Critical Mass

by Steve Martini

  George told her that the insurance company was stalling, waiting for him to die. “Then it won’t cost ‘em anything.”

  “I need medical records,” said Joss. “I can’t do anything without a diagnosis.”

  For the state to pay disability, she had to show some industrial connection, some job-related cause for George’s condition. For this, she required a medical expert to go out on a limb, to tell her in medical terms the probable cause of George’s illness, exactly what he had.

  “We all know what it is. It’s the damn cheese-heads.” This was George’s unflattering term for his neighbors across the border to the north.

  “They been pumping raw sewage into the sound at Victoria forever. They take our fish; now what’s left all has three eyes. I got one the other day,” he told her, “was startin’ to grow front legs like a dog.”

  The fight over diminishing salmon runs had taken on the specter of a war. Ferries stopping at Friday Harbor and headed for Sidney on Vancouver Island had been blockaded by fleets of commercial fishing boats in protest and held for hours at the docks. The Canadians had retaliated by blocking the Alaskan ferry up north. Indian nations had gone to court to uphold fishing rights granted in treaties with a term that was supposed to last “as long as the grass grows and the winds blow.” Unfortunately, the salmon couldn’t breed fast enough to cooperate. There were too many fishing boats chasing too few fish.

  “It’s a good theory, George.” She was talking about the charge of Canadian pollution. “But I need evidence, medical records I can take to the state.”

  “I’ll bring ‘em the fucking fish,” said George. “The one with the two front legs.”

  They’d had this conversation before. It was becoming circular. His hands were trembling. He was scared. He had slipped markedly since their last meeting two weeks earlier.

  “They gave me a transfusion. Did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Well, they did. Last Thursday. They told me I’m anemic. Red blood count is low.”

  There might be something new in his medical records. Joselyn made a note. “They didn’t say anything about what might have caused this anemia?”

  “Not to me,” he said. “They asked me if I’d been around any chemicals.”

  “That’s a start.”

  “You would think they would suspect something.”

  Doctors didn’t usually like litigation, even if it wasn’t aimed at them. Their suspicions don’t often end up in their notes. She didn’t tell George this. It would only make him feel more forlorn. She made a note to get the latest medical records.

  “I gotta leave something for the family,” he told her.

  When she looked up from her pad, she could tell by his expression that George was thinking cancer. He had crossed the great divide. He knew he was dying. Joselyn knew he was right.

  She told him not to give up hope, tried to cheer him up. “It may not be as serious as you think.” They both knew she was lying.

  “I’ll talk to the doctors. Try to get them to pressure the insurance company to cover the tests. Rattle their cage with threats of a bad-faith claim for withholding coverage. It might get their attention.”

  “Might?” said George.

  “There are no easy answers.”

  “I don’t know how long I can last.”

  She told him to hang in, to come back in a week. “I may have something by then.” Their meeting was over.

  “You will call me?” He looked at her with that hopeful basset-like gaze.

  “As soon as I know something.”

  “You’ll call the doctors?” He moved reluctantly toward the door.

  She was up from behind the desk, moving with him now. “This afternoon. I’ll follow it with a letter.” She took one of his hands. It was shaking, like palsy.

  George’s wife was waiting in the outer room. He refused to allow her to attend these sessions, afraid she would only become more depressed.

  There was another guy sitting in the reception area eyeing George as he stepped through the door. The man tried to be discreet, but he couldn’t help looking. George was one of those sights that no matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t divert your eyes—like the man without legs propped against a building wall selling pencils from a cup. He made you feel uncomfortable, but you had to look.

  The other man was well dressed: cashmere sweater and Boston loafers. He had a lean face, sandy-colored hair, and deep-set eyes. There was that serious business look about him, something that said no nonsense. He wore an expensive wristwatch and a tan with that glow of humidity that screams the tropics. Just sitting in the chair, he looked like money. Not one of her usual clients.

  She could feel the man’s eyes move over her as his gaze left George.

  George tried to put a brave face on bleak circumstances for his wife. “Ms. Cole’s gonna help us with the doctors. Gonna get insurance coverage for the tests.”

  He was making promises Joselyn might not be able to keep.

  George’s wife smiled. “I knew she could help us.”

  “You will call me?” said George.

  “Don’t worry, George. I said I’d call, and I will.”

  “Good.” George shook her hand. His wife slipped an arm under his, more to help him than to be escorted, and they were gone, through the door and out to the parking lot.

  When Joss turned, the man in the chair was now on his feet, blocking her path back to the office.

  “Joselyn Cole?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dean Belden,” he said, extending a hand as if she was supposed to know who he was.

  “Have we met?”

  “I was referred by Dick Norman down at the bank.”

  She searched her memory. Then she remembered. She’d met Norman once at a Chamber of Commerce meeting.

  “Well, if he’s sending me business maybe I owe him a lunch.”

