Blue Flower Red Thorns

by Ted Clifton

  According to his phone’s mapping app, the law office was only a few blocks from where he was now—ah, the joys of a small town. The Maxwell Franks Law Firm was in an ornate, three-story building. Based on the directory, it seemed to occupy the entire top floor. He took the stairs to stretch his legs after the long drive, and found himself in a small reception area with a young, male receptionist, or maybe a law clerk pulling double duty.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  “Hello, my name is Vincent Malone, here to see Mister Morgan.”

  “I’m sorry sir—was he expecting you?”

  “I don’t have an appointment. I’m working with Peter Tucker on a case, and wanted to stop in and introduce myself. Only take a minute.”

  “Of course. The problem is, Mister Morgan has already left for the day. Would you like to make an appointment for tomorrow?”

  The man’s manner seemed odd to Vincent—like he was lying. Why would he lie?

  “Sure, that’d be great. Say, first thing in the morning?”

  “Well, Mister Morgan has court most of the day tomorrow. It looks like his first free time would be about four tomorrow afternoon.”

  The clerk smiled, but he didn’t actually seem friendly, and the odd feeling Vincent got from him persisted. Faced with this little boy’s bland refusal, he could be polite and friendly, and bow and scrape, and maybe someone would be kind enough to give him a minute of their valuable time. Or he could be himself.

  “I don’t know what kinda fuckin’ game you’re playing, but I will not play along.” The receptionist suddenly looked alarmed, maybe even afraid. “You call him, or go into the back and find him, and you tell Morgan to call me. If he doesn’t have the time to handle this matter, then he and you and this law firm can fuck off. Got it?”

  Vincent scribbled his number on a pad and gave it to the gaping clerk. On his way back downstairs, he questioned what he’d done, but pushed his doubts away. He knew from experience it was generally best to establish yourself right off as an unreasonable asshole, so nobody made the mistake of thinking you were a tolerant guy who would allow them the option of treating you like shit. His phone vibrated before he could reach his car.

  “Malone,” Vincent said, his tone too loud and angry, intentionally.

  “Mister Malone, my clerk got that all messed up. Sorry about that. I’m in the office, if you have a minute.”

  Vincent bit back the urge to lay into the voice on the phone. It wasn’t in his nature to play games. He tended to address things bluntly, head-on, so it wasn’t easy to hold back. But he thought about Mary and Hector, and forced himself to bite his tongue.

  “Sure, I’ll be up.”

  When he got back upstairs, the clerk was gone. A very short man, who weighed maybe two-eighty, was waiting. He looked very nervous—something was still amiss. Vincent needed to call Tucker and get a better handle on this law firm, because he was not impressed so far.

  “Morgan?” Vincent extended his hand.

  Morgan stepped forward and shook it, he led Vincent into his opulent office. If wealth could always be equated with competence, Vincent would have had a lot more confidence in the firm.

  “Once again, let me apologize. We weren’t expecting you today. This is a little awkward for me, because my boss was going to call Mister Tucker. But I guess he hasn’t yet.”

  “Who’s your boss?” Definitely something wrong.

  “Well, Mister Franks Junior, of course. I don’t believe he actually knows Mister Tucker—our dealings with Mister Tucker in the past were with his dad, Mister Franks Senior. Anyway, we agreed to be co-counsel on this matter with Mister Flores, but it turns out we have a conflict of interest. So, we’re going to have to withdraw.” Morgan stopped there. Apparently, that was supposed to be the end of the story. Good-bye.

  “What’s your conflict?”

  “I’m not at liberty to tell you that, Mister Malone. It might be best if Mister Tucker called Mister Franks Junior and talked to him.”

  “You know we’re going to find out, so why don’t you stop playing games, and just tell me what the fuck’s going on?”

  “Mister Malone, we don’t use that kind of language in this office, and I don’t appreciate your aggressive attitude.”

  Vincent couldn’t help himself, he laughed, then kept laughing as he got up and left. Outside he called Tucker, who said he’d call the young Franks and then call back. It didn’t take long.

