by Josh Cook
All the conversations started with the lawyers talking like they knew everything that had ever been torted. By three questions in, it was clear they knew even less about the incorporation than Max did. Edward Marshall Hall barely understood how an incorporation worked. Which wasn’t his fault, since he specialized in litigating the importation of plants and animals. Marie Elmsely had a sense of corporate law, but she buttered her bread with professional athletic contracts. Bill Brown and Jim Jones were corporate lawyers, but they spent their time on intellectual property rights for advertising firms. Fifteen different lawyers and not one regularly did incorporation.
Max was about to the meet the sixteenth. Archibald Bodkin. A divorce lawyer specializing in child-custody disputes. He kept Max waiting for forty minutes. Max never touched waiting-room magazines.
“Mr. Bodkin will see you now,” the receptionist said, like a three-day weekend was minutes away.
Max stood up and walked past the receptionist’s desk to the indicated interior door. He looked at the calendar on the desk. The current date was empty under Bodkin’s name.
Archibald Bodkin stood looking out the window behind his desk. A big barrel of a man in a navy pinstripe suit. Bodkin clasped thick hands at the small of his meaty back. He was built like a weightlifter and had a full set of salt-and-pepper hair. He stood with the relaxed air of someone who knew exactly what he was capable of.
“Please sit down,” Bodkin said without turning around.
Max sat down.
After a pause, Bodkin turned around. He stopped short when he saw Max.
Max raised his eyebrows. Cocked his head. A whisper of a smirk bent his lips. “Sir William Gentle,” he said. “Please have a seat.”
Sir William Gentle descended. A condor landing. “So your real name is Max?” he said. “Or perhaps the early retirement is a cover.”
“It’s real.”
“Yes. That would be the response.”
Max leaned back. Crossed his arms at his chest. “I suspected you bought an island … to hide on.”
“It is actually rather difficult to hide on a self-purchased island,” Sir William Gentle responded, “and establishing a micronation, or at least one that could truly repel the extradition attempts of members of the UN security council, is not as simple as one might assume, if you would further suspect the purchased island was a step toward sovereignty.”
Max waved a dismissive hand. Idly slapped his knee. “This is a pickle,” he said.
“What is?”
“I need information from Archibald Bodkin,” Max explained, “middle of his graduating class from a technically accredited law school divorce lawyer. Now I can get that information from one of the great, though criminal, legal minds of our era.”
“Ah yes, The Joyce Case does seem to require the deft intellectual manipulation of which very few are capable. A number that, of course, includes myself. How can I be of service?”
“That is the problem.”
“I don’t see how you could have a problem with my assistance.”
“You are the Super Bowl … Joyce is pickup football.”
Sir William Gentle cleared his throat. “Personally, I could not help but notice the somewhat alarming level of coincidence present in this potential apprehension.”
Max narrowed his eyes. “What are you implying?”
“A portion of my funds could be transferred to you. Once in custody, my financial records would be laid bare to the scrutiny of the state, and such a transfer could not escape notice. Many would raise questioning eyebrows when the bribe to the man who apprehended me was discovered, but answers would be found.
“As you correctly said, I am one of the great legal minds of our era. It would not be unreasonable for me to defend myself in a court of law and, regardless of the ironclad evidence the state would assume it had, be found innocent of all the crimes of which I stood accused. And, as you well know, one cannot be tried for the same crime twice.
“Should this occur, people could not help but think back to that strange transfer of funds and notice how convenient the entire situation was for me; how I was able to avoid capture until the exact moment when I had the resources to mount a successful defense.
“It is true, there might be one out there with the requisite imagination to wonder why, of all my transactions that were erased or cleansed, this particular one was preserved, but, well, you know how much power and influence is given to those with imaginations. And even should that avenue of understanding be pursued, and even if it is determined, in the legal sense, that I gave you money against your will, you will never free yourself of the cloud of suspicion the interaction generates.”
“Anonymous tip.”
“It is folly to bargain beyond one’s control. If we came to an arrangement, you would give me your word that such a tip would not be made, and all evidence suggests you would keep that word, but it would be impossible for me to hold you to it. I didn’t get where I am by trusting phenomena I cannot influence. Besides, would you really want to deny your partner the case of his life?”
“What do you mean?” Max said cautiously.
“Your presence has vouched for Mr. Augustine. I find it hard to believe a man of your stature would spend his time with an arrogant blowhard if there weren’t some underlying quality. Unless, of course, there is an entirely different level to this relationship. Regardless, I think all of us would enjoy the chase, should there be one. Think of the newspaper sales.”
“Someone would have to hire him.”
Sir William Gentle chuckled. “Yes, well, I’m sure someone will get around to it.”
Max breathed deeply through his nose. He knew three agents who’d cut off a nut to be sitting where he sat. “Okay. The Joyce Case.”
