Writ of Execution

by Perri O'shaughnessy

  The talk moved on to the weather. Nina was aware that Amagosian was not asking her to try to dream up some sort of compromise with Riesner. It was obvious what he wanted. He wanted Potter to drop the request for the Writ of Execution, so that he, Amagosian, would not have to make the decision. Like any good judge, if there was a fair way to resolve the situation that wouldn’t lay all the responsibility on him, he favored it. He probably didn’t feel that he had substance enough to overturn the judgment.

  Too agitated to chat, Nina dropped out of the conversation, wondering if Potter was a bigger man than she had thought.

  The conference between attorney and client took a full eighteen minutes, as long as the original trial had taken. The two men came back in, Riesner in front. The arch of his eyebrow told Nina they were sunk.

  “I have discussed all of this with my client as you requested, Judge,” Riesner said. “My client wishes to pursue this matter. We do not intend to change our position at this time.”

  Jessie closed her eyes, as though she just couldn’t manage to keep them open anymore.

  “Are you certain about this?” Amagosian said, speaking directly to Potter.

  “I—I’m certain,” Potter said. But he didn’t seem certain. It crossed Nina’s mind that Potter had wanted to settle but Riesner had talked him out of it. Why? Why would Riesner do that? Because of her? Could this be some kind of macho game? If so, Potter was being ill-served. Nina said, “Counsel, let’s talk. Briefly.”

  Out they went into one of the jury rooms. Nina remembered this room. It had been bugged during deliberations in the Markov trial. A juror had died in this room. Nothing had changed. Brown microwave oven, conference table, yellowish light. The door closed as she set her briefcase on the table and she thought, Uh oh. Mistake.

  “I know we’re tired, Jeff. . . .”

  “Now you remember my name.”

  “I hope this has nothing to do with the problems between us.”

  Riesner pursed his lips.

  It was agony, being polite to him. “This isn’t about us, Jeff,” she added.

  “Actually, it isn’t,” Riesner said, sidling up to her, violating her personal space. “It would mean a lot to your client if I persuaded Atchison to get out and go home, wouldn’t it?”

  The hair rose on her arms and she stepped back. His left eyebrow had lifted, and he wore the leering smirk on his hatchet face that always suggested to her he was mentally undressing her. Repulsed, Nina spoke without her usual prudence. “Don’t even think about coming on to me, Jeff. If you touch me, I’ll yell so loud I’ll rupture your eardrums. And then I’ll sue you.”

  Riesner moved away. “God forbid, you bitch,” he said.

  Nina tried again. “Look. This is business. You can’t be sure Amagosian is going to rule in your client’s favor.”

  “You want to give us half the money? Split it?” Nina swallowed. This might be the best way out. “I would be willing to discuss it with my client.”

  “Well, sadly, I wouldn’t be willing to discuss it with mine. I don’t care what the fuck he thinks he wants. I call the shots. And there’s not going to be a settlement. Amagosian’s enjoying your little medical mystery but when it comes time to rule you are going to lose. And I’m going to take forty percent of the settlement on contingency. I think I’ll buy another speedboat. A really fast one. I’ll take my wife on a cruise. I know. We’ll cruise the Mediterranean! Thanks for bringing that to mind!”

  “You know what?”

  “Fuck you. I know that much. You and your multi-ethnic bullshit.”

  “You’re not a lawyer,” Nina said.

  “Yeah? Well, I passed the bar long before you, pip-squeak.”

  “You’re a con artist. I haven’t seen you practice law in two years. You just con your way through everything. You ought to be thrown out of town. You and all your shell corporations.”

  “What? What did you say?” His face had gone green.

  “And I’m tired of you trying to intimidate me. You don’t scare me.”

  Uh oh. Catching her hands, Riesner said, “You’re all alone in here with me, you know. Your meatball boyfriend isn’t here to protect you.”

  “Let me go.”

  “In the ass,” Riesner said. “That’s where I’m going to have you.” They were actually struggling physically, it had come to that, and Nina was no match for him. She jerked a hand loose, snaked it into her briefcase, and pulled out her brand-new tiny canister of pepper spray. And gave him a short spritz right in the center of his forehead.

