The Rainmaker (38 page)

Delbert forces a laugh first, and Vera quickly giggles too. I slam the door.

I can’t tell if the files under my bed have been tampered with. Miss Birdie’s will is here, just the way I left it, I think. It’s been several weeks since I last looked at it. Everything appears in order.

I lock the door, and wedge a chair under the doorknob.

I’M IN THE HABIT of getting to the office early, around seven-thirty, not because I’m overworked and not because my days are filled with court appearances and office appointments, but because I enjoy a quiet cup of coffee and the solitude. I spend at least an hour each day organizing and working on the Black case. Deck and I try to avoid each other around the office, but at times it’s difficult. The phone is slowly beginning to ring more.

I like the stillness of this place before the day starts.

On Monday, Deck arrives late, almost ten. We chat for a few minutes. He wants to have an early lunch, says it’s important.

We leave at eleven and walk two blocks to a vegetarian food co-op with a small diner in the rear. We order meatless pizza and orange tea. Deck is very nervous, his face twitching more than usual, his head jerking at the slightest sound.

“Gotta tell you something,” he says, barely above a
whisper. We’re in a booth. There are no customers at the other six tables.

“We’re safe, Deck,” I say, trying to assure him. “What is it?”

“I left town Saturday, just after the deposition. Flew to Dallas, then to Las Vegas, checked into the Pacific Hotel.”

Oh, great. He’s been on a binge, gambling and drinking again. He’s broke.

“Got up yesterday morning, talked to Bruiser on the phone, and he told me to leave. Said the feds had followed me from Memphis, and that I should leave. Said someone had been watching me all the way, and that it was time to get back to Memphis. Said to tell you the feds are watching every move because you’re the only lawyer who worked for both Bruiser and Prince.”

I take a gulp of tea to wet my parched mouth. “You know where … Bruiser is?” I say this louder than I planned to, but no one’s listening.

“No. I don’t,” he says, eyes oscillating around the room.

“Well, is he in Vegas?”

“I doubt it. I think he sent me to Vegas because he wanted the feds to think that’s where he is. Seems a likely spot for Bruiser, so he wouldn’t go there.”

My eyes won’t focus and my brain won’t slow down. I think of a dozen questions at once, but I can’t ask them all. There are many things I’d like to know, but many things I shouldn’t. We watch each other for a moment.

I honestly thought Bruiser and Prince were in Singapore or Australia, never to be heard from again.

“Why did he contact you?” I ask, very carefully.

He bites his lip as if he’s about to cry. The tips of the four beaver teeth are visible. He scratches his head as minutes pass. Time, though, is frozen. “Well,” he says, even lower, “seems as if they left some money behind. Now they want it.”

“They?”

“Sounds like they’re still together, doesn’t it?”

“It does. And they want you to do what?”

“Well, we never got around to the details. But it sounds like they wanted
us
to help
them
get the money.”

“Us?”

“Yeah.”

“Me and you?”

“Yep.”

“How much money?”

“Never got around to that, but you gotta figure it’s a pile or they wouldn’t be worried about it.”

“And where is it?”

“He didn’t give specifics, just said it was in cash, locked up somewhere.”

“And he wants us to get it?”

“Right. What I figure is this: the money’s hidden somewhere in town, probably close to us right now. The feds haven’t found it by now, so they probably won’t find it. Bruiser and Prince trust me and you, plus we’re semi-legit now, you know, a real firm, not just a couple of street thugs who’d steal the money soon as we saw it. They figure the two of us can load the money in a truck, drive it to them and everybody’s happy.”

It’s impossible to tell how much of this is Deck’s speculation and how much was actually presented to him by Bruiser. I don’t want to know.

But I’m curious. “And what do we get for our troubles?”

“We never got that far. But it would be plenty. We could take our cut up front.”

Deck’s already figured it out.

“No way, Deck. Forget it.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says sadly, surrendering after the first shot.

“It’s too risky.”

“Yeah.”

“Sounds great now, but we could spend time in jail.”

“Sure, sure, just had to tell you, you know,” he says, waving me off as if he wouldn’t dare consider it. A plate of blue corn chips and hummus is placed before us. We both watch the waiter until he’s gone.

