by Gregg Loomis
“I told you no,” she said through the still open window. “I have no change.”
Leon had heard that before. “Lady, I washed your windshield. You owe me two bucks.”
Gurt inched the Mercedes forward.
Leon, savvy to all the tricks these women tried to avoid paying, stepped in front of the grill.
In frustration, Gurt leaned on the horn. The man blocking her path didn’t move. She glanced at her watch. Manfred would be standing in the foyer of the lower school, wondering what had happened as his school-mates were picked up.
She got out of the car.
Leon was surprised. The last thing these frightened women did was to leave the protection of their vehicles. And the look on her face somehow made him uneasy. So did her size. Just under six feet. But she was a looker. Long blond hair in a ponytail that reached her shoulders, a figure not even a bulky tracksuit could entirely conceal.
“I need to pick my child up from school,” she said. “You must move.” And some sort of cute foreign accent. “Oh, yeah?” Leon sneered. “Just who is going to make me?”
Gurt tried not to wrinkle her nose at the stench of body odor, vomit, and smells she didn’t even want to try to identify. “If necessary, I shall.”
Leon didn’t like the assuredness of her tone, but it was too late to back down now. “Sure, lady. Give it a try.”
She gave him a shove. Not a hard one, just a little more than a suggestion he should move. Reflexively, Leon pushed back.
He was never quite certain what happened next. He felt two hands on the wrist of the hand he had used to pushed back, two hands a lot stronger than he would expect in a woman. Her foot on his. Then he had an unexpected view of the sky — a sense of flying. D’Andre, his companion — open-mouthed. The landing was less than perfect. He hit the street hard enough to knock the breath out of him, hard enough that a bolt of fear went through him as he vainly tried to suck air into lungs he imagined collapsed by his collision with the ground. There was no imagining the pain that shot along his side with each effort to breathe. He was sure he had broken a rib, maybe two.
The sun was blotted by a form smeared at the edges by his tears. “You will move now? Or will a further lesson in manners be necessary?”
The accent was more menacing now than cute.
He shot a quick glance in the direction where he had just glimpsed D’Andre. All that remained were an empty bucket and a squeegee. D’Andre, it seemed, had urgent business elsewhere.
Whatever had happened had to be some sort of accident. Leon didn’t have the strength he had before his long and passionate affair with meth, but he sure as hell should be stronger than a woman. Besides, this story would be in every homeless shelter, on the street, under every bridge, in every deserted house, everywhere street folks congregated: Leon’s ass being whipped by a woman, and a white woman at that.
He pushed up on all fours, gritting his teeth against the pain in his side. The woman was getting back in her car. With more effort than he had thought he possessed, Leon was on his feet. Groping in his pocket, he found the Swiss Army knife, the one he had lifted from the sporting goods store. The blade attachment wasn’t as large as he might have wished, but it sufficed to keep others away from the possessions he carried in the backpack with one strap missing.
And it would serve with that bitch who’d gotten lucky.
He opened the blade and took a step to catch her before she could shut and lock the car’s doors.
Instead, she got out of the Mercedes again, a decidedly unanticipated move.
“There is more?”
The question startled Leon as much as her total lack of fear. “You bet there is, woman!”
The smile playing around the corners of her mouth was disconcerting. It was if she relished getting cut.
He waved the blade back and forth the way he had seen knife fighters do on TV. Back before he hocked the set, anyway. She was watching with unconcealed amusement. Leon was aware a small crowd had gathered on the adjacent sidewalk. Better to get this over with before some hero wannabe tried to interfere.
He lunged.
Faster than he could comprehend, a number of things happened, all unpleasant. First, one hand deflected the blade while the heel of the second came crunching down on his wrist. He was certain he heard the top bone, the radius, snap. She still had hold of his arm, using it to snatch him forward into a kick in the groin of which any NFL placekicker would have been proud.