  “I’m sure he’d enjoy it. Your office is pretty new.” The guy was looking around, appraising the empty walls and the reception cubicle with its frosted glass window, closed and dark.

  “I haven’t had time to get a receptionist yet.”

  “Good help is hard to find.” He looked at her and smiled.

  Belden was a quick study. He knew instinctively it was not time but money that was the problem.

  “Your client there looks pretty sick.” He gestured toward the door through which Hummel had just disappeared.

  “Yes.”

  “You gonna be able to help him?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Is it serious?”

  She gave him a shrug.

  “Sorry, I shouldn’t pry. Too nosy sometimes. Suppose you couldn’t say even if you knew. Wouldn’t be kosher.”

  “No, it wouldn’t.”

  “Still, I hope it’s nothing contagious.”

  The thought of catching whatever George had never entered Joss’s mind, not until that moment.

  “I think we’re safe. What did you say your name was?”

  “Belden. Dean Belden. You can call me Dean.”

  “Well, Dean, what can I do for you?”

  “Handle a little business,” he said.

  “Let’s step into my office.” She moved around him in that direction, and he followed her.

  “I’m trying to set up a small plant on the island.” He talked while they walked, not one to waste time.

  “What kind of plant?”

  “Assembly.”

  “Have a seat.”

  “High-end items.” He sat in one of the client chairs as if he intended to all along, never missing a beat. “Electronics. Mostly switches used in industrial computers. It’s not high volume, so transportation is not a major consideration. You might be wondering why I picked the islands?”

  “Not really,” said Joss. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “No, thanks. We have a contract to supply another company up in Canada, so the location works well. I n
eed to incorporate in Washington State. Get a business license. Comply with the taxing authorities. Employer I.D. number. The usual stuff,” he said.

  Joss was getting coffee for herself from the machine in the corner and wondering if maybe the guy at the bank had her confused with somebody else in town. Business law was not her usual fare, and as she turned back to her desk she ended up wearing the thought on her face.

  “You can do this kind of thing, can’t you? I’d be willing to pay a sizable retainer.”

  For the first time, he had her undivided attention. The sound of money.

  “Oh, I could do it. I mean, incorporate a small business, pretty straightforward. It’s just that I’m… ” She was thinking of ways to cover the blank expression on her face. “I’m pretty busy right now. But I could probably squeeze it in.” She picked up her calendar book from the desk and opened it, shielding the empty pages from his view. “I could move this around, and cancel here until next week.” She looked up at him. “I could fit it in.”

  This could cut into reading time at the library and the parrot-head music hour at night.

  He smiled like maybe he knew B.S. when he heard it. “And what’s your usual fee?”

  Before she could say a word, he said: “I’m assuming a hefty retainer against an hourly fee.”

  Belden must be flush. What Joselyn knew about business law she could write longhand on the cuticle of one fingernail. But it would include the fact that corporate documents were usually done for a flat fee. A few thousand dollars at most, depending on the complexity. In some places it could be done mail-order.

  “I guess I’m just curious. Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “It’s not that I don’t want the business. But why didn’t you just hire one of the big business firms down in Seattle?”

  “It’d cost me more,” he said.

  “Maybe,” said Joss.

  “Besides if I’m going to live and do business in the islands, I thought it would be best to have somebody here. I’m going to need somebody local on a regular basis for other matters.”

  Joselyn didn’t want to press the issue and lose a client.

  “What kind of matters?”

  He offered a thoughtful expression. “Foreign licenses. Mostly to do business across the border. Pretty easy stuff. You’ve never done it?”

  “No.” She wasn’t going to lie to him.

  “I’m sure you’re a fast learner. It’s pretty simple. Like piloting a plane, once you’ve done it.”

  “I don’t fly,” she told him.

  “I do.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  He looked at her and they both laughed, breaking the ice.

  Belden was not unattractive. Closely cropped hair graying at the temples. He was over six feet and athletic in build. He wore a polo shirt, and stretched it in all the right places.

  “Are you interested?” he asked.

  Definitely, thought Joselyn. “I think I can put the documents together for you.”

  “No. No,” said Belden. “I’d want to give you a retainer to serve as counsel to the company.” He smiled and bared even white teeth that could be an ad for the dental association. There was a twinkle in his eyes, which were a shade of green she had never seen before.

  “We could end up buying a substantial amount of your time,” he told her.

  “My professional time is for sale.”

  “But you are not.” The way he said it was more of a statement than a question. She answered it anyway.

  “I enjoy working for myself.”

  “Good. An independent woman. I understand. Of course it could cut into the time available for your other business.” He looked at her and smiled a little as if perhaps he knew this was not a problem.

  “I’ll worry about that.”

  “Good. Then it’s agreed.” He reached into a pocket and came up with a checkbook and pen. “What kind of a retainer do you usually take?”

  “On the island I don’t usually see a retainer.”

  He looked up from his checkbook.

  “Most of my clients are local,” she explained. “I bill them, and they pay. When they can.”

