“I told you,” Victor moaned. “The bus has a lien. Do you understand what that means?”
“I don’t give a damn what that means. What time today can you get this bus sold? You owe me another 75K.”
“I can’t sell the bus, Mister Bladanni. I don’t have any other freed-up assets. I’m mortgaged to the hilt on my home and this construction yard. The bank gave me twenty-five, but that’s it. I’m tapped out.”
Johnny’s face twisted. A malicious sneer. “You just don’t get it. I got orders not to leave here without the money you owe us.”
“You can’t get blood out of a rock.”
“Let’s think about that. By about noon today you’re going to hear from the cops. They’re going to want to take your statement. There will be an investigation.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Gimme that,” Johnny said, pointing at a Chivas bottle behind Victor, snugged toward the rear of a two-drawer filing cabinet. “Right, that.”
Victor passed him the bottle. Johnny popped the plastic lid on Victor’s coffee. He poured two fingers of the scotch into the coffee. “Drink that.”
“I don’t start this early. It’s only ten-thirty.”
“Don’t matter. Drink it.”
With a long sigh and shrug Victor took a drink of the coffee. The scotch definitely didn’t mix well. The taste was bitter and acid. “Crap.”
“Now the rest of it. All of it.”
Victor shut his eyes and lifted the cup. In one long pull he drank down the coffee and scotch. “Happy now?”
“You’re the one needs to get happy. You’re going to get a call from your Sheriff and he’s going to be asking you about your work last night. You’re going to be stinking of whiskey.”
Victor frowned. “My work last night?”
“You tuned up Miss Priss, the girl you had out here last night.”
“I didn’t touch her.”
“Oh, it was after you was knocked out. You was sleepwalking. You took your knife, carved your name in her tits, and traced it with a Magic Marker. She ain’t happy with you, Victor.”
“What! You hurt that girl and I’ll—“
Johnny stood up and leaned across the small desk. “You’ll what? You’ll go to jail for it? Is that what you’ll do?”
“Damn! Why would you do something like that?”
“Victor, you was warned. We told you to have our money yesterday. You blew us off, so you had to be seriously warned. Now you cut up that poor girl.”
Victor held up his hands. “Mr. Bladanni, if you would get your boss on the phone, we could straighten this out in three minutes. I’m a reasonable man.”
“No. I gotta run. You got to explain things to the police. But I’ll be back, I promise, and I want the title to this bus. Free and clear of any lien. Got it?”
“I can’t believe you hurt Ermeline. I swear, I’ll—“
Johnny flourished the switchblade and suddenly it was at Victor’s chin again. There was already one bandage there; Victor Harrow didn’t want another. “You’ll what?” Johnny menaced.
“Please. Just go.”
“I will. But I’ll be back. And next time you ain’t got our money I’m gonna kick down your door, cut your throat, rape your wife, and stab your dog. You’ve been warned twice.”
6
Fletcher T. Franey was medium frame and height, bald with a yellow fringe, wore tortoise shell glasses, had a black mole on his cheek near the right eye socket, and dressed in ten year old sport coats and shiny slacks from the men’s store downstairs. Franey was a lawyer, not a well-thought-of one, but he was also the Chairman of the Hickam County Democrat Party. The party position gave him all the power anyone could want—in a small county. He possessed the ability to get political favors for friends, steer small state contracts among the loyalists, have a direct line to the movers and shakers in Chicago and Springfield, and get your driver’s license reinstated if you got yourself nailed for drunk driving. In fact, drunk driving and divorce cases were his mainstay.
He had gone to a third tier law school, drank himself silly all three years, got a D in wills and trusts, which meant he wasn’t going to graduate, then, at the last minute, wrangled an A in commercial paper, which gave him a 2.0, exactly what he needed to graduate. By a hair. Still, it was the old joke: What do you call the guy at the bottom of his law school class? Attorney.
His office was on the west side of the Orbit town square, the entranceway squeezed in between a men’s store, Bertham’s Haberdashery, and an office supply, Grant’s Paper and Pens Office Supply.
