I can hear the smile in Penelope’s voice when she replies, “I’ll threaten them with a massive lawsuit to not only reinstate the policy but to pay damages. I’ve done a little research for precedents.”
“And you like our chances?” I ask.
“I do.”
“Well, then, so do I. Did you have a nice chat with your pal Herbert?”
She laughs. “A nice chat? With Herbert Cumming? No, but it was productive.”
“I’m a little surprised he was willing to wait on us regarding the settlement.”
“We shook him up earlier today, partner. He’s running a little scared right now.”
“He should be,” I grumble, thinking about the crooked bastard screwing his client.
“He’s prepared to withdraw his insistence that R & B accept responsibility for the crash.”
“You’re a magician,” I say. “How did you manage that?”
“I believe he’s come to the erroneous conclusion that I won’t file a complaint about him playing both sides of the client fence if he makes that concession.”
It’s hard to believe the guy worked with Penelope all that time without learning a thing about her. If he’s counting on her doing anything other than the right thing, he’s a damned fool. Cumming is an arrogant asshole, but he’s not a fool, so something must have led him to make that error in judgment.
“Why do I suspect there’s more to the story?” I ask.
“One might say that I didn’t forcefully disabuse him of the notion when he pitched it,” she replies with a trace of humor in her voice.
“Didn’t forcefully disabuse him, huh?” I say with a chuckle.
“Well, I didn’t disagree, but I certainly didn’t agree. I had Mom sit in on the call as a witness.”
“Well done, partner. Next steps?”
“I’ll draft a complaint to the Illinois bar over the weekend and tuck it away in my desk drawer until we get what we’re after,” she replies. “If anyone questions the delay, I’ll just say that it took me several days to put it together.”
I chuckle again. Penelope can draft a complete brief and craft complicated trial motions in the time it takes most of us to have a cup of coffee. “Sounds like you’ve had a productive day,” I say. “Why don’t you go relax for the rest of the evening? Hell, take the weekend off, too!”
She laughs softly. “I just may take you up on that generous offer, partner. Have yourself a good weekend.”
I pour myself a glass of bourbon, plop my ass back into the La-Z-Boy, and take stock of the R & B case. Penelope, as always, has done outstanding work. We might actually be on the way to justifying the trust Billy showed in us when he put this case in our hands. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Yes, but it won’t bring Brittany home.
The doorbell rings. I don’t think I’m expecting anyone, but my muddled mind wonders if I’m wrong as I peer through the peep hole and see an urbane man standing on the front porch. I initially mistake him for Mr. Rosetti, a retired community bank manager who was a fixture on Liberty Street until recently moving to Florida. Perhaps the resemblance to Mr. Rosetti causes me to let down my guard, or maybe it’s just my incomprehensible level of emotional and mental exhaustion that leads me to crack open the door. The man already has the screen door open and pushes past me into the house. I catch a whiff of cologne while I try to process what is happening. When I turn to look at him, the stranger lifts the butt of a handgun an inch or so out of a shoulder holster inside a perfectly tailored, gray pinstriped suit jacket, holds a finger to his lips, and reaches past me to close the door.
“Sorry to invite myself in so rudely, Mr. Valenti,” he says in an odd mixture of Italian- and British-accented English. “I have not come to harm you, but to discuss matters of mutual interest.”
Anger is stirring within me as I realize that I’m probably speaking to another mobster who feels welcome in my home. “Who the hell are you?”
“All in good time,” my visitor assures me as he walks into the living room. “It may be that I am a friend and ally. Perhaps not. Please, let us sit and discover which it will be, no?”
He sounds so reasonable and I’m so weary that I simply shrug and fall into Papa’s La-Z-Boy. He settles into Mama’s easy chair, sitting very straight and proper while he crosses his legs primly and straightens the blue ascot at his throat. He’s a handsome man I guess to be in his late fifties or early sixties, with a full head of immaculately styled gray hair. His nails are impeccably manicured. When he smiles at me, his snowy-white teeth are straight and even. I hope to hell I look this good at his age.
“Who are you?” I repeat.
He steeples his fingers and studies me for a long, unsettling minute before he speaks. “I have come all the way from Italy to speak with you, Mr. Valenti. I hope we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“Will it bring my daughter home?” I ask harshly.
He appears genuinely distressed when he softly says, “I pray for the safe return of your daughter, Mr. Valenti. Please understand that I am not involved in that unfortunate situation.”
Damned if I don’t believe him.
“The situation with Brittany is, however, indirectly related to my visit this evening.”
My patience, never the greatest at the best of times, is sorely lacking tonight. “Get to the point,” I direct Mr.—did he even give me a name? “What’s your name?” I ask in a tone meant to discourage argument or dissembling.
His eyes settle on my glass of bourbon. “What are you drinking, Mr. Valenti?”
Is this guy for real? Yet his manner is so studiously courteous that