He hardly recognized the shriek of pain as his own as his head smashed into the woman’s car. Lying in the fetal position, trying to hold both crotch and damaged wrist, he noted only a very expensive pair of athletic shoes disappearing into the SUV before it drove into the intersection, turned right and disappeared.
But just before it did, he got the tag: GURT. He’d square with GURT later. Maybe when his balls and wrist weren’t doubling him over in agony.
CHAPTER 5
Law Offices of Langford Reilly
Peachtree Center
227 Peachtree Street
Atlanta, Georgia
At Approximately the Same Time
Lang reilly pretended to study the papers in front of him. In reality, he was observing the man occupying one of the twin French wing chairs on the other side of the desk. Theodosius Wipp was in his seventies and, in the language of the law, in deep shit.
As with all potential clients, Lang did his homework before taking the case, a task made easy since the Internet’s assassination of privacy. He defended white-collar criminals, those who offended society’s laws with a pen or computer rather than a gun. Under a 36-count federal indictment of charges including various acts of tax evasion and mail, bank, and wire fraud, Wipp was a good candidate to spend the rest of his days as a guest of the federal government.
The man was about six feet tall, with a pink scalp showing through the remnants of hair that was white but still curly. It was the eyes that drew Lang’s attention, permanently half-shut and so reptilian that Lang was almost surprised to see them blink from top to bottom rather than from the bottom up. And the eyes weren’t going to be the only problem in front of a jury. The man spoke in the tortured syntax of the Erhard Seminar Training, or EST as its founder preferred, the long and thankfully departed would-be cult of the late seventies.
Electronic research showed it had been a group whose beliefs were ill-defined, and worse, enunciated by members too dull or too embarrassed to admit they had been fleeced. A hodgepodge of philosophical bits and pieces randomly selected from various existential sources of Zen Buddhism, Dr. Phil, and P. T. Barnum.
The requirements for membership — in addition to paying a fee, of course — was to “graduate” from “training.” Two consecutive weekends of hours without access to toilet facilities while the “trainers” harangued the paying audience with shouted insults, threats, and obscenities. The only ascertainable benefit to “graduates” seemed to be a tendency to use the third or fourth dictionary preferred definition of words, those defintions, less preferred by Mr. Webster and to speak in jargon, including greeting each other with phrases such as “I got it” for “I understand” and “That was his choice because that’s what he chose.” Originality of thought was uncommon among members.
Still, from its inception in the late seventies until the last “training” in 1984, over 700,000 paid to attend, proof positive that Barnum was right. Once the supply of the gullible dwindled, a postgraduate course was promptly devised, interrupted only when the cult’s founder, Werner Erhard, formerly John Rosenberg, sold the “assets” of EST to his brother, who packaged the same hokum under a new name while Erhard departed for other, hopefully greener, pastures. The faithful bemoaned the fact that now the secret of how Rosenberg/Erhard had transcended from magazine salesman to guru of verbal obfuscation while stuck in traffic on the San Francisco Freeway would never be revealed unto them. The only possible clues were to be found in the man’s self-published (and obviously self-edited) autob
iography, the more amazing parts including how the author “learned what it was like to die” when he fell from a second-story window as a child.
In the absence of their prophet, the brighter of his disciples (“brighter” being used comparatively) finally figured out that people, like themselves, would actually pay to be verbally abused and become “graduates” too, the only form of success many of them would ever achieve.
The void had finally been filled by Theodosius Wipp, a man who had changed first names in his late sixties and the color of what remained of his curly hair a year or so earlier. A brief review of his occupational history revealed job changes with a frequency that suggested moving on had not been Wipp’s idea. In fact, the only consistencies in his life were the number of times he had been sued for failure to live up to contractual promises once he had received his part of the bargain and the unbroken string of firings and business failures.
That and a marriage that had somehow endured 30 years. Mrs. Wipp, Lang thought, must be the marital version of Mother Teresa.