I have thought about the fact that I’m surely the only person who worked for both fugitives, but I honestly never dreamed the feds would be watching me. My appetite has vanished. My mouth remains dry. Every slight sound causes me to jump.

We both withdraw into our thoughts, and stare at various items on the table. We don’t speak again until the pizza arrives, and we eat in complete silence. I’d like to know the details: How did Bruiser contact Deck? Who paid for his trip to Vegas? Is this the first time they’ve talked since the fugitives disappeared? Will it be the last? Why is Bruiser still concerned about me?

Two thoughts emerge from the fog. One, if Bruiser had enough help tracking Deck’s movements to Vegas to know that he was followed the entire way, then he would certainly be able to hire people to fetch the money from Memphis. Why worry about us? Because he doesn’t care if we get caught, that’s why. Second, the feds haven’t bothered to interview me because they didn’t want to alert me. It’s been much easier to watch me because I haven’t been worried about them.

And another thought. There’s no doubt my little buddy across the table wanted to open the door to a serious discussion about the money. Deck knows more than he’s told me, and he started this conference with a plan.

I’m not foolish enough to believe he’s giving up this easily.

THE DAILY MAIL is an event I’m learning to dread. Deck picks it up after lunch, as usual, and brings it to the office. There’s a thick, legal-sized envelope from the good folks at Tinley Britt, and I hold my breath as I rip it open. It’s Drummond’s written discovery: a set of interrogatories, a series of requests for every document known to the plaintiff or his lawyer and a set of requests for admissions. The latter is a neat device to force an opposing party to admit or deny certain facts set forth in writing within thirty days. If the facts are not denied, then they are forever deemed admitted. The package also contains a notice to take the deposition of Dot and Buddy Black, in two weeks, in my office. Normally, I’m told, lawyers chat for a bit on the phone and agree on the date, time and place for a deposition. This is called professional courtesy, takes about five minutes, and makes things run much smoother. Evidently, Drummond either forgot his manners or has adopted a hardball strategy. Either way, I’m determined to alter the date and place. Not that I have a conflict, it’s just for the sake of principle.

Remarkably, the package contains no motions! I’ll wait for tomorrow.

Written discovery must be answered within thirty days, and can be filed simultaneously. My own is almost complete, and the receipt of Drummond’s spurs me into action. I’m determined to show Mr. Bigshot that I can play the paper war. He’ll either be impressed, or he’ll once again realize he’s competing with a lawyer who has nothing else to do.

IT’S ALMOST DARK when I pull quietly into the driveway. There are two strange cars next to Miss Birdie’s Cadillac, two shiny Pontiacs with Avis stickers on the rear bumpers. I hear voices as I tiptoe around the house, hoping to make it to my apartment without being seen.

I stayed at the office until late, mainly because I wanted to avoid Delbert and Vera. I should be so lucky. They’re on the patio with Miss Birdie, drinking tea. And there’s more company.

“There he is,” Delbert says loudly as soon as I’m visible. I break stride, look toward the patio. “Come on over, Rudy.” It’s more of a command than an invitation.

He rises slowly as I walk over, and another man also gets to his feet. Delbert points to the new guy. “Rudy, this here is my brother Randolph.”

Randolph and I shake hands. “My wife June,” he says, waving at another aging leathered tart in the Vera vein, this one with bleached hair. I nod at her. She gives me a look that would boil cheese.

“Miss Birdie,” I say politely, nodding to my landlord.

“Hello, Rudy,” she says sweetly. She’s sitting on the wicker sofa with Delbert.

“Join us,” Randolph says, waving at an empty chair.

“No thanks,” I say. “I need to get to my apartment, see if anybody’s been pilfering.” I glance at Vera as I say this. She’s sitting behind the sofa, away from the rest, probably as far away from June as she can get.

June is between forty and forty-five. Her husband, as I recall, is almost sixty. Now I remember that she’s the one Miss Birdie referred to as a tramp. Randolph’s third wife. Always asking about the money.

“We haven’t been in your apartment,” Delbert says testily.

In contrast with his gaudy brother, Randolph is aging with dignity. He’s not fat, permed, dyed or laden with gold. He’s wearing a golf shirt, bermuda shorts, white socks, white sneakers. Like everybody else, he’s tanned. He could easily pass for a retired corporate executive, complete with a plastic little trophy wife. “How long are you gonna be living here, Rudy?” he asks.