Sir William Gentle dropped a shamefaced smirk. “And after all that, I know little of use. I was given very specific instructions, and paid very well, in one meeting with Joyce himself. Obviously, I was perplexed that someone would approach a divorce lawyer for help with an incorporation, but I was told my style was appreciated. I was then given a very specific assignment: to ensure that the incorporation, as completed by the others, could be recognized in Maryland, Virginia, Delaware, the American Virgin Islands, and Guam. I had no contact with any of the other lawyers involved, and none with Joyce, once my very small, very simple task was completed.”
Max slumped in his chair. “Maybe Archibald Bodkin was hired because he’s Sir William Gentle.”
“Given my current legal standing, I am going to assume that is the case; however, there is no evidence to indicate that this is so.”
Max rubbed his forehead. “You read about the case?”
“As the newspapers have reported it.”
“As a professional … what’s your take?”
Sir William Gentle chuckled. “It’s a bit funny, you know. I have been thinking about it. With the disappearance and, of course, my very small personal involvement. It has not stolen sleep from me, but in idle moments I have done my share of speculation. It is just so curious. The money is in all the wrong places.”
“What do you think we’re looking at?”
“To be honest, Max, I have no idea. However, I am certain that, whatever it is, it looks nothing like crime.”
CLASS WAR
Calling the bad part of town the underbelly suggests it’s been fed. It ain’t been fed. If some hack making a word count needs something from the body, liver would be better. But that’s wrong too. Waste leaves the liver. Even the colon gets rid of what it doesn’t want. What ends up in the bad part of town usually stays there. Colostomy bag is more like it.
Medical terms don’t make good pulp.
Trike and Max drove through the bad part of town to visit Lydia Kennedy. They smelled a con. Her mother was a criminal, but she was good at it. If she could set up the Martha Clifford estate, she could make sure her daughter didn’t end up in the bedpan of town. Even if Lydia only saw the Joyce House dough, that
would be enough for a nice little place in the suburbs.
Trike had been phantom-smoking for a minute.
“Thoughts, boss?” Max said.
Trike snapped his fingers out of their gesture. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Well, Max, I’ve been thinking that Lydia Kennedy might not be out of the family business.”
“It’s possible.”
“Seems like if that were the case, and she’s half as savvy as her mom was, she’d stay light-years away from whatever Joyce is up to.”
“Likely.”
“And another thing troubles me.”
“What’s that?”
“These streets are never empty.”
“Yeah,” Max said with a lilt of concern.
The corners were vacant. No one was on any of the stoops. Windows closed. No kids on the sidewalk. Neither gang in its alley. No bums in the gutters. Empty streets. The bad part of town don’t got much going for it, but it’s never lonely.
Max unbuttoned his holster. Trike hopped into the backseat. A Dumpster rolled into the street in front of them. Max hit the brakes. Put the car in park. Another Dumpster rolled into the street behind them.
“This should be interesting,” Trike said.
With a nod, they threw both driver’s-side doors open. Then both passenger’s-side doors. Trike rolled back into the front seat. They ducked out of the car, Trike covering the front, Max covering the back. Assailants spilled from the alleys ahead and behind. Trike and Max convinced them to retreat with a persuasive spray of gunfire.
It got quiet once the bullets stopped flying. You could’ve heard a page turn in a third-floor bathtub.
Trike stood up.
“Christ … a speech,” Max said.
“Feel your pulse. Fill your lungs. Touch the pavement. Smell the filth. These are the components of life. They are yours to experience because my partner and I decided we’d rather converse with you …” A head poked out of an alley. Trike put a bullet nearby. The head dove back. “… than with coroners. I do not know who hired you for this folly. I do not know why he, she, it, or they are so careless with your lives. I do not know what you were told. I do not know the punch lines to the nervous jokes you shared before the ambush. But I do know that my partner and I have more pressing matters to attend to. So, unless you would like this little chat to turn fatal …”
Trike dramatically reloaded his gun. The old clip clattered to the ground. “I’d move your fucking Dumpsters.”
They moved their fucking Dumpsters.
Trike picked up the dropped clip. Still had three bullets. Bullets aren’t free. He and Max got back in the car and drove on.
“What the hell, boss?”
“Probably wasn’t my best speech, but—”
“No … the ambush.”
Trike shrugged his shoulders. “You know, Maxataxus, the evidence suggests it was meant for somebody else.”
“Where are they?”
Trike shrugged again. They took two more turns and pulled up in front of Lydia Kennedy’s building. It looked barely erect.
“Notice anything weird about the building, Max?”
Max observed. “No.”
Trike pointed up. “All the windows on the top floor are intact.”
Max took a deep breath through his nose. “I do not like that.”
“Me neither,” Trike said, grabbing a can of spray paint from the backseat. “Let’s see what tune this bird sings.”
Kennedy’s apartment was on the top floor. Everything looked like a half-struck set. Insects scuttled over whatever could be scuttled over. Rats scurried over everything else. There was a miasma of mold. It was somehow in worse shape than The Old-Timer’s building.
Except for the top floor. The top floor was solid. The paint was fresh. It was clean. There was only one door. Steel with seven locks and a peephole.
“That’s … surprising,” Max said.
“Bet there’s a support structure from the top floor right to the ground, running through the rest of the building.”
