by Victor Allen
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It wasn’t, Jack thought, as if he hadn’t considered giving in. The sum of years of creeping regulation and the burdens of compliance with government edicts had made him consider chucking in the towel long before. In his day, only criminals had to keep lawyers on retainer. But, he reminded himself, his day was past and it appeared that every citizen, at least in the eyes of the government, was a threat or a criminal. No great surprise. Lawyers infested the legislatures and their overriding priority seemed to be to make sure that the forty-five thousand new lawyers cookie-cuttered out each year had plenty of work. The headwinds that lashed him year after year -headwinds that were only gaining in strength- had worn him down. He could only bang his head against the wall for so long before suffering a mortal wound. He didn’t want to sell out his children’s legacy, but if he didn’t, they would simply take it, leaving his kids with nothing. It was, he mused sadly, a brave new world.
Now, with the unpleasant odor of diesel fuel and the coarse and acrid smell of fertilizer jumping the broom in the cab of the overburdened vehicle, he made a sudden, spur of the moment decision that was very unlike him. And why not? The game had been rigged, the rules rewritten, and nothing he did would change its ultimate outcome.
He thumbed his hands-free phone and dialed his lawyer. The Rollsback Bridge switchback was coming up and he needed to get this done and over with to pay attention to his driving.
On JB’s monitor, an “incoming call” icon flashed in his task bar and JB clicked on it, allowing the intercepted phone call to be transmitted to his headset.
“Foster and Tillis legal,” the receptionist answered. “May I help you?”
“Meg, this is Jack Hicks. Is Mark around?”
“I’ll ring him for you.”
On the second buzz, Mark picked up.
“Jack,” he said. “Tell me you’ve finally come to your senses, son.”
“More like I’ve finally had them beaten out of me. I can’t fight it anymore. Do you think you could get hold of the G-man and tell him I’m ready to sell?”
“I can try. It might not be easy. You rejected their first offer and forced them to send out the Brown Shirts. They might just want to push it all the way. But maybe they’ll see sense and take the path of least resistance. I promise you, I’ll do my best.”
“Thanks, Mark. Maybe,” Jack conceded, “I can get a job as a doorman.”
He thumbed the phone off and watched the blue sky stream by over the dark ribbon of river on his left. Life might never again be sunshine, fluffy bunnies, soft clouds and rainbows, but maybe he could live his last twenty years with some dignity.
He moved up the steady upgrade, ready to top the hill that dropped down to the dangerous curve. The truck squeaked and rattled, pitching a little from side to side as the fuel shifted to and fro. God willing, Jack thought, this would be the last time he would make this run.