Page 90 of A Dead End Wedding

"Well, thank you. It was very thoughtful of you to, er, think of me. I'm sure I'll think of you whenever I toast something," I said, pasting a polite "I'm the boss, and I need to set the standard for courtesy," smile on my face.

"You're welcome. Now about Mrs. Zivkovich's problem. Me and Eddie, from down at the chess games at the park, can take care of that worthless son-in-law of hers for you. I still got my baseball bat from the old days."

I could feel the migraine itching to explode under my right eye. Threatening phone calls, junkie lawyer, Jake for lunch, toasters, and baseball bats. Somebody stick a fork in me. "Baseball bat? Did you play ball?"

He chortled. "No, I busted heads. Back in my union-busting days. Boy, I could sure tell you some stories. The lawyers like to got killed back then." He sighed. "Yep. Them was the good old days."

And lawyer-icide. Great. Shakespeare and Mr. Ellison.

"Breaking heads isnot?—"

"I could do kneecaps," he offered.

I closed my eyes and prayed for patience, or at least some migraine meds, then opened my eyes again. "Breaking heads, kneecaps, or any other human body part isnotacceptable for any employee in this law firm. As much fun as you had in the good old days of assaulting people, we're going to handle this one my way, okay? A little more civilized?"

He frowned, and his scrawny shoulders slumped inside of his winter-weight cardigan. "Fine. I figured you'd say that, anyway. But if you can't handle it your way, you let me know. I'll be glad to round up Eddie and the gang and help that scumbag see the light, if you know what I mean."

Probably satisfied that he'd left me speechless once again, Mr. Ellison turned and shuffled off down the hall, whistling tunelessly. I stared helplessly after him for at least a full minute, then moved the toaster to the floor in the corner and spent another five cleaning the crumbs off my desk.

The phone rang, and I glared at it. Probably the IRS, the way my day was going. "Max?"

"D, it's Charlie Deaver. He saw the paper and was upset. I think you should talk to him," she said. "Line two."

I punched the button. "Charlie? It's December."

"Hi, Ms. Vaughn. I, well, I saw the paper, and?—"

"Please, call me December. And that libelous tripe you saw in the paper was ridiculous. I'm going to take strong action against them. Please be sure that I am certainly not, nor have I ever been, a druggie of any kind." I started jotting notes, trying not to bang my head against the desk.

Head banging is so unprofessional.

"Well, I know your Aunt Celia pretty well, and I can't imagine she would recommend a druggie – a person with drug issues – to me. So, if you're sure there's no problem . . ."

"Charlie, I promise you that there is no problem. I have never had a substance abuse issue of any kind in my entire life. I don't even smoke cigarettes! I hope this doesn't affect your good opinion of me, but of course I'll understand if you feel you need to seek different representation," I said, not holding out much hope. The poor man just lost his wife, and then he had to read in his morning paper that his attorney was a pothead.

Great start to our working relationship.

"No, it's okay. I'm a pretty good judge of people, and you looked like a good person to me. I'm sticking with you."

I silently breathed out about a lungful of air. "Thank you, Charlie. You won't regret it. Now let me update you on where we stand with BDC's past-due discovery."

We chatted for about ten minutes about my pending motion to compel and the case and set an appointment for him to come in for an in-depth interview. By the time we hung up, he sounded a lot more confident about his decision to stick with me. I decided I'd had enough for the day and packed up my briefcase, then headed out to Max's desk. "I've had it. I'm walking out with you. Any progress on my furniture?"

She grimaced and shook her head. "No, and I think they're screening my calls now, because I got voice mail the last five times I called. But Legal Aid called to say they don't care if you're an axe murderer, they're still sending you the overflow cases for yourpro bonoday tomorrow. And your ex-husband called and asked—" she looked down at her notes. "Let me be sure I get this straight. Okay, three things: Do you want him to fly down here and help you with your furniture problem? Do you need money?"

I rolled my eyes. "Mike will never see me as a grownup if I keep letting him bail me out. Plus, I think he's still trying to find a way for us to get back together. So, no, I?—"

Max held up her hand. "I saidthreethings. The third was, do you mind if he dates your former secretary?"

13

As I contemplated pizza versus drive-through, in my quest to repress thoughts of my ex and my secretary doing the nasty, my phone rang. The caller ID said KINGSLEY, so I picked up. "Hey, neighbor! Come next door and have some dinner, if you're not doing important lawyer-type stuff. The kids are dying to meet you," she said.

"Hi, Emily. Thanks. I'd love to," I said, smiling for what felt like the first time in days. "I could use a break from my problems."

She started laughing. "Problems? What problems? Oh, those druggie friends of yours giving you a hard time, are they?"

Oh, not her, too. "Look, I promise I'm not a druggie. I?—"

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