“Didn’t know I was leaving.”

“Didn’t say you were. Just curious. Mother says there’s no lease, so I’m just asking.”

“Why are you asking?” Things are changing rapidly. As of last night, Miss Birdie wasn’t discussing the lease.

“Because from now on, I’m helping Mother handle her affairs. The rent is very low.”

“It certainly is,” June adds.

“You haven’t complained, have you, Miss Birdie?” I ask her.

“Well no,” she says, waffling, as if maybe she’s thought about complaining but just hasn’t found the time.

I could bring up mulching and painting and weed-pulling, but I’m determined not to argue with these idiots. “So there,” I say. “If the landlord’s happy, then what are you worried about?”

“We don’t want Momma taken advantage of,” Delbert says.

“Now, Delbert,” Randolph says.

“Who’s taking advantage of her?” I ask.

“Well, no one, but—”

“What he’s trying to say,” Randolph interrupts, “is that things are gonna be different now. We’re here to help Mother, and we’re just concerned about her business. That’s all.”

I watch Miss Birdie while Randolph is talking, and her face is glowing. Her sons are here, worrying about her, asking questions, making demands, protecting their momma. Though I’m sure she despises her two current daughters-in-law, Miss Birdie is a very content woman.

“Fine,” I say. “Just leave me alone. And stay out of my apartment.” I turn and walk quickly away, leaving behind many unspoken words and many questions they’d planned to ask. I lock my apartment, eat a sandwich, and in the
darkness, through a window, hear them chatter in the distance.

I spend a few minutes trying to reconstruct this gathering. At some point yesterday, Delbert and Vera arrived from Florida, for what purpose I’ll probably never know. Somehow they found Miss Birdie’s last will, saw that she had twenty million or so to give away and became deeply concerned about her welfare. They learned she had a lawyer living on the premises, and this concerned them too. Delbert called Randolph, who also lives in Florida, and Randolph hurried home, trophy wife in tow. They spent today grilling their mother about everything imaginable, and have now reached the point of being her protectors.

I really don’t care. I can’t help but chuckle to myself at the entire gathering. Wonder how long it’ll take for them to learn the truth.

For now, Miss Birdie is happy. And I’ll be happy for her.

Thirty

I
ARRIVE EARLY FOR MY NINE O’CLOCK appointment with Dr. Walter Kord. A lot of good it does. I wait for an hour, reading Donny Ray’s medical records, which I’ve already memorized. The waiting room fills with cancer patients. I try not to look at them.

A nurse comes for me at ten. I follow her to a windowless exam room deep in a maze. Of all the medical specialties, why would anyone choose oncology? I guess someone has to do it.

Why would anyone choose the law? I sit in a chair with my file and wait another fifteen minutes. Voices in the hall, then the door opens. A young man of about thirty-five rushes in. “Mr. Baylor?” he says, sticking out a hand. We shake as I stand.

“Yes.”

“Walter Kord. I’m in a hurry. Can we do this in five minutes?”

“I guess.”

“Let’s hurry if we can. I have a lot of patients,” he says,
actually managing a smile. I’m very aware of how doctors hate lawyers. For some reason, I don’t blame them.

“Thanks for the affidavit. It worked. We’ve already taken Donny Ray’s deposition.”

“Great.” He’s about four inches taller, and stares down at me as if I’m a fool.

I grit my teeth and say, “We need your testimony.”

His reaction is typical of doctors. They hate courtrooms. And to avoid them, they sometimes agree to give evidentiary depositions to be used in lieu of their live testimony. They don’t have to agree. And when they don’t, lawyers occasionally are forced to use a deadly device—the subpoena. Lawyers have the power to have subpoenas issued to almost anyone, including doctors. Thus, to this limited extent, lawyers have power over doctors. This makes doctors despise lawyers even more.

“I’m very busy,” he says.

“I know. It’s not for me, it’s for Donny Ray.”

He frowns and breathes heavily as if this is physically very uncomfortable. “I charge five hundred dollars an hour for a deposition.”

This doesn’t shock me because I expected it. In law school, I heard stories of doctors charging even more. I’m here to beg. “I can’t afford that, Dr. Kord. I opened my office six weeks ago, and I’m about to starve to death. This is the only decent case I have.”