Page 64 of A Dead End Wedding

It's tough to get respect from someone who knows you stuffed your bra in tenth grade. Even worse, when she'd helped you stuff. (Hey, it was prom–I was nervous!) I was considering booting her in the silk-covered butt with one of my ugly pumps, when the voice of doom broke in. "Where the heck's that coffee? Did you have to go to Colombia and pick the beans? I'm getting bored in here." Quavery and demanding at the same time. Neat trick.

"I'm on the way, Mr. Ellison." I called, then turned back to Max.

"Don't bother with the police. I'll get him calmed down and out of here. If he ruins my new furniture with his knife or pepper spray, the police will be the least of his worries."

I brushed past the office toreador and marched back into my office. "Here's your coffee. Freshly made, unflavored, and with cream. Now let's talk."

He sipped his coffee, peering at me over the mug. I noticed he'd taken the time to pat down his wisps of silvery white hair and straighten his tie while I was making the coffee. The knife and pepper spray were nowhere in sight. Maybe he was ready to be reasonable.

"I think you and Mr. Bessup will be able to work this out amicably, Mr. Ellison. If you'll just–″

"Does somebody who would bulldoze my shed without even discussing it with me first sound amicable to you, girlie? The old fart hasn't been right in the head since he lost his wife." His hand darted behind the desk, and he pulled the pepper spray back out.

I sighed. So much for reasonable.

"My name is December Vaughn. You can call me December, or you can call me Ms. Vaughn, butgirlieis definitely out. Please treat me with the same respect I'm giving you, sir." Eight years of litigation in a corporate firm had given me a bellyful of condescension. I wasn't about to take it when my name was finally the one on the door.

Well, itwouldbe on the door as soon as I got a sign. "Also, don't you think you should give the man a break if he's recently widowed?"

"Okay, December—and, just for the record, what the hell kind of name is that? Parents some kind of hippies? And widowed, hell. His wife ran off with the UPS driver. They live down to St. Augustine now," he said, shaking his head. "Hated to see her go. She had the nicest set of bazumbas in the neighborhood."

My lip did an involuntary curling thing at the idea of Mr. Ellison scoping out his neighbor's wife'sbazumbas.

He smacked a hand on my desk for emphasis. "Anyway, here's the deal. I'm out twenty-five hundred dollars, and I know that rat bastard will never pay it. For one thing, he don't have no money, and for another he's about the most contrary individual I've ever come across. So, the way I see it,youowe me the money." He sat back in the chair with a flourish, clearly pleased with his solution.

I gaped at him over my mug. "How do you come up with that? I gave my client legal advice about his property line. He went way, way beyond anything I discussed with him and bulldozed your shed. You'renutsif you think—I mean, it is clearly an incorrect conclusion for you to assume that I am liable to you for the damages."

Sometimes I lose my grasp of lawyer-speak when I get ticked off, which—to my mind—calls into question the value of a sixty-thousand-dollar legal education. If you can'tres ipsaandtortfeasanceat the drop of a hat, you're not worth the paper your bar license is printed on.

"Damage is right. Twenty-five hundred dollars' worth of damage. I don't expect you to just give me the money. I don't want your charity. The way I figure, you owe me a job. I'll work for you until I earn back the money. I'm only seventy-two years old and can do just about anything." He smiled in triumph and smacked the spray can down on my desk.

"There is no way . . .″

Sadly, my do-gooder gene picked that moment to kick in.He's just a lonely old man.

He beamed.

"You can definitelynotwork for me . . .″

Probably no friends or family.

He folded his arms over his chest.

"I don't even need more . . ."

He smiled all over his prune-cheeked face.

He'll give up and lose interest in a couple of days, anyway.

"Fine. So, what can you do, anyway?" I slouched back in the visitor chair, and then changed my mind and stood up. "Hey, if you're going to be working for me, get out of my chair. Get over here on this side of the desk and hand over the weapons." I held out my hand.

He pushed himself out of my chair, grinning, and walked around the desk. "Here's the knife, girl- . . . er, December."

"This is a butter knife! You chased me around my own office with a butter knife?"

He grinned, unapologetic. "You run pretty good in a skirt, too. Nice legs. Not much in the way of bazumbas, though."

I closed my eyes and prayed for patience, then snapped them back open and glared at him. "First rule of employment: no comments on yourboss'spersonal baz— . . .person. Hand over the spray, too."

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