Riptide

by Debbi Mack

  “Well,” I said. “I feel funny about taking a zoning case. But for you, I’ll consider it, okay?”

  I still had misgivings, but with eight thousand reasons to take the case and a stack of unpaid bills, I couldn’t say no.

  After we dispensed with that, Linda seemed to relax.

  “Thank you, Sam,” she said. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”

  Let’s not get carried away. I said I’d consider it.

  “Linda, please don’t take this the wrong way,” I said. “But I need a day or so to think about this and make sure I have the resources to do a good job for you. Do you understand?”

  She reached out and touched my arm again. “Of course. You have to do what’s right for you.” Linda leaned back and smiled. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  I thought about that. Was that really true? “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “Well, I can tell. You’re as stubborn as ever and probably a hundred times better than most of the high-priced lawyers in this county.”

  “Well,” I said. “Being stubborn doesn’t mean jack shit when it comes to being a good lawyer.”

  She laughed. “See? That’s why you’re the best. You’re honest. Thank you for that. I hope you will consider my offer. Please.”

  After we finished eating, Linda said she needed to go back to the office right away. She flagged the waiter over, pulled her wallet from her shoulder bag, and retrieved an Amex credit card. A platinum Amex credit card to be exact. The waiter hustled over through the nearly empty room and presented the bill in its folder, like an engraved invitation. Linda gave it a cursory glance, nodded, then stuck the credit card in the slot and handed it back. The waiter hurried off.

  “Here’s my card, Sam,” Linda said, pulling a shiny, gold-colored metal cardholder from her shoulder bag. She popped it open with her thumb and retrieved a business card with her agency’s logo on it from the stash within. “I’ll write my home and cell number on here, too.”

  While she scribbled that down, I fished around for a business card and a pen, finding both. I paused, then wrote down my cell phone, which I normally don’t give out to clients. That was my second mistake, after thinking I’d gotten a free lunch.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I left the fake World War I French restaurant, hopped in my old purple Mustang convertible, and rejoined the ugly reality of twenty-first century College Park and good old Route One. I could’ve taken the Baltimore-Washington Parkway instead of Route One, but frankly I was screwed either way. Traffic in this area is a bitch no matter what road you take. Since they began making improvements on the Parkway, the traffic has become even more annoying, no matter what time you’re on it.

  The trip back to my palatial sublet office took me well north of the University of Maryland campus proper, right into the thick of Beltsville. Older suburbs of brick ranchers. The kind of houses they don’t build anymore, because people are looking to buy bigger houses that are made more cheaply. Lovely.

  Through some miracle, I found a place to park out front of the old Victorian house where I sublet, instead of having to pull into the lot in back and walk around to the front door. I know, I know . . . I sound lazy, but I walk all the time. And I ride a bicycle to stay in shape, so no one can say I’m not working it.

  Once I’d parked, I grabbed my shoulder bag and marched up the walkway, then climbed the three short, gray-painted wooden steps to the little porch before the front door. To the right, a small slanted ramp ran alongside the steps. My landlord, the accounting firm of Milt Kressler & Associates, had installed the ramp, requiring a complete architectural redesign of the front porch to accommodate disabled employees and clients in accordance with the Americans with Disabilities Act. They’d also had to get permission from various Laurel zoning and historical authorities. Milt Kressler must really love having his business in Laurel to go through all that shit, huh?

  I entered the waiting area where Sheila, my landlord’s elderly receptionist, was nodding and making “umm-hmm” sounds into her headset while typing on her keyboard. I waved hello and kept going toward the stairs leading up to my plush digs on the second floor. Sheila punched the hold button, apparently, because her head swiveled and she said, “Hang on. We need to talk.”

  Oh, shit. I froze in place. I could’ve ignored her, but why put off the inevitable?

  Once Sheila finished nodding and murmuring into the phone, she hung up and turned to me and said, “Sam, could you step outside with me, while I take a short smoke break?”

