The Flower Man

by Vincent Zandri

  The RING system seems to fulfill my wish list. And for only a couple hundred reimbursable bucks, I can’t really go wrong. I grab the package off the shelf, make my way to the checkout counter, pay with my Amex. Stuffing the receipt in my jacket pocket, I head out of the Lowes and to my car. I’m on the road again in no time, on my way back to the McGovern’s TV Land.

  Pulling into the home’s driveway, I remove the RING camera unit from the box, shove in the pre-charged battery pack that comes with it. I then carry it with me to the front door of the house. Peeling back the little piece of plastic that frees up the sticky back, I apply the camera-slash-ringer to the front door frame.

  When I’m back behind the wheel of the car, I read the directions for integrating the real-time camera feed on my smartphone. It takes a minute to download the app and then to apply the proper code that will access that specific device. When it’s all done, I not only see myself parked in the driveway, I see the front stoop, the front lawn and a long section of roadway.

  “Perfect,” I whisper to myself. “Now I can be in two places at once. Ain’t high tech grand?”

  I should maybe head back inside the house, but I’ve got more snooping to do off campus. Retrieving the Post-It-Note from my pocket that I acquired from the kitchen desk, I read the phone number scribbled on it. Megan Barker, Esquire. Dialing the number into my phone, I press it to my ear while backing out of the driveway and into the road. The phone is still ringing after I’ve put the car in drive. Someone finally answers by the time I get to the stop sign at the end of the street.

  “Megan Barker’s office,” says the chipper voice.

  “Megan Barker, please,” I say in my best, potential client tone.

  “This is she,” she says. “How can I help you today?”

  So, either I have her direct line, or she doesn’t believe in a secretary.

  I tell her my name.

  “Really?” she asks.

  “Really,” I say. “It’s short for Jobzcynski.”

  “Ellis Island,” she says. “They cut it in half.”

  “Excellent deduction, counselor,” I say. Then, “I’m inquiring about a client of yours. Mr. Terry McGovern. Mr. TV himself.”

  She pauses long enough to exhale. “Are you with the press?”

  “Actually, I’m with the police. Detective Miller’s office. I’ve been assigned to keep a watch on the McGoverns. Things have been a bit worrisome what with the death threats coming in and all.”

  “And you have a decent idea who is lodging these threats, Mr. Jobz?”

  “And you don’t, Ms. Barker?”

  Another pause. It tells me already I’m annoying her.

  “Listen,” I go on. “Your office is located downtown, am I right? Why don’t I stop by really quick and we can talk face to face?”

  “I’m sort of busy—”

  “Won’t take but a moment,” I insist.

  “Make it quick,” she says.

  “Not everything in life should be quick,” I say, not without a laugh.

  Wow Jobz, that was a dumb thing to say even for you . . .

  She hangs up without a goodbye.

  Okay, full disclosure. I looked up Megan Barker’s profile on Google with my Android while the glass man was finishing up, and not only is she attractive, she’s drop-dead gorgeous. And nowhere in her company profile did it say anything about her being married. Like I mentioned before, I know of her from her work on some of the UI fraud cases she attempted to defend, but it helped to refresh my memory.

  Could I have handled the interview about the McGovern situation over the phone? Sure, but her photo on the firm website showed a tall, confident, forty-something woman with ample breasts and a heart-shaped behind packaged in a short skirt, black tights, and tall leather boots. Her hair was dark and thick, and it draped her shoulders like a veil. Her eyes were brown, her lips red and succulent, her nose sculptured by an Italian Renaissance master.

  Okay, maybe I’m being overly dramatic, but there’s something to be said about applying the personal touch to these interviews, so what the hell.

  Minutes later, I pull up to Barker’s State Street office building. Because it’s late in the day, I’m able to find a space on the street directly in front of the building without a hassle. Before I exit the car, I check the RING app. Thus far, all is quiet on the North Albany front. No system warnings (which are delivered directly to the phone), no one casing the property. No black sedans outside on the road. Far as I know, Terry and Janice are still sleeping off their morning 76ers, and even if they are awake, they might naturally assume I’m hanging out in the cottage, or maybe cruising the grounds, hiding behind the shrubbery.

  How did Terry put it? Cloak and Dagger.

  I get out, lock the Mustang the old-fashioned way with the key, ignore the parking meter since it’s going on five o’clock and the meter readers have already gone home for the day. This is Albany after all, where all the city workers migrate back to the burbs at the end of a long working day.

  Crossing over the sidewalk, I enter the building through the front polished aluminum glass door. The narrow vestibule’s floor and walls are covered in black and white marble while hanging from the high ceiling are big brass chandeliers.

  Classy.

  To my right is a black pegboard inserted into a metal and glass frame that lists all the offices within the building and who they belong to. There’s a life insurance outfit that takes up two whole floors and a small textbook publishing house that takes up another. The law offices of Megan Barker are located on the tenth floor. Making my way to the elevator, I pass several young urban professionals making their way out of the building in their business suits and carrying their alligator attaché cases, no doubt on the way to one of the many local watering holes situated on State Street and surrounding roads.