The man appeared to be a professional welcher with a sense of integrity that would make the average politician look trustworthy. At least EST’s founder had provided seminars, using the word in its broadest sense. In the last five years, Wipp had used the mail, the Internet, and the telephone to solicit funds for “training” that never took place. Instead, they were “rescheduled” with such regularity as to give support to the government’s allegations that he had no intent of ever holding them.
“A misunderstanding,” was Wipp’s characterization.
Lang cleared his throat, a signal the conversation was about to start. “Explain to me again: why didn’t any of these, er . . . seminars take place after people had paid for them?”
Wipp shrugged, a matter beyond the control of mere humans. Or, at least, this particular human. “Actually, several of the trainings did take place.”
News to Lang. “Oh?”
“Five or six, I think.”
“Out of how many?”
Another shrug. “I’m not sure.”
“The indictment says 23.”
“That’s possible.”
Not exactly a batting average to be proud of.
Lang hunched forward in his chair, elbows on the desk. “Any facts that would tend to diminish or disprove the government’s claim that you never intended to provide the seminars?”
“Training, it’s called training.”
Lang frowned. “Whatever. Can you show a reason the training didn’t take place as advertised?”
Wipp was suddenly fascinated by the design of the Kerman rug that covered most of the dark-planked floor. “The group leaders, the trainers . . . they just quit showing up.” He looked up long enough for Lang to see the anger in his face. “After they had promised to be there, too. Bad karma, breaking your word.”
No doubt that was why Wipp was here, bad karma. But Lang asked, “How much were you going to pay them?”
An expression of genuine bewilderment replaced anger. “Pay?”
Lang rubbed the fingers of one hand together, the universal sign for receiving money. Was this guy so stupid as to not understand? Forty years of business failures provided a clue to the answer to that question. “I assume you promised to pay these trainers something.”
Lang might as well have slapped the man across the face for the indignation Wipp demonstrated. “EST group leaders don’t get paid. They get the experience of being group leaders.”
The conners being conned. But Lang said, “Let me get this straight: you were expecting people to donate two weekends of their time when you were the only one getting paid, correct?”
“I did it for Werner,” Wipp said sullenly, “but I got to be a group leader.”
Forty years of consistent failure had a basis.
“So, what do you think my chances are?” Wipp wanted to know.
Lang took his elbows from the desk and picked up the copy of the indictment, although he was already well acquainted with its contents. “The U.S. Attorney has about a 96 percent conviction rate. I’d say our best shot is to see if we can work out a deal.”
“What sort of a deal?”
“A little early to say. First, there’s the matter of my fee. I’ll need fifty grand.”
Wipp looked stricken. “Fifty thousand?”
“Payable before I get started.”
“Maybe in installments? I mean, I can’t afford . . .”
One of the essential things about the law practice, at least a criminal practice, wasn’t taught in law school: get paid up front. If the client is convicted, then his lawyer did an inadequate job. If acquitted, well, he was innocent all along and hadn’t really needed a lawyer, had he? Taking a promise from a lifetime welcher like Wipp didn’t make a whole lot of sense, either.
“You had no trouble paying the bondsman fifty thousand.”
Post-law-school lesson number two: if the client can afford bond, he can afford to pay his lawyer. The fifty thousand represented 10 percent of the bond, $500,000. The Feds took serious umbrage at using the mail or phone services for fraudulent purposes. Lang was curious where a loser like this guy got that sort of cash if not from the non-occurring seminars. But he really didn’t want to know.
“Yeah,” Wipp agreed, “paying the bail bond people sort of tapped me out. I’ll have your fee as soon as I can.”
Lang stood, indicating the conversation was at an end. He extended his hand. “Soon as the money’s in my account, I’ll be in touch with the Feds.”
Wipp’s hand stopped in midair, handshakus interruptus. “I told you I’ll have the money. I’d hoped you’d get started immediately.”
And people in hell hope for ice water. But Lang said, “Office policy. Of course, you are free to seek other counsel.”
