Rogue Divorce Lawyer

by Dale E. Manolakas

  “I told you.”

  “But—”

  “I know I’m a drama queen.”

  “You are. But not this time. You’ll be fine at the courthouse? He wouldn’t dare try anything there, would he?”

  “No, It’s a public place and I’ll be on my guard.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t go, but I have that client flying in for all-day meetings.”

  “I’ll get through it. Did Kurt really say Gary was a good lawyer?”

  “Good? Well … not really. Come to think of it he only said he must be respected to be the head of that bar thing. I’ll talk to him again.”

  “Before Thursday?”

  “Guaranteed and don’t go to his office alone. He’s obviously a pervert. And whatever you do, don’t tell him my fiancé is a litigator with resources.”

  “Okay.”

  “I feel violated, and this is the first time I’ve met him.”

  Angela believed Eliana, but with reservations. She still thought Eliana’s prudishness skewed her reality. But skewed or not, this guy had no restraints or qualms. He fed on sexually harassing women. Angela knew the animal—most women did.

  * * *

  After the sisters left, Gary cracked the whip on Vicky the entire day, giving her incendiary letters to get out and one set of billable documents after another, especially on Eliana’s file. He hadn’t counted on a sister inhibiting his ritual and he was seething.

  At four Vicky called out, “Good night.”

  “And good riddance.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Good night.”

  Alone, Gary started on his whiskey. He was still pissed that Eliana had brought her nosy sister along for protection.

  “If that bitch expects her sister-act will save her ass she’s wrong.”

  After a few, Gary called Zaida to come over.

  “Sure honey. Been a while,” Zaida’s throaty smoke-aged voice rasped.

  “I’ll cancel my Monday girl’s night out for you … special. Give me thirty.”

  “Thirty?”

  “Keep your pants on … until I get there.”

  Gary slammed the phone down on Zaida’s cackle.

  That skinny-assed bitch needs to be put in her place, too, Gary thought.

  He remembered Renee Gates from almost a decade ago. She was what he needed now. Scared to death of her husband and dirt poor—the perfect combo—the perfect fuck any time, any way.

  * * *

  After the pair paper-cupped a couple of Old Crows and Gary laughed at Zaida’s dirty repartee, Gary was ready—ready to get himself off and send this old hag on her way.

  “Come on.” Gary grabbed at her glass.

  “Hey, hon, slow down.” She took the bottle and poured another. “What d’ya think I am? A cheap date? I want another. And you know what? Before I go I want to see that piece of paper giving me the house. Remember?”

  “Huh … I … we …”

  “We what? I want a copy.”

  Zaida wiped the pink splotches from the corners of her mouth with her hot pink manicured pinky finger.

  “You never sent it.”

  “I didn’t?”

  Gary knew he hadn’t. Her husband’s lawyer couldn’t get his signature. Not even for the concession Gary offered on another case they had together. Zaida’s husband wanted his half and she didn’t have the money to buy him out—not after paying Gary and running up more billings. Besides, Gary and the husband’s lawyer wanted the house sold to get their fees paid by the court off the top.

  “Look, Zaida, it’s not that easy. I’ve tried to find a way to—”

  “What the hell? Tried? You said I had the house.”

  “You do.”

  “Then show me the paper. Your bills are as much as my equity now. For nothing?”

  “Shut up.” Gary stared at her machine gun mouth. “Shut up or I’ll—”

  “What? Just like Kim. Yeah, she told me. And she …”

  “You leave Kim out of this or you’ll get it too, you hear! Or I’ll …”

  Gary’s face was red and his eyes wild as he raised his fist.

  Zaida stood face to face with Gary. There was nothing but her tobacco laced breath and her rage between them.

  “You’ll what? I’m not leaving here until I see the letter you promised me.”

  “I … don’t …” Gary looked at her pink contorted mouth and red bulbous face battering him.

  “His lawyer said …”

  “What the hell are you muttering about? You said I got the house and he signed a thing about it.” Zaida stood her ground.