The law office was up an old flight of battleship gray stairs, and opened on a bleak, dark waiting room and law office all rolled into one. His secretary was there three afternoons a week and the rest of the time he answered the phone. “No, Mary Ellen is busy, that’s why I’m answering,” he would lie. “But can I help?” His manners were impeccable and that’s how he got along with the city fathers and merchants.
He had very little local business as he wasn’t possessed of much legal wisdom and the people of Orbit knew that, so he became the city attorney for Marlin Township, an incorporated village ten miles northwest of Orbit. Marlin Township was home to fewer than 1000 souls, most of whom got a government check, and most of whom couldn’t afford legal advice, not even for a simple will. Yet, Franey managed to pick up enough hours at the council meetings to pay his rent back in Orbit, so it worked well for him. He kept a Mr. Coffee burning behind his desk, poured himself cup after cup during the day, allowed them to get cold, and most often could be found drinking cold coffee out of a mug he had purchased in Nogales, Sonora, on a trip last summer with Nemecia, his wife.
Today he was sitting with his booted feet up on his desk, puffing on a pipe he had just bought at Haines drug store, and wondering if the pipe satisfied the image of himself he wanted to portray—when the phone rang.
“Franey Law. This is Fletcher.”
“Mister Franey, please hold for the Attorney General.”
Franey swallowed hard. Had he heard right? The Attorney General of Illinois—calling him? Hell, it wasn’t even an election year.
A strong voice reached out to him. “Fletcher? Robert K. Amistaggio, Attorney General here. Got a few minutes?”
“Yes, Mister Attorney General. Anything you want.”
“Well, we’ve got a little situation with one of your locals over there.”
“Who’s that?” Franey puffed the pipe. It had gone out. Again. He flicked the yellow plastic lighter and sucked the flame down into the bowl. Smoke exploded and swirled.
“Gentleman by the name of Victor Harrow. You know Mister Harrow?”
“Victor? Everyone knows Victor.”
“He a client?”
“Sad to say, no. He’s always in trouble of some sort and would make anyone a great client.”
“Well, not now he wouldn’t. He’s upside down on some money he owes the State.”
“How much?”
“Not much. About seventy-five thousand.”
Franey bit the pipe stem. Not much? Seventy-five thousand dollars and that’s “not much?”
The AG continued. “He’s got a contract and he’s light on the service fee.”
Franey’s heart skipped. “Service Fee” was monkey talk for “payoff.”
“Who’s he owe it to,” Franey said, his voice weak.
“His Honor, the Governor.”
“Holy crap.”
“Exactly. Now here’s what we need you to do. We want you to keep this under wraps, but scootch on over to the courthouse and find out everything you can about old Vic’s assets. We might have to sue and sell to get paid, you get my drift.”
“Yessir.” Franey wrote on the pink message pad: “Find out about assets.”
“And get his tax return. We need to know about his depreciation schedule. That will tell us what property he has.”
“Excuse me, tax return? That won’t be at the court ho
use.”
“No, course not. That you’ll have to get from the IRS.”
“IRS, okay. Anything else?”
“Let me give you my direct line. Call this number when you’ve got the dope on this guy.”
“Will do.”
They said goodbye and hung up. The damn pipe was out and Franey felt the narrow ridge of sweat already forming on his forehead. How in the world would he get tax returns from the IRS? They don’t just give those away to anyone who asks. He brought up Internet Explorer on his screen and browsed over to irs.gov.
He spent the next half hour learning all about obtaining taxpayer documents from the IRS. It looked like he was going to have to dummy up a power of attorney and sign Victor’s name to it. He was also going to need Victor’s social security number.
The sweat was flowing freely now. That was a crime, a serious one. Fletcher T. Franey knew if he committed a crime he would likely get caught; he just wasn’t smart enough to get away with it. Still, the AG had spoken and that was like hearing from the Archangel Michael. Direct from God’s mouth to your ears, he told himself. You have to do this.