  “How about ten thousand?” he said.

  It was a good thing her chair didn’t recline any farther. She would have been on the floor.

  “And for an hourly fee?” He looked up again.

  She was having a little trouble catching her breath, but thought quickly: “How about two hundred an hour?” It was more than she charged her other clients, but it looked like Belden could afford it.

  “How about three?” he said.

  “You should be my business manager,” she told him.

  “I always like to think my lawyer will take my phone calls when I have a problem.”

  He had a light leather folder that he’d placed on the floor next to his chair. Now he reached into it and pulled out a manila letter-sized envelope, then started to write the check.

  “I think all the information you’ll need is in here.” He nodded toward the envelope. “If you have any questions, my business card is there as well. Just give me a call.”

  “In the interests of full disclosure,” she said, “I think there’s something you should know.”

  He didn’t look up. He was too busy putting all the zeros in the right places on the check.

  “I know,” he said. “You don’t have an extensive practice in business law.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “No.”

  “Then how did you guess?”

  “The banker told me.” Now he was looking at her across the desk, a piercing green gaze over an in-your-face smile.

  “But you said he recommended me?”

  “Oh, he did. Very highly. I asked him if there were any good-looking women lawyers in town.” He was stone serious with only that little smirk. “It was a short list,” said Belden. He said it shamelessly, so that she couldn’t help but laugh.

  She was still laughing when he passed the check across the desk, along with the file of information on his corporation.

  She stared at it for awhile.

  “Like I say, it would cost me at least as much down in Seattle.”

  From all appearances, Belden was a man who was used to getting his own way. There was something military about him, like he was used to giving orders and having them followed. She wasn’t sure she liked it, but she liked the money. Maybe that’s what bothered her, the feeling that she was selling out, trading her independence for a check.

  “You’ve got the retainer, all the information. Then we’re agreed.”

  She looked at the check again. “I suppose.”

  “Don’t look so sad,” he told her. “Having money should not make you depressed.”

  “Oh. It doesn’t.” She put a face on and smiled.

  “That’s good. Now tell me. What brought you to the islands?” He made it sound like business was over, pesky stuff out of the way. He knew what he wanted and was almost a little too focused and fast.

  “What makes you think I wasn’t born here?” she asked.

  “You don’t have the look.”

  “There’s an island look?”

  “A slight gathering of moss on the northern exposure,” he told her. “You look … ” He considered for a moment. “Like California.”

  “It’s that obvious? I suppose the moss hasn’t had time to form.”

  “That and the license on your wall.” He nodded toward the certificate from the California Bar framed next to the one from Washington State.

  “You have sharp eyes.”

  “Wait ‘til you get to my teeth,” he said.

  That’s what she was afraid of.

  “What are you doing for dinner?” he asked.

  “Sorry. I’ve got plans.” Once she cashed his check, a nice steak and Jimmy Buffet, thought Joselyn. He was moving much too fast. She wanted to do some checking around town. See if anybody knew him.

  “Maybe some other time.
”

  “Perhaps. When do you want this done?” She tried to get back to business, tapped the envelope on her desk.

  “Oh. I don’t know. How long do you think it will take—without rushing?”

  “A week, maybe ten days, if I don’t run into any problems.”

  “Then I’ll see you in a week.”

  He was up out of his chair. “No need to show me to the door. I can find my way. Next week, then.”

  “Next week.”

  TWO

  SANTA CRISTA, CA

  Gideon van Ry rocked lazily back in the old office swivel chair. It was ungainly and undersized for his tall, lanky body. In front of him the government surplus desk was stacked high with papers: three weeks of unread correspondence and reports. Van Ry was part of a U.N. arms inspection team and had just returned from the Middle East.

  He was a product of the Cold War. Gideon had been born in Holland but raised in later years in the Soviet Union. His mother was Russian, his father Dutch. They had met in the university after the War, but the marriage was not to last.

  Gideon learned his English, as every Dutch schoolchild does, in the public-school system, and his Russian during summer vacations living with his mother in Moscow. His university education came there, where he showed a flair for the sciences, and he was climbing through the hierarchy in the academic world of physics when the old Soviet Empire collapsed.

  His specialty was nuclear magnetic resonance. He had spent two years in Southern California at Cal Tech, where he did not take a degree but learned everything there was to know about nuclear weapons design.

  He had always been mechanically inclined, even as a child. He had taken his family’s grandfather clock apart when he was eight. It had never maintained accurate time since. But his parents didn’t have it repaired. His mother considered it a remembrance of his childhood.

  Anyone watching might have feared that Gideon’s slouching six-foot-five-inch frame would go over backward in the chair, except that his long legs served as a counterbalance. He turned a little to face the window as he studied the document in hand and ran long fingers through his long, wavy blond hair. He had blue eyes, dimpled cheeks, and fair skin.

  “You have read this?” He spoke with a slight British accent. He was talking to the woman standing in the doorway to his office.