  “Malone.”

  “Looks like the young Franks is a real jerk. Something’s changed since I talked to him—my guess is money. He said they only belatedly realized that one of their clients has had some dealings with Simpson’s company, and that they’d have to withdraw as co-counsel. I’ll find out what this is about, and I will definitely hold a grudge. But for now, we need a new local attorney. Can you find someone while you’re there?”

  “Sure. Everything about my exchange with that Franks firm seemed off. They’re hiding something. I have no idea how it might affect Flores, but we need to be careful. I have a feeling there’s a lot more going on here than we know.” Vincent’s bullshit meter had been in the red through the whole encounter.

  “Find someone to co-counsel, and let’s try and get the kid out on bail. Then we can focus on these assholes.”

  “You got it.”

  Vincent had spent years dealing with attorneys and their clients. He knew one place he could be sure to get the information he needed; a bar. And if you wanted a tough, no-nonsense criminal lawyer who would fight to the death for clients, you wanted the local biker bar. It took only a brief stop at a restaurant and bar that catered to tourists, and twenty bucks, to find out where he should go—Mel’s Roadhouse, a few miles south of town on Highway 160. Once he got there, he could see he was in the right place by the number of Harleys parked out front.

  The place was dark, and it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust so he could avoid colliding with anyone, so he paused near the door. He headed to the bar once his eyes focused. The bartender was huge and buff, and had what appeared to be battle scars on his face and hands. Life hadn’t been kind to him, but he looked like he probably gave as good as he got.

  “What do ya want, pal?”

  “Tecate.”

  The bartender moved with surprising speed for someone his size, and Vincent updated his impression of the man—he would be a lot to handle if you made him mad. He took out a twenty and a ten and put them on the bar. Bartenders can see money from a hell of a distance, even in bad light.

  “Nice tip?”

  “I’m looking for an aggressive, smart lawyer to handle a local matter. Thought you might know someone.” Vincent gave the man his best smile, which friends had sometimes uncharitably compared with a sneer.

  The bartender nodded. “Yeah, I might. For that price, he’d be second-tier, though.” A successful bartender was usually skilled at assessing how much you’d pay for whatever it was you needed.

  Vincent laid down another twenty.

  “George Younger is the only lawyer in this part of the world if you need someone to go to war for you. Most of the locals work in a herd, like they all belong to the same social club. Prosecutors and defense lawyers in this town will pretend to go at it in court, then go drinking together after hours. George doesn’t give a shit about other lawyers, or anyone else—he just gets shit done. If I had my dick in the dirt, he’s the asshole I’d call.”

  “You, sir, perform a very valuable service to your community. Thank you.” Feeling relieved, and uncharacteristically generous as a result, Vincent dropped an extra ten. He got Younger’s phone number and headed out. It wasn’t exactly business hours, but for any criminal lawyer worth his salt, that wouldn’t matter. He called.

  “Yeah.”

  “Mister Younger, my name’s Vincent Malone, and I’m looking to hire an attorney who knows his asshole from his elbow. That you?”

  “That’s kind of a low bar to set—must not be a very hard case. Will I ge
t paid, or are you going to try to screw me?”

  “You’ll get paid. You’ll be local co-counsel for Peter Tucker.”

  There was a moment of hesitation. “Thought that bastard was dead.”

  “He was—for a while. Now he’s back. Old, but just as fuckin’ mean as ever.”

  “You drink beer, Malone?”

  “I do.” Vincent liked this guy already.

  “Meet me at Steamworks Brewery Company on Eighth, just off Main Street, in about thirty minutes.”

  “I’ll be there. How will I know you?”

  Younger chuckled. “Look for a big, ugly guy. How about you?”

  “Look for a big, ugly guy.”

  Vincent headed to the Steamworks Brewery. He considered stopping by the Traveler’s, but there was no point. He’d be a little early, but that was okay. He liked the hybrid restaurant and brewery the moment he got inside. It was designed to be rustic, and looked like it had an extensive selection of beers, some brewed on site—and, from what he could see, some wonderfully unhealthy bar food that he really shouldn’t sample, but undoubtedly would. He settled in at a table, quizzed the waiter about the various beers, and ended up with a Backside Stout, which came highly recommended. In just a few minutes, the waiter had brought him a tall, frosty glass. He took a sip and smiled.