“Why would someone do this?”
“Well, Max, I’m sure there are lots of reasons, but I’d put my money on hiding highly remunerative illegal activities. Give ’em your FBI knock and I’ll see what I can do with these locks.”
Max knocked three times, quickly and heavily with the side of his fist. He projected, “Investigators on official business for Lydia Kennedy.” He replicated the knock and waited.
Feet shuffled on the other side of the door. Someone said, “Who, who is it?”
“Investigators on official business,” Max boomed.
“Jesus, you get a degree in that?” Trike muttered, already through four locks.
“Associates” Max muttered back. Then he boomed again, “Investigators. Official business to see Lydia Kennedy.”
“I’m, I’m sorry, but I can’t let you in. No, no, you simply can’t come in—” a weak voice muttered.
Trike picked the last lock and pushed the door open. “Sorry, got bored,” he explained.
A diminutive but dignified butler stammered in disbelief for a moment. Then he scurried off into the massive penthouse apartment.
Trike and Max both whistled. There was a hundred-gallon saltwater aquarium and a massive flat-screen television in front of three rows of stadium-arranged sofas. The kitchen looked like a showroom for a royal wedding registry. There was a glass-enclosed balcony at the back of the building. With a Jacuzzi.
Lydia Kennedy appeared from one of the rooms off the hallway with a fist on her hip. She wore a handmade authentic Japanese kimono. Her dyed blond hair was pulled back in a tight bun. She had dark eyebrows, high cheekbones, and a sharp nose. A real nasty sneer twisted her whole face and half her body.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“Pardon our intrusion, Miss Kennedy. My name is Trike Augustine, and this is my partner Max. We’re investigating the disappearance of Joyce and were hoping to ask you a few questions about the Joyce House.”
“I see. Well, I don’t know if I can be of service, but I will do my best. Would you two care for a drink?”
“No thanks, Miss Kennedy, we’re driving.”
“Mr. Augustine, you act like you don’t trust me.”
“You’ve kept one hand hidden.”
“Yes, of course. I’m being observed by Trike Augustine, the genius.”
“It doesn’t take a genius to spot your pepper spray.”
“In case you forgot the method of your entrance, you broke into my house. I should think it would be well within my rights to protect myself from whatever violence you might have intended.”
“You are correct, Miss Kennedy. And you’d have to agree that we are well within our rights to stay out of range of your pepper spray on the off chance that this conversation leads to any misunderstandings.”
Lydia Kennedy snapped her fingers. Two gigantic men in dark suits appeared at her side. The kind of guys someone in the family business would have at the snap of her fingers. “If at all possible, I would advise you to avoid misunderstanding. It would not turn out well for you.”
Trike smirked. “I’ll do my best, Miss. I’d hate to see your friend on the left tear that bum knee again. As you are clearly busy, I’d like to get started on my questions.”
“Go right ahead.”
“Just tell me what you remember about the Joyce House. We’d appreciate any information you have.”
“I must say, I have to disappoint you.”
“How so?”
“I’ve never set foot in the Joyce House,” Lydia answered.
“But after it was scrubbed clean, it would have been one of your mother’s safe houses,” Trike argued.
“You are correct. After it had been scrubbed clean, it would have been one of my mother’s safe houses, but not one I ever went to.”
“What about when it was being sold through the Martha Clifford estate?” Trike asked.
“What about when it was bein
g sold through the Martha Clifford estate?”
“Did you ever go to the house then?”
“I never set foot in the Joyce House. I’ve never been there. And before you bring up any other permutation of what you think is possible, I have never under any circumstances been to that building.”
“Did your mother ever talk about it?” Trike continued.
“You’ll be shocked to learn that she never discussed the architecture of any of her buildings with her young daughter.”
“She never mentioned any secret passages?”
“I would include the mention of secret passages in discussion of architecture.”
“Not even in the context of an exciting adventure story or something like that?” Trike persisted.
“Mr. Augustine, I know how easy it is to assume that one’s own consciousness is representative of all consciousness, but it is ridiculous to believe that I would remember a stray comment or story my mother told about a place I’d never been. It is possible that she talked of nothing but the architecture of the Joyce House, but since it would have been meaningless to me, I don’t remember it.”
“You’re not lying to us, are you, Miss Kennedy?”
“I thought the great Trike Augustine could always tell when someone was lying.”
“I spread that rumor myself,” Trike lied. “It encourages honesty.”
“Since I am not lying and our discussion of the Joyce House is over, I believe your business here is concluded.”
“You don’t happen to know Joyce himself, do you?”
“No.”
“Did you meet him during the sale of the house?”
“No. That was all handled by lawyers. Given the nature of the estate, you could not blame me for maintaining a certain distance from it.”
“No. No. Of course not. So no dealings with Joyce at all?”
“Do you enjoy making me repeat myself, Mr. Augustine? I’ve never met Joyce. I’ve never corresponded with Joyce. And I know nothing of Joyce.”
“I guess that’s it, then.”
“Then I believe it is time for you to go. Luckily, you are close enough to the door to see yourself out.”