P.J. Morse - Clancy Parker 02 - Exile on Slain Street

by P. J. Morse

  Harold, my landlord and spiritual advisor, tried valiantly to be more interested in his thick volume about the life of a perennial presidential candidate. But he was already radiating dislike toward my potential client. I knew he couldn’t help it. He’d been raised not to trust anyone who looked like they never had a real job. One time, when I confessed to Harold that my own family had been in the Social Register, Harold begged me not to repeat it again because he might have to lecture me for it. He went as far as to clap his hands over his ears.

  The woman in yellow summoned the courage to approach me, held out her right hand, and declared, “Hello, Miss Parker. My name is Sabrina Norton Buckner.” Sabrina darted a quick, dismissive glance at Harold, who responded by swigging from his Heineken. “I need to speak with you -” she tossed a second pointed glance at Harold “-privately.”

  I did not like the way Sabrina looked at Harold and had half a mind to tell her to take her business elsewhere. You work with me, and you have to deal with Harold. He sits out in his lawn chair every day, and he sees all my clients coming and going. On numerous occasions, he has steered me away from those who look like trouble or won’t pay up.

  Then again, someone like Sabrina was bound to pay well. Women who dressed like that and who sported good face lifts were often involved in divorce cases, and they could always afford my rate because they were using their ex-husband’s money. I decided to take a chance. “Well,” I told her, “Let’s head upstairs so my good friend Harold—this is Harold Cho, by the way, my landlord—can read in peace.”

  Harold stood and extended a damp, cheesy hand toward Sabrina, saying, “Pleasure to have your formal introduction.” Sabrina, who possessed a perfect boarding-school sheen of manners, had no choice but to accept the handshake, but, when it was over, she held her hand out to her side as if she might catch plague. Harold grinned as he sat down.

  As we headed for my door, Anmol finished his sales and rang his bell, advising Sabrina, “Open your eyes, baby! Next truck might not stop!” Then he threw the rap music on full blast, tossed me a free Drumstick, winked, and rolled on.

  “Is your neighborhood always like this?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I told her, taking out my keys. “But you know what they say: Try it, you might like it.”

  She looked nervous, but she still followed me through the entrance and up to my office.