  “Great recommendation, that is wonderful. Thanks.” Vincent relaxed and reflected on his day. He still had more questions than answers, and he had a bad feeling that Rick Flores might have stumbled into real trouble.

  “Hard to tell because you’re sitting down, but you look like a big, ugly guy. Vincent?”

  Vincent stood and shook the firm grip of a man who was about his size. They might easily have turned it into a contest, but why would you do that? “Hey, you’re not so ugly. Great choice of bar. This place is fantastic.”

  “Yep, this is my favorite. Plus, I only live a few blocks from here.”

  The waiter came and greeted Younger like a regular. He ordered a Steam Engine Lager, and Vincent made a mental note to give it a try. Then Younger got down to business. “So, what brings you to the fair city of Durango?”

  Vincent told George the whole story, even digressing a little to provide some of his personal background. Some people you can trust immediately, and George Younger was one.

  “I knew your name was familiar. I had a case in Denver once, and you were recommended to me if I needed an investigator. Turned out I didn’t. My client skipped bail and disappeared.”

  They discussed various connections and people they had worked with in Denver.

  “Do you know anything about the Maxwell Franks Law Firm?”

  “Sure. Big-shot attorneys out of Telluride. They also have a small office here. They don’t travel in my circles—or, more accurately, I don’t travel in theirs. Mostly corporate law, with a small criminal practice to help clients who get in trouble. I heard that at one time, when the father ran it, they were considered one of the best firms in the country. But now that Junior’s in charge, their reputation’s gone to shit. I’ve never met the man, but I’ve been told more than once that Franks Junior thinks he’s some kind of gift to humanity. He’s also very dangerous.”

  “Dangerous? How?”

  “At least three people who were directly connected with that guy in Telluride and Durango have died under mysterious circumstances. None of the murders has been solved. The bar talk from the bikers is that Franks is really just a thug in a suit.”

  Hit a home run with Younger. Just the kind of no-bullshit lawyer we needed. He also told me there’s absolutely no reason for someone to build out a large marijuana grow operation in Durango. Some weed is sold there, but it would be a lot cheaper just to ship it from Denver. The real estate would be less expensive in Durango, but the water and electricity would be a lot more expensive than in Denver, and it takes a lot of both. Sounds like young Flores was somehow scammed, but usually a scam victim doesn’t end up with ten grand in cash.

  Vincent got a text message from Tucker asking to pick him up from a private flight early in the morning, so he drove out to the small municipal airport at what felt like the crack of dawn.

  “You open the vault and rent an entire plane?”

  “You know what, Mister Wiseass, I think I probably saved a few bucks. Plus, I got here in record time. I called the FBO at the Albuquerque airport and asked about short-term rentals, and the guy said they had at least one plane going to Durango almost every morning, and the pilots would usually take a passenger or two for a token payment. They’re not supposed to have passengers who pay, but a nice contribution to offset fuel costs is welcome. And having a little company on the flight is a bonus.”

  “I apologize for ever questioning your frugalness.”

  “So, what do you know?”

  Vincent covered what had happened since he’d arrived on the way into town, giving high marks to George Younger. The bond hearing was scheduled for that afternoon. Younger would try to see Flores in the morning to make sure he knew someone would be at the hearing. Then they would meet up with Younger for lunch to discuss what he’d learned. He also gave Tucker more details about his uncomfortable encounter with the Franks Law Firm.

  “What’s your best guess on what’s going on?” Tucker asked.

