reporters. There weren’t any; just the typical crowded sidewalk at noontime on a workday, with businessmen and women walking in groups, smoking, laughing, and talking on cell phones. She could blend right in and go. “I’ll be fine.”
“But I have the easy job. You have the dangerous job.”
“That’s as it should be. It’s my case, and my score to settle.” Mary managed a smile. “On your cases, you get to keep the dangerous jobs.”
Judy eyed her unhappily. “Just be careful, okay? Do what you have to do and get out of there.”
“I will.” Mary shooed her out of the alley. “Now, skedaddle! You go left, I’ll go right.”
“You’re sure you’ll be okay?” Judy said, but Mary only gave her a gentle push in response, and she hit the sidewalk running and flowed into the foot traffic, manila envelope in hand.
It was late afternoon by the time Mary arrived at the house, and she felt grim, professional, and purposeful, her anger simmering in her chest. There was no one on the exclusive tree-lined street, and she pulled into the driveway in front of the scrollwork S. She set her jaw and took off her cowboy hat, since she already had enough attitude. She eyed Justin Saracone’s property through the wrought-iron bars.
The fieldstone mansion looked still in the sun, and the property was quieter than the other day, though not deserted. The front door was closed, but a sprinkler system was running on the vast lawn, watering the already lush bushes on the perimeter. On the circular driveway sat a shiny red Hummer and a black Mercedes sedan, either of which qualified as pretentious enough to be Justin Saracone’s. Mary hoped he was home. She cruised up to a squawk box on a gooseneck stem and hit the black intercom button.
“Yes?” A man answered.
The box went silent, and she worried fleetingly that he wouldn’t let her in. She had figured that anybody who wanted to hit you himself was spoiling for a fight, and now, so was she. But in the next instant, there was a
She strode up the brick pavers and knocked on a tall front door of dark wood, with a frosted glass window she couldn’t see through. In a minute the door was opened and she felt the chill of central air-conditioning. On the rose marble threshold stood Justin Saracone.
“Hello, Mary,” Justin said coolly, his dark eyes glittering and his mouth a mirthless smile. He wore an open shirt of a silky fabric with European vents and a black belt with gray trousers and expensive tasseled loafers. He extended a hand, and Mary put the manila envelope in it.
“Consider yourself served.” Mary found herself shaking with controlled anger. “This complaint is being filed in court as we speak, on behalf of the estate of Amadeo Brandolini. I’m suing you and Saracone Investments for fifty million dollars, the profits you and your father got by stealing Amadeo’s patent in 1942 and licensing it illegally since then.”
“You can’t be serious.” Justin’s smile stayed plastered on his face, as if he were humoring her, which only made her madder.
“I’m also seeking a TRO to stop you from selling the rights under the patent and licenses to Reinhardt and from destroying the GO trademark. All of that would render Amadeo’s patent unmarketable and valueless, and that’s not happening as long as I draw breath. By the time this is over, I’ll make sure you don’t collect another penny in royalties for the illegal licensing of the original patent, or any of its applications.”
“You don’t learn, do you?” Justin’s smile faded to the sneer she had seen right before he hit her, and Mary felt a new power surge through her body.
“Actually, I do, and I also fly on planes, but that’s neither here nor there. I’m turning off the faucet on you. No more money, as of tomorrow. The hearing’s at ten. See you in court, pal. And by the way, if I lose tomorrow, I’ll take it to trial, and if I lose there, I’ll appeal it. I’ll never let you go, Justin. Cowboy up, pal. You’re in for a long,
“Are you done with your little speech?” Justin clapped.
His arrogance sent Mary’s blood boiling over. She flashed on him punching her, and before she knew what she was doing, she balled her hand, hauled off, and hit him square in the face, smashing her hand into his obnoxious sneer.
“Agh!” Justin cried out, in surprise and pain. He staggered backward, losing his balance, pinwheeling his arms in his fancy shirt, and in the next minute, he slipped on his slick marble entrance hall and fell flat on his designer ass.
“Next time you hit a girl, remember that we hit back,” Mary said with a smile, and she closed the door on him.
Then she ran like hell.
Mary drove with her left hand on the steering wheel while she opened and closed her right hand, trying unsuccessfully to make a fist. Her fingers had swollen quickly, turning pink, and her middle knuckle killed her. She didn’t know if she had broken it, but it almost didn’t matter. She felt high, adrenalized, exhilarated. Filing lawsuits only went so far. You should get to hit somebody back. You might even have a First Amendment right to hit somebody back.
Mary considered it, keeping an eye on the road, and luckily the traffic was light, since nobody was driving into the city at the end of the business day. She had so much more to do. She got off 202 North and negotiated the King of Prussia construction that funneled her onto the expressway, going east to Philly. She whizzed past an orange blur of Home Depot, Chili’s, and an Outback Steakhouse, and accelerated.
“Mac?” she said, when he picked up. “Jim MacIntire, from the
“Mary!” the reporter exclaimed. “I need to talk to you. I can’t get over what you said to me, what you think of me! What’s going on?”
“Here’s the scoop, Jim,” she began, then launched into the details of the suit papers Judy had just filed for her, including everything she had learned about the original patent that Giovanni Saracone had stolen and how Justin Saracone continued to profit. She answered every question as fully as possible, defaming both the living and the dead, because it only suited her purposes if Justin countersued her for defamation. She ended by telling Mac to be at the hearing for the restraining order.
“You’re going for a TRO?” he repeated, salivating audibly.
“Be there or be square,” Mary answered, then hung up with her teeth. She consulted her Filofax for the next reporter’s number, decreased her speed in a concession to auto safety, and plugged in the next number.
“ Shannon,” she said when he picked up, then she told him the whole story, too, beginning at the beginning and ending with the TRO hearing at ten tomorrow.
“I’ll be there,” the reporter promised, and after that she took her life in her hands and called five other reporters, then she hung up, satisfied that the word would spread. Telling a reporter was almost as good as telling Skinny Uncle Joey, and Mary wanted to make as much noise as possible. She wanted the whole scheme brought to light and the Saracones dragged along, kicking and screaming. The Reinhardt deal would collapse, and as soon as the licensees found out that the validity of the original patent was being questioned, as well as subsequent patents relying on it, they could stop doing business with Justin. The licenses would fall like dominoes. Justin’s world – and his income – would collapse and end. One way or the other, she was taking him down.
Mary switched into the fast lane and was about to check on Keisha when her cell phone started ringing. She picked it up, recognized the number on the lighted display, and felt her heart plummet to her pumps. How could she be so happy and so unhappy in the same moment? “Hi, Bennie,” she said into the phone.