  “Aaughhh!” Riesner put his hands over his face, tore open the door, and ran out.

  Nina straightened her jacket, patted her hair, tucked the can away, and went back to Amagosian’s chambers.

  “Any luck?” he said.

  “I’m afraid not,” she said. “Mr. Riesner had to leave. A hot situation. He apologized for not being able to come back.”

  “Too bad,” Amagosian said. “Well, let’s finish up tomorrow morning. Eight-thirty. You’ll let Jeff’s office know?”

  “Certainly,” Nina said.

  24

  RED, WEARING HIS suit, fresh out of the bizarre court hearing, was having a drink after court, mulling it all over in his mind.

  He had seen Riesner running to the water fountain downstairs and had followed him and watched as the lawyer tossed water onto his face for about five minutes, snuffling and cursing. He had waited patiently until Riesner had calmed down somewhat and sat down on a bench, all without saying one word to Red. Red had sat down beside him.

  “Mace?” he said. “Tear gas? Pepper spray? I used to work security. Women carried that stuff and I saw several men with redder eyes than you rinsing their faces in the bathrooms in my time. Don’t worry, the worst is over. Who did it?”

  Riesner didn’t answer. He was still rubbing his eyes.

  “Don’t trust me, eh? I could make a guess, but I’ll leave you your secret. Well, what now? They adjourned until tomorrow. What happens tomorrow?”

  A hollow voice. “I can’t talk right now.”

  “Pull yourself together. You want her to see you like this?”

  The tall lawyer had covered his face with his handkerchief. “I’m leaving as soon as I can see to drive,” he said from behind the handkerchief.

  “Can’t blame you for that. And your Writ of Execution’s down the toilet, it seems. What with it turning out that the son was sick after all. Strange twist of fate.”

  “Do you mind?” Riesner said.

  “Sure, I’ll go. But tell me first, like I said, what happens tomorrow? Your client going to bow out?”

  For a few seconds all he could hear was Riesner sniffing behind the handkerchief. Then Riesner said, “No, he’s not going to bow out. He’s going to keep going. He’s going to get that money.”

  “Yeah? What’s your fee?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  Red said, “Potter’s going to keep after her? How long is this all going to take?”

  “I don’t care if it takes forever,” Riesner said.

  “In-fucking-furiating,” Red told the video poker machine embedded in the bar in front of him. A pair of tens. He had lost his dollar.

  Potter could have ended the whole thing today, but he wasn’t going to butt out. He could win and go back to Hawaii, forever out of Red’s reach. He could tie the money up forever. Red had been unbelievably patient about all this, waiting for the legal process to take its course, rooting for the girl because she was the better shakedown.

  But he was starting to realize that these things went on and on. He couldn’t wait a few more months or a few more years for her to get his money. This was worse than trying to figure out who Florida had voted for for President.

  He couldn’t wait a few more days. He couldn’t wait another fucking minute. The craving to gamble came up naked and ravening inside of him. Nobody and nothing was more important than getting his stake. He would not be denied. Yeah. “I wil
l not be denied,” he said out loud.

  “Right on, my brother,” said the bartender. “You want another one?”

  “One more.”

  Think. Think. Wait a minute! He couldn’t kill Potter! The girl might get the blame, she was the one with the motive. Then the money would get all tied up someplace else.

  More court. More lawyers.

  Tears of frustration came to his eyes. Was this the end? All he needed was his money. Now Potter was trying to steal it. It was Red’s score, nobody else’s!

  But these people kept getting in his way, one after the other, popping up like ducks in a shooting gallery!

  He heard the ringer go off on the floor over there, screams of joy. It went on and on. A big score.

  It hurt so bad, to be impeded like this. To be told “no,” when it was the only thing that felt good in the whole world. He was jumping out of his fucking skin. If he could make Potter go away, all that would be left was the girl. Potter had had his chance today. He could have dropped the case and looked like a loving grandpa. It would have been the right thing to do. He was a lawyer himself, why didn’t he use his own judgment instead of relying on that prick Riesner?