  How interesting, I thought. Sheila keeps her silver-gray hair tied back in a bun, giving her the look of a skinny, chain-smoking librarian. One who’s never felt any compunction about smoking in the office, despite the law that says you shouldn’t. That woman smokes like . . . well, a house afire. Obviously, she wanted to talk to me where certain busybodies couldn’t hear her.

  So Sheila and I went outside and huddled on the small porch together.

  Not one to waste words, Sheila got right to the point. She said, “I hate to bring this up, but Milt is getting on my ass about the rent.”

  I nodded. “I know, Sheila. You guys have been more than kind to cut me so much slack during this tough time. But I’ve got what looks like a promising client. Just give me a little more time to square my accounts with you, okay?”

  She took a long pull on the cigarette, and the exhaust fumes streamed from her nostrils. “I could loan you part of what you owe.”

  I held up a hand. “No. Don’t even think of it. That’ll just complicate an already bad situation. But I appreciate your offer.”

  Sheila peered at me through the smoke, with clear blue eyes that didn’t miss much. “Sam, you’re our only tenant. I don’t want to see you go out of business or move, simply because Milt Kressler is too greedy to see that you’re an asset, not a drain on us. If you need help, find it and find it quick or you may not have a choice.”

  *****

  Back at my desk, I pondered my options: finding a new office I could actually afford and moving all my shit; begging for a loan I’d have to pay back eventually (with or without interest); finding a part-time job to supplement my income; or, taking the damn zoning case, $8,000 retainer and all.

  I decided to call Jamila.

  Much to my surprise, I managed to catch her between meetings and putting out the fire du jour. “How’s it going, Sam?” she said. “I’ve only got a moment to talk, but it’s great to hear from you.”

  “Yeah, me too.” The words slipped out, even though they made no sense. “I just have a quick question. What do you know about zoning law?”

  “Zoning? That’s not really my thing. I could hook you up with someone here who does that, if you have a question.”

  Well, that was better than nothing, I supposed. I stared out the window and breathed deeply, trying not to freak out.

  “Sam, are you okay?”

  “Well … not really.” I sounded like my vocal chords were paralyzed. I explained the situation to Jamila as quickly as I could. “Now, this case has come along and it involves an old friend, but it would pay the bills. However, I’m not a zoning expert, so I’d really need to know there’s someone I could count on to assist me with the down-and-dirty details.

  “I’d be more than willing to cut your firm in for a percentage of the fee,” I continued, “since you or whoever at your firm would essentially be consulting with me on this. I’d much rather do it this way than borrow money and create yet another debt to be paid. This way, your firm will get something, I’ll get something, and my client will get an attorney. How does that sound?”

  “Well, that sounds reasonable.” Jamila paused. “I wonder if I should refer you to our zoning department or if I could liaise with them and work with you.”

  “That would be great,” I blurted, sounding like a beggar. Gathering my wits, I said, “I’d love it if we could work on this together.”

  “Let me run it by t
he zoning department and my supervising partner. I’ll get back to you real soon.”

  “How soon? Today? Tomorrow?”

  “Uh … I’ll try to make it later today if I can. Or tomorrow if I can’t, okay? Boy, you’re in a hurry, huh?”

  “Jamila, I’m nearly broke.”

  That’s when I couldn’t hold back any longer. The tears started and they wouldn’t stop.

  *****

  After the dam broke, Jamila offered to take me to dinner, but I was still stuffed with filet mignon. Frankly, all I wanted was a friend to talk to, not more food. So, we made plans to meet at a nice restaurant with a bar called Rinaldi’s near her office. I’m not a serious drinker, but I could sure use a glass of wine. Jamila offered both wine and friendship. What more could I ask?

  When I arrived at Rinaldi’s, Jamila was seated in the waiting area. She jumped up when I entered, ran over to me and hugged me like I was her long-lost sister and we’d finally been reunited.