  I take an empty elevator to the tenth floor, get off, look both ways before noticing a small plaque mounted on the wall that reads, Megan Barker Esq. An arrow directs me further down the hall. When I arrive at an opaque glass door that bears Megan Barker’s name in white letters, I open it, step inside. Closing the door behind me, I enter an empty waiting room that’s decorated with colorful framed prints of old Albany. The furniture is mahogany and the floor polished wood. Several planters and standup lamps occupy the corners, and a wood coffee table supports old copies of The New Yorker, National Geographic, and even an edition of the latest Albany Law Review.

  “I still edit that magazine,” says a voice from behind me. A pleasant female voice.

  I turn quickly, and there she is. Megan Barker, Esq. in the flesh. In the flesh under all that clothing, I should say. It’s not like she doesn’t resemble the photograph on her website. It’s that she looks better. Her hair is smooth and clean with darker streaks that have settled in for the winter. It’s neatly parted over her right eye. Her face is tan and healthy like she spends all her free time on a mountain skiing. She’s wearing a dark short skirt over stockings and black pumps. Her shirt is tan and unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of black lingerie and a pair of ample breasts that look creamy and inviting.

  Yeah, I made the right decision coming here for a little face-time, all right.

  I hold out my hand.

  “Steve Jobz,” I say, not without a smile. “We spoke on the phone.”

  She takes my hand in hers. It’s warm and soft, probably from a recent lotion application.

  “Ummm, you can stop staring at my chest now, Mr. Jobz,” she says.

  A shock shoots up my spine like someone poked me with a stun gun. Am I that obvious?

  Just ask Kate . . .

  I steal my hand back.

  “Excuse me?” I say, playing dumb.

  “You can’t get your eyes off my tits,” she says. “It’s okay, I don’t mind. I like to show them off. Too many women are afraid of being women these days. And too many men have been emasculated by Lefties screaming sexual harassment. It’s like a cancer that’s going to d
estroy the country. I wrote about the legal aspects of this new social phenomenon in a recent Albany Law Review article.”

  I’m beginning to like Megan Barker all the more. Brains and boobs. What more could a man want?

  “Is there somewhere we can go and talk?” I say.

  She goes to the office door, locks the deadbolt.

  “I’m closed for the day, so I thought I’d have a drink,” she says.

  “You wanna go out?”

  “Nonsense,” she says. “I have a perfectly good aged scotch in my desk drawer. Will you join me?”

  “I’d be a fool not to,” I say.

  “That’s the spirit,” she says. “You might not be the biggest boy on the block, Mr. Jobz, but I can see that you’re all man.”

  A few minutes later, I’m seated on a leather chair before her ginormous glass desk. There’s an open laptop set on it, and stacks of papers no doubt from the many cases she’s handling. She also has a pair of brass knuckles set on top of one such stack.

  “Quite the intimidating paperweight,” I point out.

  “Oh that,” she says, settling her right thigh on the desktop, her other foot planted on the floor, her drink in hand. “It’s to remind myself that I must be tough as nails if I’m going to survive as a criminal attorney in this city full of felons on both sides of the law.”

  She sips her drink. I sip mine. As the scotch enters my system, I can’t help but notice the black garters that hold her stockings in place, along with her somewhat exposed seating position. When she opens her legs even more, I can’t help but make out a pair of lacy black undies.

  “You look pale, Mr. Jobz,” she says.

  I look up into her eyes quickly.

  “Oh,” I say. “Please, call me Jobz. Everyone does.”

  “But I’m not everyone.”

  “That’s for damn sure.”

  “Terry McGovern,” she says.

  “You’re representing him in the lawsuit against Natalia Brezinski.”

  “That’s right.”

  Another sip of my scotch. It’s like liquid heaven.

  “He can’t possibly expect to receive fifty million from an early thirty-something assistant producer at a local network affiliate TV station.”

  She cocks her head, the ice in her glass clinking pleasantly.

  “Depends on her resources,” she says, “which in this case are formidable.”

  “Papa Anatoly,” I say. “The Flower Man . . . Tsvesty Enterprises.”

  She smiles, sips more scotch, opens her thighs just a tad more. Heart be still.

  “Obviously, I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of my client’s case,” she reminds me. “But Mr. Brezinski is not exactly broke.”

  I nod.

  “Strange relationship between The Flower Man and the McGoverns,” I say. “The lawsuit against Natalia and the death threats seem to be the least of it.”

  She drinks, swishes the ice around in her glass.

  “I’m only concerned with the lawsuit. It’s why Terry hired me.”

  I’m trying hard not look in between her milky thighs. She knows I’m trying hard. But she also knows I’m failing at trying hard. And she likes the fact that I’m failing. No doubt about it, Megan Barker is a player and most definitely not shy about it. Maybe that’s why Terry chose her as his counsel in the first place.

  “How’s the suit going?” I ask.

  Another cock of the head, but this time she rolls her eyes. “Would have been better if he sued the station for wrongful accusations.”

  “The station has mucho dinero behind it,” I say. “On the books money, that is.”