Then it occurred to him that maybe if he performed this task simply and well, why, he would have his foot in the AG’s office. Who knew what kind of local legal work the AG might then feel predisposed to send his way? The payoff here could be huge, the potential was unlimited. If only he had the AG recorded while he was asking for Victor’s tax returns. Then he’d really have some leverage, the AG promoting a criminal act. That had conspiracy and other federal crimes written all over it! The opportunities were unlimited here!
He again sucked flame into the pipe bowl. It was time to move ahead fearlessly, and they had their man. He would do it. Definitely he would do it.
Attorney Franey punched in the AG’s direct line. He was shocked with the AG himself answered. He told him about Victor’s social security number being a must-have, the AG said he would have someone call him from the Secretary of State’s office with the information he needed, and Franey said thanks. This time when he hung up he switched off the tape recorder he used to take telephone statements. He hit rewind/playback.
“Mister Attorney General? Attorney Fletcher T. Franey here again.”
“Okay.”
“I’m going to need the subject’s social security number in order to get his tax return. Can you help?”
“I’ll have someone call you from the Secretary of State’s office with that information. Will that be all?”
“Well—I just wanted to say thanks for trusting me with this. I won’t let you down.”
“Thank you Mister Franey. Goodbye now.”
“Goodbye.”
Recorded: busted! He had the Attorney General of the State of Illinois combining with him in a conspiracy to defraud the federal government out of a private citizens’ tax return. He was giddy and he stood and raised his arms overhead. “Yippee!” he exhorted, then immediately sat down. He hoped to high heavens they hadn’t heard him downstairs in the haberdashery and office supply. Still, he was elated.
He jumped back to his feet and began pacing behind his desk.
Smoke billowed from the pipe as he puffed madly.
Now how, he asked himself, are you going to parlay this arrow in the AG’s heart into some real money? What the hell, maybe he could come out of this with a State contract for legal work of some kind. Of course, he would go for the usual payoff—State money. And the title of Special Assistant Attorney General. He had seen that used before and it never failed to scare hell out of folks. Why not him? Indeed, why not? In the energy of the moment Franey neglected to think about the AG’s muscle. No, not the appointment of special prosecutors or special investigators out of the AG’s office. He forgot to think about the AG’s real muscle, the mob. They wouldn’t let a nobody like Fletcher T. Franey get within ten feet of their Attorney General. Heads would roll before that would ever happen.
7
Thaddeus and Christine were gathered around his desk like wolves at a carcass. They were hungry. Money hungry, and they were tired of being poor, tired of always having to hustle every month to get the office bills paid, the salary paid, the Buick paid. At last something good had come their way with Ermeline’s case. They had talked it over and they had both agreed. They were going to sue the hell out of Victor Harrow.
Their tools were books, open and stacked on top each other, multiple legal pads with blue and black ink, several Styrofoam coffee cups empty and half-full, and pens, paperclips, binders, pencils, erasers and documents everywhere, and the dozen photographs of Ermeline Ransom’s tattooed breasts in a neat stack. There was a brainstorm underway, the attorney and his paralegal.
Christine stood up to stretch. Her muscular shoulders flexed beneath her gray lambswool sweater. Her features were fine and sized just right, so that she looked very feminine at first glance, until you realized those shoulders were probably more muscled than yours, and that those biceps, forearms, splayed hands, torso and stout legs would probably own you in a fight. But deep down hers was a gentle soul and she only wanted peace in her life and for her husband and little girl. She was not an angry person; she was mellow enough, which was one of the key features of her personality that had told Thaddeus to hire her after her interview. She would be a cool head in the middle of a storm and he had known, eighteen months ago, that he would definitely need that, the practice of law being as uproarious as it is.
Thaddeus took a long pull at his coffee and frowned. “This is icy,” he said. She offered to get the refill but he waved her off. “My turn. Let me get you one,” he said.