  “Um, hello,” I said.

  “How are you doing?” she murmured.

  “I . . . .I’m not bad, actually.”

  She let me go and stood back, checking me out. “That’s not how you sounded on the phone earlier.”

  Suddenly, I felt like shit. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Yes, I’m having money problems. But it’s not the end of the world, okay? I’m going to get through this. I know I can. I could just use some help right now.”

  Jamila stood there, looking at me. She looked like Halle Berry in a well-tailored suit in a muted brown plaid that suited her complexion perfectly. She was always so cool and perfectly appointed. I admired her courage and strength of character. Her brother’s murder when she was a child had to have hurt as deeply as the loss of my parents back when I lived in the worst part of Brooklyn. Life hadn’t been a picnic in the park for either of us.

  Finally, she smiled. “Let’s go get a drink and talk. Okay?”

  So, we went to the bar and ordered our drinks. Between sips of wine, I explained everything: how slow business had been, how far behind on the rent I was, and the phone call from Linda.

  “Here’s the thing, Jamila,” I said. “I’m not flat broke. Not yet. I’m just afraid of being broke. I have a little money saved up, but if I use it, it’s gone. Then what? I have no other backup. No life insurance. No house to mortgage. Nobody to depend on. Just me. And my freaking cat. That’s it. I need this case, but I can’t handle it alone.”

  Jamila placed her hand on my arm. “You know you’re my closest friend, don’t you?”

  I nodded. “Same here.”

  She put her arm around my shoulders. “I’ll do it. I’ll make the arrangements, no matter what it takes. I’ll consult with you personally on this, okay? Everything will be fine.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  After we finished our drinks, Jamila said she had to check in at the office and then head straight home. I thanked her profusely for meeting me. We split the bill and walked to our cars, where we waved farewell until next time. I opened the door of my Welch’s grape purple Mustang, slid behind the wheel, called Linda on my cell phone, and told her I’d take the case. She was happy to hear that I was willing, but cautioned that she’d need to get approval from the group before she could sign the retainer agreement. She assured me that this was a mere formality, since no one else seemed willing to take it on.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll prepare a standard retainer agreement and wait to hear back from you. How’s that?”

  “That sounds great.” She almost sang the words.

  “When do you think you’ll know?”

  “I’ll have your answer tonight. We’re holding a strategy meeting tonight. Afterward, I’ll call you and let you know for sure. But I wouldn’t worry.”

  We exchanged pleasantries and hung up. Awesome. Hello, eight grand!

  Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.

  The thought niggled. It wasn’t a done deal until I had cash in the bank and a signature on the dotted line.

  So how was worrying about it going to change anything? Get back to what little work you do have, Sam.

  *****

  I went back to the office to return messages from two possible clients. One wanted to have a simple will prepared. No problem. Of course, as so often happens, if I determined that she needed more than just a simple will after I checked her financial information, I’d have to find someone who knew what the hell they were doing to handle that part. I might possibly get a finder’s fee or perhaps we could work together on her paperwork, but rich people aren’t my forte. Many people don’t realize how much they have.

  The other one was a woman who wanted a divorce. She gave me an earful over the phone about her husband’s lack of attention to her needs, his inability to listen to her, his late nights at the office, and so on. I had to bite my tongue to keep from yelling, “Would you shut the fuck up, lady! At least, you have someone in your life.” Divorce cases are the worst. I hate the bitterness. I hate the fighting over money. I hate the grudges over stupid things like who gets this DVD or that book or, who did what to whom, etc. And when kids are involved, they become pawns in the game. Take it from an orphan, who wishes she could see her parents again.

  But I was desperate enough to arrange meetings with both potential clients.

  Law is such a glamorous profession, isn’t it? Just like on TV. I tried to picture Julia Roberts playing me. I failed.