  “Yeah, I know, but it never came and the lawyer—”

  “You liar. You pig. You son-of-a-bitch’

  Zaida’s screeching, and her vomiting her tobacco breath at him repulsed Gary.

  “I paid you plenty. I have to get that house. Where am I supposed to go, you God damned ass … you fucking thief … you—”

  “Shut the fuck up and let that go.” He grabbed the bottle and then her.

  He forced her face down onto the desk, pulled her skirt up, wrestled on a condom, and pumped away. Zaida’s little squeal came fast—he did not. He thrust harder and harder, trying to wipe Kim’s murder, Skip’s trial, and Eliana’s repulsion out of his head.

  “Hey, you’re hurting me!”

  “Shut up, bitch! You smell like a stink’n astray.”

  Zaida whimpered as her hip bones dug into the desk.

  “That’s it, baby.”

  “Stop,” Zaida yelled.

  “Shut up.” Gary slammed her head on the desk and pressed it hard.

  Zaida submitted with another squeal. With her finally silent, Gary pictured Eliana’s lips around his cock. He pumped and thrust harder and harder banging her hipbones into the desk until he finally came. This time Zaida did not.

  Gary looked down at his crushing hold on her head.

  When Gary released her, Zaida turned around and slapped him again and again. He grabbed her arms and threw her into her chair.

  “Hey, you shit. That really hurt.” She studied Gary un-condomed and zipping his pants as she gulped her whiskey, swilled it around, and swallowed.

  “I don’t like being beat around … like your dead friend Kim.”

  “What do you mean?” Fear lasered from Gary’s eyes straight through Zaida.

  “I thought so … you liked doing the Skip thing to her, too.”

  Zaida rubbed her head.

  “Shut your mouth about Kim.”

  Zaida threw he head back and laughed. “I know everything.”

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  “Kim and I … Well, we girl-talked … right out there. So I know your little secret.”

  She fluffed her hair and then smeared candy pink lipstick on.

  Gary glared at Zaida. “What secret?”

  “The big one.” Zaida goaded him.

  “You were doing the dirty with her and she hated it. What’d you do, pull a Skip on her, too?”

  Gary grabbed Zaida by her hair.

  “Don’t ever say that, you bitch. I never—”

  Zaida hit at him. “Let me go.”

  “What the hell are you getting at?”

  “Nothing … nothing.”

  “Tell me.” Gary yanked harder.

  “Nothing … stop … please. You’re hurting me.”

  “I’ll hurt you more.”

  “Just that she had enough and …”

  “And what?” Gary slapped her hard. “Tell me.”

  Zaida fought loose and ran for the door.

  “You can’t hit me. I’m calling the cops, you fuck.”

  “No, you won’t.” Gary blocked her.

  Zaida dove for the desk phone.

  “No, Please. Zaida, please. I’m sorry. I—”

  “You’re done,” Zaida screamed. “I’m gonna get you, you bastard. No man hits me and gets away with it. The cops will take care of you.”

  Gary grabbed h
er before she could reach the phone. She fought like a rabid cat. Scratching and screaming.

  “You stay away from the cops and shut up about Kim.”

  Skip wasn’t put away yet. That detective could put two and two together. Gonzalez was lazy, but not stupid.

  “Get off me. You—”

  “You just shut the fuck up.”

  Gary shoved her into a chair and put his hands around her wattled neck, as loose and ugly as his wife’s. He squeezed tight watching her mouth gaping like a fish gasping at the surface air in an oxygenless water bowl. Her tobacco reek made him gag, but his anger controlled him.

  “Don’t … Stop,” Zaida gurgled and pulled at his hands twisting her head over the back of the chair. “I’m … sorry … sto—”

  Gary didn’t. He couldn’t. It was too late. Zaida knew too much. His fury and fear squeezed harder and harder until her gurgle faded.

  Finally, the sound of silence released his hands from around her neck. What the hell am I doing?