Assuming you would want one stupid enough to take on a 36-count indictment for free.
“No, no.” Wipp shook his head. “You come highly recommended. I’ll be back.”
It took General MacArthur over three years to keep that promise, Lang thought as he followed Wipp into the reception area and watched him through glass doors as he waited for an elevator in the hall outside.
“Glad he’s gone,” Sara observed. “The man is just plain slimy.”
Lang smiled at his grandmotherly secretary. Sara had been with him since he had opened his practice after leaving the Agency. With the collapse of the Soviet Empire and the so-called “peace dividend,” Lang had seen the end of his job in the intelligence community. He had signed on out of college with visions of James Bond dancing through his head: a Walther PPK in one hand and a ravishing woman in the other as he chased his country’s enemies from one exotic foreign city to the next.
As is often the case, the reality was somewhat different. Instead of being assigned to Ops, he had drawn Intel, a faceless office in a drab building across the street from Frankfurt’s Hauptbahnhof, a seedy neighborhood of cheap hotels and greasy cafés that smelled of stale beer and cabbage. Although he had endured the same training as operatives, his duties involved the study of Iron Curtain media for clues as to what the Kremlin might do next.
It was while he was there he met and had a brief affair with Gurt Fuchs, an escapee from East Germany whose knowledge of the German Democratic Republic had made her one of the Agency’s most valuable assets. The affair ended when Lang met his wife-to-be, Dawn, and resumed some years after Dawn had succumbed to cancer.
Sara was still shaking her helmet of white hair. “Sometimes I wonder where you get such wretched people.”
“Sometimes you forget: we represent accused criminals, not debutantes or priests.”
“Speaking of which, you’re taking Father Francis to lunch. Why is it you always take him? He take a vow against picking up a check?”
“Sara, in the ten years plus I’ve known him, he’s never lost the flip of a coin for the tab. I suspect divine intervention.”
Sara turned back to her computer with a sniff. “Wel
l, I suppose association with Father Francis will do your soul more good than the creep who just left.”
Lang turned to go back into his office. “My soul, maybe. The bank account, not so much.”
CHAPTER 6
Piedmont Driving Club South
4405 Camp Creek Parkway
Atlanta, Georgia
Forty Minutes Later
Most of atlanta’s private clubs built their golf courses north of the city, acquiring farmland in the first decades of the last century, away from today’s growing congestion, noise, and crime. Now, a number of these courses border strip centers, gas stations, and heavy traffic. After over a century of existence, the exclusive Driving Club decided to get into the golf business, although any of its members so desiring could have joined existing facilities. The only golf course–sized tract available within a distance not requiring visiting members to carry victuals was south of the city and directly under the arrival/departure pattern of the world’s busiest airport, Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson International. The price, noise included, was right.
The parking lot in which Lang parked the turbo Porsche was in front of the modest clubhouse. The building housed only a small bar and grill and locker rooms for men and women. Women had been admitted to membership in an unwarranted spasm of political correctness in the nineties after a century of white, male, gentile exclusivity. There was no swimming pool to act as babysitter in the warmer months, no tennis courts for idle housewives, no gym for the health-conscious.
The business of this outpost of Atlanta’s socially elite was golf. And catching the bass and bream allegedly stocked in the nine-acre lake.
Lang wasn’t surprised to find Francis nursing a tall glass at a table with a view of the golf course and lake and, of course, the undercarriage of large aircraft.
As a Catholic priest, Francis Narumba could hardly afford membership, but, like so many of his profession who had developed a passion for golf, he never lacked for invitations from wealthy members of that religion. He had come to the United States from one of West Africa’s worst hellholes to attend seminary and remained to take over a parish consisting largely of immigrants from that area. Oddly, Lang’s sister, Janet, had attended that church along with her adopted son, Jeff, Lang’s best ten-year-old buddy. When the two had perished in a bomb’s fire in Paris, he and Francis had become friends, largely, Lang guessed, by the attraction of opposites.