  I walked home, leaving my car in front of the office, feeling lucky to live only two blocks from where I work, right off of Main Street in the Peachtree Garden Apartments. Unfortunately, any peach trees that may have once existed there were taken down to build the apartments.

  I stopped in the open foyer to quickly retrieve my mail, hoping not to get caught in a conversation with my well-meaning but somewhat overly worried downstairs neighbor, Russell Burke. Russell was dark, handsome, well-groomed, and like the father I wish I still had. The fact that he was gay took nothing away from his paternal tendencies. In fact, he probably would have made a great father. There were times, however, when I could stand a little less quasi-parental guidance from Russell and a little more just plain friendship.

  I inserted the key and opened the box, pulled out my mail, and slammed it shut. I bounded up the flight of stairs to my apartment, taking the stairs two at a time.

  As I entered my apartment, I got the usual reception at the door from my ravenous feline friend, Oscar—all fifteen black-and-white pounds of him. He rammed his head into my ankles and intertwined himself between my legs, so I couldn’t walk without tripping. I tossed my shoulder bag onto the side table and looked down at him, hands on hips. He kept up the intertwining, with a lot of “meow, meow,” until he realized I wasn’t budging.

  Then he sat and gave me the golden-eyed stare.

  “Look here, asshole,” I said. “I love you, but I can’t feed you if I can’t move, okay?”

  This elicited a protracted “mee-ooo-wwww” of eardrum-shattering proportions.

  I hustled into the small kitchen with Oscar hot on my heels and poured dry cat food into his bowl. He pounced on it as though he were starving to death.

  “Jesus, what an act!” I almost applauded, but I realized it would be a wasted gesture. Time to look after number one.

  I had just switched on the TV to see how the Nats were doing when my cell phone rang. I figured it was Linda, but it was a name and number I didn’t recognize, so I ignored it. I went to the fridge and pulled out a pint of Ben and Jerry’s chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. My biggest vices these days are drinking excessive amounts of black coffee and eating this sugar and fat laden dairy product straight from the carton.

  I’d just dropped onto the tan leather couch and started digging into the ice cream when the phone rang again. This time, I could see from the caller ID that it was Linda. I answered on the second ring.

  “Hey, Linda. What’s the good word?”


  “Well, actually, there’s good news and bad news.” Her tone suggested there was more bad news than good.

  I set my spoon down, sat back on my couch, and took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly. “Linda, don’t sugarcoat it. What’s wrong?”

  “The good news is that the group wants to go ahead with the appeal. The problem is that the vote was split. Some people are worried that we’re wasting time and money and making enemies in the bargain. But we voted, and the majority rules, so we’re going ahead with this. However . . .”

  I knew what was coming next. “It’s about the eight thousand dollars, right?”

  “Sam, I’m not letting her get away with this. You’re going to get eight grand. That’s a promise.”

  I squinted. “Let who get away with what?”

  “Ariel Lorenz. She co-founded the group with me. Suddenly, she’s being a real asshole about the money. Apparently, she thinks she can call the shots all by herself. Well, guess again.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Hold on a sec.” I checked the caller ID for my last missed call and hit the speakerphone button. “Does Ariel by any chance have this number?”

  I read the number off the caller ID and Linda said, “Yeah, that’s her cell phone. How did you know?”

  “No, Linda. The question is how did Ariel know my number?”

  “Oh. Oh . . . shit.”

  A long silence. I fought the urge to lecture her on the wisdom of oversharing information.

  “I’m sorry, Sam,” she said, finally. “I didn’t realize at the time I gave her your card that we’d end up disagreeing about the fee or that the group would be so divided. That was dumb.”

  “Look, don’t beat yourself up over it, okay?”

  “It just pisses me off, because I’m supposed to be the spokesperson for the group on this. Now, how can we work together effectively if Ariel is going behind my back? I could kick myself.”

  “Linda, if I had a dime for every mistake I’ve made, I’d retire and move to the Bahamas. Think of it this way. We’re really at an advantage.”