  Gary froze. “I … I’m sorry.”

  Zaida held her throat and fought for a breath.

  Gary shot back around his desk and took his checkbook out.

  “Look, it’s only eighteen thousand to buy out your husband’s half of the house. I have that.”

  He didn’t, but he could take it from his other clients’ trust accounts. “See? I’m writing the check now. We can forget this?”

  Zaida didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She was struggling to breathe.

  “Zaida, I’m sorry. No cops. Please. I don’t know what happened to me. I’m sorry. Please?”

  But his pleadings went unanswered.

  “Zaida?” Gary looked at her eyes begging him for help.

  Shit, her windpipe. It’s crushed, Gary thought as he grabbed his office phone to dial 911.

  His fingers stopped at the last number as he watched as Zaida’s body go limp. He set the phone back down.

  His Zaida problem suddenly dissolved along with the life in that body. Whatever she knew about Kim had died with her. No snooping detective would be revisiting the case now, putting two and two together and arresting Gary for Kim’s murder.

  Sitting at his desk, Gary downed another whiskey rationalizing in his own mind. She’s white trash better off dead. I’ll doctor her file for more fees and get the court to sell her house. It’ll give me my fees and she’ll never open her mouth about Kim again.

  Gary looked at the body.

  He poured another short one and thought—another body, but this time it was on his own turf.

  “Shit. How do I get rid of that?”

  ⌘

  Copyrighted Material

  Chapter 15

  Gary sat up and sobered up. He took his used condom from his trash can along with the blank piece of folded typing paper it had fallen on, wrapped both in tissues, and put them in his pocket. He had to get her out of there, along with every trace of her presence.

  Gary shut his eyes to focus. What could he do with the body?

  Burn it, he thought. Burn it in her own home on her own couch with her own filthy cigarettes.

  He found Zaida’s home address in Vicky’s files. It was predictably on Kim’s side of town—an old forties development of postage-stamp-sized homes just beyond the Phoenix Casino. He was in survival mode.

  Zaida was no better than Kim thinking she could threaten his hardly perfect, but very satisfying, life.

  He grabbed some tissues and opened her purse. He saw her cigarettes. Cheap Newport Reds. No surprise. There was half a pack and a Bic lighter wedged inside a compartment. Then he went to pick Zaida up.

  Gary gasped and froze in his steps. He stared at her and she stared back. Was she watching him?

  “No, you’re dead,” Gary whispered as he studied her still chest, breathless lips, and motionless eyes. “And that’s what you get for threatening me.”

  Gary dug out her keys, careful to use tissues once again.

  No fingerprints and no mistakes, Gary thought. As good as Kim’s crime scene … better. No fingerprints on a damn cell phone.

  He retrieved his whiskey bottle, wiping it down repeatedly just to be sure. He was confident there were no fingerprints or other obvious DNA giveaways showing Zaida had been there. If any remained, she was after all a client.

  * * *

  Luckily there were no security cameras near his parking lot, or anyone anywhere. The location was too insignificant and the landlord—meaning Gary—too cheap to bother. He used tissues to open the car so that there would only be original fingerprints.

  He put Zaida in the passenger seat of her car along with the whiskey bottle. He drove using more tissues past the Phoenix Casino to her house. After he burnt her house down with her body in it, he would shoot craps to set up his alibi and break up the trek back to his office.

  At Zaida’s, as with most forties homes, there was a single car driveway going to a detached garage in the back. Her side yard was overgrown with neglected trees and bushes to obscure her neighbor’s nosy glances. He parked her car close to the house hoping it would burn up too. He was careful, but one could never be too careful about stray fingerprints. He needed gloves of some sort for the next time. He thought of Vicky nosing around and Mary’s disposable fat ass.

  Gary carefully looked around. Then he quietly carried the slight woman through her back door and dropped her onto her living room couch.

