The Rainmaker (Page 14)
THE RAIN IS INTERMITTENT FOR THREE days, effectively suspending my work as a yard boy. After dark on Tuesday, I am hiding in my apartment, studying for the bar exam, when the phone rings. It's Dot Black, and I know something is wrong. She wouldn't call me otherwise.
"I just got a phone call," she says, "from a Mr. Barry Lancaster. Said he was my lawyer."
"That's true, Dot. He's a big-shot lawyer with my firm. He works with me." I guess Barry is just checking a few details.
"Well, that ain't what he said. He called to see if me and Donny Ray can come down to his office tomorrow, said he needed to get some things signed. I asked about you. He said you ain't working there. I want to know what's going on."
So do I. I stutter for a second, say something about a misunderstanding. A thick knot hits deep in my stomach. "It's a big firm, Dot, and I'm new, you know. He probably just forgot about me."
"No. He knows who you are. He said you used to work there, but not anymore. This is pretty confusing, you know?"
I know. I fall into a chair and try to think clearly. It's almost nine o'clock. "Look, Dot, sit tight. Let me call Mr. Lancaster and find out what he's up to. I'll call you back in a minute."
"I want to know what's going on. Have you sued those bastards yet?"
"I'll call you back in just a minute, okay? Bye now." I hang up the phone, then quickly punch the number for the Lake firm. I'm hit with the rotten feeling that I've been here before.
The late receptionist routes me to Barry X. I decide to be cordial, play along, see what he says.
"Barry, it's me, Rudy. Did you see my research?"
"Yeah, looks great." He sounds tired. "Listen, Rudy, we may have a slight problem with your position."
The knot claws its way into my throat. My heart freezes. My lungs skip a breath. "Oh yeah?" I manage to say.
"Yeah. Looks bad. I met with Jonathan Lake late this afternoon, and he's not going to approve you."
"Why not?"
"He doesn't like the idea of a lawyer filling the position of a paralegal. And now that I think about it, it's not such a good idea after all. You see, Mr. Lake thinks, and I concur, that the natural tendency for a lawyer in that position would be to try and force his way into the next associate's slot. And we don't operate that way. It's bad business."
I close my eyes and want to cry. "I don't understand," I say.
"I'm sorry. I tried my best, but he simply wouldn't give. He runs this place with an iron fist, and he has a certain
way of doing things. To be honest, he really chewed my ass good for even thinking about hiring you."
"I want to talk to Jonathan Lake," I say as firmly as possible.
"No way. He's too busy, plus he just wouldn't do it. And he's not going to change his mind."
"You son of a bitch."
"Look, Rudy, we-"
"You son of a bitch!" I'm shouting into the phone, and it feels good.
"Take it easy, Rudy."
"Is Lake in the office now?" I demand.
"Probably. But he won't-"
"I'll be there in five minutes," I yell, and slam the phone down.
Ten minutes later, I squeal tires and slam on brakes and come to a stop in front of the warehouse. There are three cars in the lot, lights are on in the building. Barry is not waiting for me.
I pound on the front door but nobody appears. I know they can hear me in there, but they're too cowardly to come out. They'll probably call the cops if I don't quit.
But I can't quit. I walk to the north side and pound on another door, then the same for an emergency exit around back. I stand under Barry's office window and yell at him. His lights are on, but he ignores me. I go back to the front door and beat on it some more.
A uniformed security guard steps from the shadows and grabs my shoulder. My knees buckle with fright. I look up at him. He's at least six-six, black with a black cap.
"You need to leave, son," he says gently in a deep voice. "Go on now, before I call the police."
I shake his hand off my shoulder and walk away. n a n n
I SIT FOR A LONG TIME in the darkness on the battered sofa Miss Birdie loaned me, and try to put things into some perspective. I'm largely unsuccessful in doing so. I drink two warm beers. I curse and I cry. I plot revenge. I even think of killing Jonathan Lake and Barry X. Sleazy bastards conspired to steal my case. What do I tell the Blacks now? How do I explain this to them?
I walk the floor, waiting for sunrise. I actually laughed last night when I thought of retrieving my list of firms and knocking on doors again. I cringed with the prospect of calling Madeline Skinner. "It's me again, Madeline. I'm back."
I finally fall asleep on the sofa, and someone wakes me just after nine. It is not Miss Birdie. It's two cops in plain-clothes. They flash their badges through the open door, and I invite them in.- I'm wearing gym shorts and a tee shirt. My eyes are burning so I rub them and try and figure out why I suddenly have attracted the police.
They could be twins, both about thirty, not much older than myself. They're wearing jeans and sneakers and black mustaches and act like a couple of B actors from television. "Can we sit down?" one asks as he pulls a chair from under the table and sits down. His partner does the same, and they are quickly in position.
"Sure," I say like a real smartass. "Have a seat."
"Join us," one says.