It was 4:15 on a cloudy Tuesday and they were going back over their tracks, making sure they had left no stone unturned in their quest to prepare and file the most complete and legal complaint for negligence and assault against another person ever filed in Hickam County Circuit Court.
Victor Harrow better damn well duck. They had finally laughed when they had finished drafting the complaint and traded high-fives. This lawsuit was going to take him down. All that remained now was for Christine to prepare the cover sheet and summons, and Thaddeus could walk the papers across the street, file them in the clerk’s office, and send them out for service by Sheriff Altiman’s deputy.
* * *
The next morning at 9:30 Thaddeus left the office with the filing. Inside the red file folder he had the signed and dated complaint, the filled-in cover sheet, and the summons ready for signing and stamping by the Circuit Clerk. He would file in the next fifteen minutes and by noon the entire square would be talking about the lawsuit. By tonight, the entire county. Thursday noon the Hickam Press would roll off the presses onto the mail trucks for distribution to every rural inhabitant in a thirty mile radius. The story would be page one—they had already interviewed Thaddeus and taken several shots of him at his desk. The story would light up the telephone lines. No one had ever heard of a man carving his name in a woman’s breasts. Much less a respected businessman, one with everything to lose and nothing to gain, a deacon at his church, a Silver Star in Vietnam, a member of Rotary and Moose and Sergeant-at-Arms at the Orbit VFW Post.
Thaddeus’ step quickened and he made it across Adams Street, hopping up on the courthouse sidewalk, walking west 100 steps, then taking a left and on up the courthouse steps into the atrium. He took a deep breath and turned the handle to the Circuit Clerk’s Office.
8
Lunch hour—11:30-1:30 at the Silver Dome was packed. The merchants all filed out of their stores around the square and dutifully reported to the large dining room where they would join their usual lunch bunch. It was duck hunting season and football season, so first they all swapped tales about who got his limit and whether Ducks Unlimited was going to have a record annual meeting/dinner in the basement of the Red Bird Inn. Then came football; although the State was Illinois and the Chicago Bears ruled upstate, Orbit was downstate and all hope and attention was focused on the season of the Saint Louis Rams and their record.
Would they at long last return to the playoffs? And what of Geoff Gentry, their great quarterback out of Syracuse: would he play after being knocked unconscious and carried off the field last Sunday?
Once football and ducks were settled the merchants compared notes on sales so far this day to sales from a year ago, five years ago, and even ten years ago. It was true: many of the merchants kept journals, detailing sales as far back as when they had first acquired their businesses, from Junior Grant at Grant’s Pen and Pencil Office Store to Rich Tatinger at Schnizzle’s Shoes, the grand record-keeper of them all, whose records (thanks in part to his predecessor father) went all the way back to 1976. Shoe sales were pegged to climatic changes and Rich could tell you what would happen with waterproofs and high tops when the temperatures plunged, as well as what would happen with Nikes and Adidas when basketball season rolled around. True, he wasn’t prescient, but he was a great judge of his customers’ spending habits.
As plates were ferried out of the kitchen by the wait staff and as earnest eating began, Junior Grant suddenly, in a buckle in the conversation, said loudly, “Say, I hear Thaddeus Murfee sued Vic Harrow this morning. They say Vic really got his foot stuck in the mud this time.”
“It wasn’t Thaddeus who sued,” one of the minor clerks from the Clerk’s Office replied. “It was Ermeline Ransom, who is being represented by Thaddeus. She’s the real plaintiff, not Thaddeus.”
“What’s the allegation?” A school administrator asked. He was in town to visit with the Superintendent of Schools for Hickam County, something about a pregnant class president.
“Thaddeus claims Victor carved his name in the girl’s chest!”
“What?”
“Come again?”
The lesser clerk dabbed a paper napkin at the corners of her mouth. “The complaint alleges that Victor carved his name in Ermeline’s breast and then inked it in.”
The Defendants: Crime Fiction & Legal Thriller (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 1) Page 6