  * * *

  After Gary arranged Zaida’s body on her frayed plaid couch, he took off her shoes. He closed the living room curtains so that no one would see him, or the fire too soon.

  Then, he got a glass and paper towels from the kitchen. He wiped down the whiskey bottle yet again, put her fingerprints on it, and did the same with the glass, leaving it half-full. He dropped her purse near her where it would burn.

  He looked around, lit a cigarette with her Bic, placed it in her mouth, then lit her hair and her clothes on fire. He wiped the Bic clean and threw it and the paper towels on the couch.

  “Good enough.” He was proud of himself as he watched the fire take hold.

  He ran out the back. He was sure even if the fire didn’t consume everything that there were no prints anywhere.

  * * *

  Once he was off Zaida’s block, he walked down side streets toward the back entrance of the casino. He reached into his pocket for a few bucks. The condom. He had forgotten to burn it. Probably better—he threw it, the soiled piece of paper and the tissues in a dumpster.

  He heard no fire engines screaming to get to Zaida’s yet. The whole house was going to burn.

  As entered the Phoenix, Gary only hoped the house was insured so he could get the rest of his fees. He didn’t give one thought to a world without Zaida, or who might miss her. Certainly not her estranged husband or him.

  At the Phoenix, Gary played craps as usual, drank as usual, and lost as usual. About eleven, he went out the back and walked the considerable distance to his office to get his own car.

  * * *

  When Gary crawled into his nice king-sized bed with its 600 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, he was pleased with himself.

  He was glad there were no other loose ends, like Zaida, to pair him up with Kim. The second time killing was easier. It actually gave him a rush. Death was a permanent solution. Kim was no longer a problem and disposing of Zaida was cheaper than paying Zaida off with money he didn’t have.

  He felt the mattress shift under his wife’s weight. She rolled toward him and reached for him in her sleep. He scooted over just out of that reach.

  Too bad she doesn’t smoke, he thought.

  * * *

  The next morning, Gary ignored his wife prattling about one of her charities as he stuffed forkfuls of scrambled eggs and bacon in his mouth and slurped her admittedly good coffee. In The San Bernardino Sun, he spotted a last-minute short mention buried near the back of the front section about Zaida’s death in a home fire. It was attributed to her falling asleep with a lit
cigarette on the couch. There was no mention of foul play.

  Mary’s big mouth invaded his thoughts, “Have you heard a word I’ve said? About the award I’m getting from the San Bernardino Children’s Fund?”

  “Sorry, dear, just catching up on the news. Time is tight this morning.”

  “You never listen to me.”

  “I do. I really do. It’s just I’m in a hurry.”

  Gary wished his hands were pressed against Mary’s ugly flabby throat. He felt powerful after Zaida. Like he could conquer any problems because, in point of fact, he had by indulging in the unthinkable—the act of murder.

  * * *

  At his office that day, he played with searches on the Internet on how to poison his not so dear wife Mary. He couldn’t burn her up because she didn’t smoke. Most of the quick-acting poisons presumed a vulnerable heart. Mary didn’t have one. Her own thorough medical maintenance included being followed regularly by her cardiologist.

  A fall? Gary thought as he leaned back and wondered, Where?

  The only possibility he could think of was the patio steps, and she never went out there unless the grandkids were over. Witnesses. Plus, she had a decent life insurance policy naming him as the sole beneficiary, which wouldn’t look good for him. He had to weigh all of the pros and cons.

  * * *

  At the Phoenix that night, he forgot about Mary when he got his groove on and started winning—not much—but winning. The tides had turned.

  All week, by night he made money gambling and by day he made money putting his one great talent to work—creative billing. He sucked money from his clients’ pockets and their trust accounts, and he issued new bills to those whose trust accounts were exhausted—paying special attention to Eliana.

  He anticipated capturing Eliana’s soft promise that Friday at the courthouse. He was on a roll and would not be denied. After all, he was Gary Stockton, the conqueror of all problems.

  ⌘

  Copyrighted Material