  “First, nothing really fits well, so anything I say could be way off. I think Flores was set up as a fall guy for something. The only thing we know at this point is that a truck with lots of stuff inside is missing. Maybe he was supposed to be blamed for the missing truck, but that doesn’t hold much water. Was he supposed to have hijacked it by himself? How would he have done that? So, I think the idea is that someone else did it, and they paid him ten thousand dollars for the information they needed on the truck—where it was supposed to be, and what was in it, and all that. It seems like a lot of money just for information, though. So maybe he was supposed to be framed for something else, something that didn’t end up actually happening. I don’t know. He had ten grand on him. If the money was just part of a frame so there would be some evidence, that’s a lot of dough to throw away. That would suggest a big crime, bigger than the truck, but we have no idea what. All the cops have is the complaint by Simpson claiming that a truck is missing, and the money Rick had on him. I don’t think they actually have any evidence of a crime being committed at all, much less something they can use to hold Rick.”

  “Call Younger and see if we can get in to see Flores. This feels all wrong, like someone is pulling strings, for some reason. Find out who the judge is, and the DA, too. Get me some names so I can check with some people.” Tucker seemed energized and ready for action.

  Vincent got Younger on the phone. “Hey George, this is Vincent. In the car with Peter Tucker. He’d like to see Flores before the hearing, if possible. How do you think we should proceed?”

  “I tried to see him this morning, and the normally friendly jail clerk told me no one was seeing Flores before the hearing, on orders from the DA. So, I guess the only approach is to go through the DA, guy named Bill Jefferson. He and I have butted heads before, but he always seemed like a straight shooter.”

  “Okay. Could we meet you at your office?”

  “Sure. I’m a one-man show, so it’s nothing elaborate.”

  Younger was in a nondescript building mostly otherwise occupied by real estate agents, with a central reception area—not fancy, but functional. His office was an exception—it took up most of the top floor. The receptionist said Mister Younger had just arrived and that they should go on up.

  “Come in, guys. Just straightening up a little. I’m a slob by nature. Used to have some partners until we disagreed. Should move into something smaller, but too damn lazy. Don’t know how, but it seems I end up making messes in every office.” He steered them to a conference room. “Have a seat.”

  After quick introductions and handshakes, Tucker pulled a document out of his briefcase. “This is a pretty standard co-counsel agreement. Look it over, and if it�
��s agreeable, we can sign. Once it’s signed, we can bind our deal with this retainer.”

  Tucker handed Younger a check.

  George looked at it and raised his eyebrows. “Who do I kill to earn this?”

  “If you don’t accumulate enough hours, just hold onto the balance,” Tucker said. “Maybe I’ll need your assistance in the future.” The man knew that one way to command loyalty was to pay for it.

  “Thanks.” George looked at Vincent and smiled.

  “I made a couple of calls and got good reports on Bill Jefferson. Just as you said, a straight shooter,” Tucker said. “Why would they hold Flores when they have such limited evidence that a crime’s even been committed?”

  “Somebody pulled some strings. My experience with the police department here hasn’t always been positive. They have a very political perspective on how they deal with offenders. If you’re on their good list, they follow the book. But if you’re on their shit list, they turn into the Gestapo. Of course, a lot of my clients are on the shit list—bikers, old hippies, street people, anybody who’s not part of the establishment. Flores has been identified to them as a drug guy, and even though it’s weed and it’s legal, he’s still a drug guy, in their eyes. So, it’s the shit list for him.”

  “Vincent told me you didn’t think it made sense to put a large marijuana grow operation in Durango because of limited demand and high cost. Any idea why they would have told Flores they were going to do that?” At this point, Tucker was gathering info and collecting possible explanations. He didn’t expect a precise answer.

  “Just because it doesn’t make good economic sense doesn’t mean someone might not do it. People do stupid stuff all the time. That guy Simpson is known in these parts as a hustler, but as far as I know, he’s not into anything illegal. He’s connected with the Franks Law Firm in some manner, apparently a good friend of Franks Junior. I’ve heard from some locals, after a few drinks, that Franks Junior has lots of things going on in Denver—things he wouldn’t want his mother to know about. Not sure what that really means. Could be it’s just bar talk.” George shrugged his huge shoulders, signed the co-counsel agreement and handed it to Tucker, who also signed. They made copies, and agreed to head to the courthouse to wait for the hearing.