  The bartender slapped the shot down in front of him. Red barely had the cash to cover it. He looked at the glass before he chugged it down and there was a trace of lipstick on the lip. He’d almost drunk out of it! Furious, he set it back down. He felt like shit. Like a loser. He wiped his fingers on the napkin and got up to leave. . . .

  And over there on the casino floor he caught a glimpse of Nina Reilly marching along, tight skirt and a silk blouse, very sexy girl, and here came young Jessie the Washoe-Armenian Marine—good grief—who was the center of all this, striding along behind her. And a big middle-aged Native American woman by her side, holding a baby. And the blond detective, van Wagoner. And the Korean doc, and then the Chinese pseudo-husband hove into view. It was a fucking U.N. parade!

  He slid off the barstool and threw down just enough for the drink and followed them, not really thinking about what he was going to do, just interested. Maybe Kenny Leung would veer off and go somewhere, leave the crowd he was always with, go somewhere so that Red could get at him.

  Leung. The loose end. He hadn’t shown any sign of recognition when he’d seen Red, dressed in business clothes, during the first court appearance, and Leung hadn’t shown up for this last hearing at all. But the danger from him was now worse, because now Amanda was dead, and Red was linked to her. Leung could still put it together. The Glock was out in the trunk.

  Staying behind them in the crowd, he saw them get in the line for the buffet. They were going to eat dinner like ordinary people, chat and spoon chocolate mousse into their mouths like the world wasn’t crashing around Red.

  Then, suddenly, he understood the gift that fate had brought him. He couldn’t get Kenny Leung tonight, but he could take out the next duck in the gallery.

  He felt a thrill run through him, that thrill like forces in the universe were aligning just for his benefit. Lady Luck was pushing her way through the clouds and shining on him again. His luck had turned.

  He looked at his watch. Six-forty-five.

  He could take care of the whole thing while they were eating dinner. Easy.

  And young Jessie would have her alibi.

  He knew Potter was staying at Caesars. He had followed him there the night before. He knew where the man liked to park, on a side street up a few blocks from the hotel. Who knew why he avoided the big lot behind, but it worked for Red.

  On his way through the casino, he picked up a plastic cup, filling it with a few quarters from his pocket, studiously avoiding the cameras he knew about and anyone familiar. Then he hauled, catching up with Potter at the elevator.

  “Hey there, how you doing,” he said. “Strange day in court today.” They had chatted a couple of times with Riesner hovering in the background just before court.

  “Very draining. I didn’t know you were staying here,” Potter said. He looked surprised, but not suspicious.

  “Long drive back and forth from Reno.” Potter nodded. “Even brought the wife,” Red went on, smiling.

  While they waited together for the elevator to arrive, he rattled his empty coin holder until Potter said something sympathetic.

  “Oh, no. You misunderstand,” Red said. “I cashed in. Tonight definitely qualifies as one of my best nights ever.” Not yours, though, even if you don’t know it yet. Really, everything made him want to laugh all of a sudden, and the effort of restraining his chuckles made him shake.

  They started in on the topic of gambling. Potter didn’t think much of it, he declared. “The stock market’s always been my game.”

  “Same thing on a bigger scale,” Red said.

  “I never thought about it that way.”

  “Oh, sure. Same principle applies, what I call the uncertainty factor.”

  Brring. They were going up.

  Potter looked vaguely curious. “And what’s that?”

  “Well, people buy stocks when they’re uncertain. They sell when they’re uncertain. When the market’s way up, they’re happy and they don’t buy or sell. No action, loss of faith. So down it goes.”

  “You’ve read up on the topic, I see. But what’s that got to do with gambling?”

  “Gamblers are uncertainty junkies, just like investors. They like the drama. The part where investors get happy and sit on their money? That doesn’t last long with a gambler. They crave the thrill too much. They go back in the game, winning and losing. Mostly losing.” He laughed. “Now, me,” he said quickly as the car began to slow, “I’m a variation on the type, the type that doesn’t miss the excitement of losing. I only play to win.”

