with which Penelope and I have some complicated history. Butterworth Cole doesn’t piss around with legal issues unless there’s big money involved. Billy doesn’t have big bucks. I can’t imagine his partner, Rick Hogan, is any better off. Ergo, they’re mixed up with someone who can afford the services of Butterworth Cole. I can’t think of a way this spells anything but trouble.
A sense of foreboding suddenly curbs my appetite, but I make myself down another couple of bites while Billy polishes off his sandwich and pickle. Might as well let him enjoy the meal before we get down to business.
“Glad you made me eat,” Billy says as he pushes his plate aside. He wipes his lips and chin with a couple of paper napkins. “That was damned good.”
“Best sandwiches in Chicagoland!” I exclaim, purloining The Sandwich Emporium’s tagline. Some of the sloppiest sandwiches, too. I’ve been to the dry cleaner a few times after spilling food and/or sauce on my suits and ties. I’m not always the tidiest guy when it comes to eating, but I’ve managed to get through today’s lunch without a mishap.
Billy’s expression sobers when he picks up the manila envelope, cracks open the flap, and pulls out a sheaf of papers that I, in all my glorious legal expertise, instantly recognize as lawsuit paperwork. I’m distressed to spot R & B Ramp Services among a laundry list of defendants. I look up to meet Billy’s eyes and wait.
“Did you hear about the tour plane that crashed into Lake Michigan the morning after Labor Day?” he asks.
“Congressman’s wife and parents?”
“He’s actually a senator named Evan Milton, but yeah. His wife and son died. Parents, too.”
The story swims into focus. A tour plane had inexplicably landed nose first in Lake Michigan. Nobody swam away. “R & B is involved?”
“We did their maintenance,” he replies, then lifts a corner of the paperwork with his pinky finger. “This legal stuff is way over my head. Fortunately, Windy City’s owners have plenty of money.”
“Windy City? What’s that?”
“The owners of the plane. They’ve set up a meeting with me and Rick to go over this thing.”
“Who are these people?” I ask. “Where does their money come from? At $100 bucks per trip or whatever tour operators charge, I can’t imagine anyone is getting rich from the air-tourism business.”
“Windy City is owned by some rich kids who work at the Board of Trade. The air-tour gig is a sideline. I figure they want a tax write-off and access to their own plane whenever they want it. One of them goes to football games at his alma mater, another goes on weekend jaunts to shop.”
Alarm bells are going off all over the damned place. “And these nice people are anxious to help you and Rick, huh?” Billy gives me an uncertain look as I fold the legal papers back into the manila envelope, pocket it, and get to my feet. “I’m glad you brought this to me. Let’s go back to the office and kick it around with Penelope. She’s the brains of our little operation.”
We chat about our kids on the walk back to the office.
“I’ll pay you for your time,” Billy says while I hold the outside door open.
That’s kind of funny, I think as he walks past a baby-blue copy-paper notice taped to the wall immediately beneath our firm’s temporary sign. An excerpt from Emma Lazarus’s poem “The New Colossus” that adorns the pedestal base of the Statue of Liberty is printed on the page:
Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me.
That pretty much spells out the mission statement of Brooks and Valenti. The poor creatures referenced in the poem constitute far too much of our client base. Billy is a good fit for our firm—someone in no position to pay us anything near what a legal battle with Butterworth Cole is likely to cost.
“I mean it, we’ll pay you for your time,” Billy reiterates as we enter Joan’s cramped reception area.
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll work something out,” I say as I knock on my partner’s open door and poke my head in.
“Work what out?” Penelope asks, then sits up straighter when she sees Billy easing in behind me. “Sorry, I didn’t realize we had company.” She smiles, gets to her feet, and extends a hand to Billy. “Penelope Brooks.”
“Billy Likens,” he says as they exchange a crisp handshake.
Penelope waves us into her visitor chairs and meets my gaze. “Business?”
I nod.
She points at the office door. “Get that?”
I reach back to push the door closed, then place the Butterworth Cole envelope into her outstretched hand without saying a word. We sit quietly while she reads. Penelope’s a wholesome and athletic Kansas country girl with shoulder-length brown hair cut with bangs across her forehead. She stands barely above five feet tall and is a remarkable reproduction of her mother, right down to the hairstyle. She’d been drawn to the law by her admiration of a grandfather who was elected local judge after their family hardware store had been put out of business by Walmart coming to town. Penelope loved how he did the job—“armed with a bushel of common sense and integrity but not a law degree.” He inspired her to go to law school. Penelope’s