  “It’s hard to sue an individual, even if her father is worth a small fortune.”

  “But Terry couldn’t sue the station, could he?”

  She downs what was left of her drink, shakes her head, sucks one of the ice cubes into her mouth, chews on it. You know what they say about people who chew their ice? Sexually frustrated is the answer that comes to mind.

  “You figured that out,” she says, through the sound of ice crushing.

  “Terry’s a naughty boy for an Albany television news legend.”

  “Yup,” she says. “He sent the young woman pictures of his cock. Can you believe it?”

  “Was it . . . ummm . . . Was it erect?”

  She forms a grin.

  “Really, Jobz,” she says. “How is that relevant?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I guess I just wonder if he can still get it up.”

  “All those little devils hidden away in all those little details,” she says with a profound sigh.

  I think about having sent pictures of my naked chest to Kate. I feel a wave of cold shame swirl through my flesh and bones. Would she ever complain to Henry about my actions? Would she sue me? The future remains to be written. For now, she’s being nice, understanding, and even helpful. But will the nice Kate last? All it will take is one simple conversation with a lawyer like Megan Barker, and once she realizes how much money she stands to make, and even local fame, she just might turn into evil Kate. But man, oh man, I would still have a major crush on her.

  “Question, Megan,” I say. “Can’t Terry just claim he sent the pictures by mistake?”

  Another shake of the head.

  “In this case, ignorance is far from bliss. Once the deed is done, you own it, so to speak.”

  Fuck, Kate can bury me if she wants. But all I can say is, thank God I kept my dick in my pants when it came time to snap away. Maybe now is a good time to ask Megan what she charges, just to be on the safe side.

  “I wonder why Natalia didn’t counter sue?” I ask.

  “Probably can’t afford a lawyer.”

  “Her dad can.”

  “Her dad doesn’t believe in lawyers. Lawyers are the scum of the earth. He does things the way they used to do them in the old country. With all the power of a hammer and sickle.”

  “Thus, the death threats.”

  “Exactly.”

  I dig through my pocket, locate the now nearly destroyed rose head, pull it out.

  “Anatoly, or one of his men anyway, followed me in a big black sedan this morning, tossed this at me.”

  “A warning,” she says. “Probably to stay away from the case. Even if you do work for the APD.”

  “Well, said black sedan doubled back to the McGovern estate and blew a couple of rounds through the living room window. One of which grazed Terry’s arm.”

  Her eyes wide. “My God, is he okay?”

  She slides off the desk, sadly, goes for the bottle of scotch in her bottom drawer, refreshes her drink. She refreshes mine too. Resuming her perch on the desk, I feel myself growing happy again.

  “So, what’s the bottom line here, Jobz?” she asks. “What are you fishing for?”

  “Truth is, Megan,” I say, “I’m not entirely sure. All I know is Terry is suing Natalia. Her father is not just threatening to kill him, but actually shooting at him. And yet Terry insists no cops. No real cops, anyway. Janice, his wife, is drinking herself into oblivion, and she’s been calling Anatoly daily. Sometimes several times a day. Oh, and one more thing . . .”

  She drinks the scotch down, once more inhales an ice cube. Her legs open a little, exposing that beautiful skin and expensive Fredrick’s of Hollywood hardware.

  “What’s that?” she says.

  “Apparently, the McGoverns are broke. Broker than broke. Terry owes everyone from the IRS to his mortgage lender. Which begs the question, are you getting laid, Megan?”

  Her jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

  Shit. “I mean, paid . . . Are you getting paid, Megan?”

  Nice one, Jobz, you fucking idiot . . .

  Her face takes on a distinct shade of red. The red is answer enough. Closing her legs tight, she chews the hell out of that ice.

  “Let me guess,” I say. “You’re a struggling criminal lawyer. No secretary, a one-woman shop, lots of clients who end up getting sent up river
and don’t pay in the end. You do a little pro-bono for the notoriety, but you really can’t afford to do it and clients—high profile, high paying clients—have been hard to come by in Albany.” I steal a moment to take a drink. “But then Terry McGovern comes along—”

  “Yes,” she jumps in. “Terry McGovern comes along, and suddenly my high-profile client drops in my lap. He’s very charming and, like you, makes me feel like a woman.”

  I feel her meaning like a jab to the jaw.

  “Instincts are balls on again,” I say. “You’ve been fucking him, Megan.”

  She purses her lips, swallows the ice, pops another piece into her mouth.

  “Don’t worry,” she says, “remember your previous query about getting it up? Well, Terry has issues.”

  “Even with a special blue pill?”

  “Yup.”

  “Jeeze, that’s rough,” I say. “Could be, Mr. TV is all used up.”

  I finish my drink, lean forward, set my empty glass on her desk. That’s when the legs open again. Only, this time, she’s not all that shy about it.

  “What about you, Jobz?” she asks. “Do you require the aid of a little blue pill?”

  I sit back slowly in my chair, feast my eyes upon one of the sweetest sights I’ve ever seen. She chews what’s left of her ice, swallows, sets her glass down beside my own.