  “Everybody plays to win.”

  “Everybody else loses. I win.”

  Potter smiled. “You and every other gambler with a foolproof method.”

  Red shrugged. “Believe it or not.”

  Potter stepped out of the elevator, holding his hand in the door to keep the doors from closing. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s your game?”

  Red laughed. “Well, it’s not something I tell everyone, but I don’t mind if you want to try to pry it out of me over a drink. Forget about your troubles in court today. We won’t even talk about that. You can give me some tips on investing my winnings. . . .”

  “I don’t think I can offer a similar assurance of winning in that case. But I’d like a drink. And you’re right, I don’t want to talk about today.”

  Red forced a chuckle. “Okay, then. Drop by my room. . . . Hmm, no. My wife’s taking a nap in there. Tell you what. I’ll meet you out front. I’ll walk you to a place only the locals know about. Busy, good drinks, not far. Your treat.”

  Potter checked his watch. “Give me five minutes. I’ll meet you out front.”

  Elated, Red punched the button and the doors closed. He was thinking, I’m on the big roll now. A big one.

  Like drinking good whiskey. Like screwing his pretty wife on a beach. It was so easy to tie just the right fly to reel in a fellow gambler. Potter didn’t really expect to hear that Red knew just the way to win at gambling. He thought he’d amuse himself at Red’s expense, have a hearty laugh back in his room later. Maybe one percent of him hoped for a useful tip, the unregenerate gambler percent. And then, setting up to meet in a public place, it sounded so innocent, even if it also fit Red’s purposes, which were far from innocent.

  Red got off at the fourteenth floor, one above Potter’s, and then hurried down the stairway, taking the steps two at a time. He checked the gun, which was fully loaded, screwed the silencer onto it, and stuck it back into the shopping bag he carried. Then he popped a couple uppers.

  “Some things I’ve been thinking about,” Atchison Potter said as they left the building. “Although I don’t have much time for it, I have done some reading on gambling. If you bet a hundred an hour on roulette, just to use an example, in the long run you will lose five bucks an hour. In t
he short run, you might be way up, or way down. I’m talking about commitment here. You stay committed, you lose. Now, that’s not been true with the stock market. Until lately, anyway.”

  He was a talker. Good. That way, Red could concentrate on what he needed to do. It was too quiet out here. He wanted witnesses and he wanted this done fast, before the lawyer and her clients finished their meal.

  “You ever play roulette?” Potter asked.

  “My all-time favorite game,” Red said, scanning the street. For some reason, things were quiet this evening. Shit. “But I work up to it, play some blackjack first, usually. I love the silver ball, that sound it makes while the wheel is spinning, when you’re thinking, hoping, no, maybe you’re convinced this time is it, you’re going to win. For me, it always comes down to Red. Red, Three, Odd. What do you bet, or don’t you play?”

  “I bet a few on the wheel last night. My son’s birthday. My age. The usual.”

  “How’d you do?”

  “I won’t say I always won, but I agree, roulette has satisfactions that go beyond winning. It’s so tantalizing. When you put your chips down on a number, you know the odds are poor and you don’t care. You’re betting this time is the charm. That’s the allure. It feels so good.”

  Ah. Potter was a gambler, all right.

  “Yes,” Red said. “It’s a noble game. I read a column once,” he said. “A guy called roulette the perfect game for someone who wants to meet destiny face-to-face.”

  “And you’ve got a foolproof method,” Potter said.

  “Yes, I do,” Red answered. “Hmm. I just had a thought.” He stopped walking.

  “What?”

  “There’s a big-screen TV at a place down the street about a mile. We could watch a game while we talk.” He nodded toward the casino across the street. “My car’s out back. About seven miles from here,” he joked. “Mind a walk?”

  “No need. Mine’s right here,” Potter said, pointing up the street.

  “Excellent.” He followed Potter to a white Toyota Corolla rental car and got in, feeling rage rise up in him when Potter took his time getting settled behind the wheel. Time was short. He needed to get this thing done. “Make a right at the corner.”