"Why not?" I sit at the end, between them. They both lean forward, still acting. "Now what the hell's going on?" I ask.
"You know Jonathan Lake?"
"Yes."
"You know where his office is?"
"Yes."
"Did you go there last night?"
"Yes."
"What time?"
"What was your purpose in going there?"
"It's a long story."
"We have hours."
"I wanted to talk to Jonathan Lake."
"Did you?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Doors were locked. I couldn't get in the building."
"Did you try to break in?"
"Nope."
"Are you sure?"
"Yep."
"Did you return to the building after midnight?"
"Nope."
"Are you sure?"
"Yep. Ask the security guard."
With this, they glance at each other. Something here has hit the mark. "Did you see the security guard?"
"Yep. He asked me to leave, so I left."
"Can you describe him?"
"Yep."
"Then do it."
"Big black guy, probably six-six. Uniform, cap, gun, the works. Ask him, he'll tell you I left when he told me to leave."
"We can't ask him." They glance at each other again.
"Why not?" I ask. Something awful is coming.
"Because he's dead." They both watch me intently as I react to this. I'm genuinely shocked, as anybody would be. I can feel their heavy looks.
"How, uh, how did he die?"
"Burned up in the fire."
"What fire?"
They clam up in unison, both nodding suspiciously as they look at the table. One pulls a notepad from his pocket like some cub reporter. "That little car out there, the Toyota, is that yours?"
"You know it is. You've got computers."
"Did you drive it to the office last night?"
"No. I pushed it over there. What fire?"
"Don't ibe a smartass, okay?"
"Okay. It's a deal. I won't be a smartass if you won't be a smartass."
The other chimes in. "We have a possible sighting of your car in the vicinity of the office at two this morning."
"No you don't. Not my car." It is impossible at this moment to know if these guys are telling the truth. "What fire?" I ask again.
"The Lake firm was burned last night. Completely destroyed."
"To the ground," the other adds helpfully.
"And you guys are from the arson squad," I say, still stunned but at the same time really pissed because they think I was involved in it. "And Barry Lancaster told you that I'd make a wonderful suspect for torching the place, right?"
"We do arson. We also do homicide."
"How many were killed?"
"Just the guard. First call came in at three this morning, so the building was deserted. Evidently the guard got trapped somehow when the roof fell in."
I almost wish Jonathan Lake had been with the guard, then I think of those beautiful offices with the paintings and rugs.
"You're wasting your time," I say, angrier at the thought of being a suspect.
"Mr. Lancaster said you were pretty upset when you went to the office, last night."
"True. But not mad enough to torch the place. You guys are wasting your time. I swear."
"He said you'd just been fired, and you wanted to confront Mr. Lake."
"A murder committed in the course of an arson can carry the death penalty."
"No kiddin'! I'm with you. Go find the murderer and let's fry his ass. Just leave me out of it."
I guess my anger is pretty convincing because they retreat at the same time. One pulls a folded piece of paper from his front shirt pocket. "Gotta report here, couple of months ago, where you were wanted for destruction of private property. Something about some broken glass in a law office downtown."
"See, your computers do work."
"Pretty bizarre behavior for a lawyer."
"I've seen worse. And I'm not a lawyer. I'm a paralegal, or something like that. Just finished law school. And the charges were dropped, which I'm sure is written somewhere conspicuously on your little printout there. And if you guys think that my breaking some glass in April is somehow related to last night's fire, then the real arsonist can relax. He's safe. He'll never get caught."
At this, one jumps up and is quickly joined by the other. "You'd better talk to a lawyer," one says, pointing down at me. "Right now you're the prime suspect."
"Yeah, yeah. Like I said, if I'm the prime suspect, then the real killer is a lucky soul. You boys are not close."
They slam the door and disappear. I wait half an hour, then get into my car. I drive a few blocks and carefully maneuver myself close to the warehouse. I park, walk another block and duck into a convenience store. I can see the smoldering remains two blocks away. Only one wall is
standing. Dozens of people mill about, the lawyers and secretaries pointing this way and that, the firemen tromp-ing around in their bulky boots. Yellow crime scene tape is being strung by die police. The smell of burned wood is pungent, and a grayish cloud hangs low over the entire neighborhood.
The building had wooden floors, ceilings, and, with few exceptions, the walls were pine too. Add to the mix the tremendous number of books scattered throughout the building and the tons of paper necessarily stored about, and it's easy to understand how it was incinerated. What's puzzling is the fact that there was an extensive fire sprinkling system throughout the warehouse. Painted pipes ran everywhere, often woven into the decorative scheme.
FOR OBVIOUS REASONS, Prince is not a morning person. He usually locks up Yogi's around 2 A.M., then stumbles into the backseat of his Cadillac. Firestone, his lifelong driver and alleged bodyguard, takes him home. A couple of times Firestone himself has been too drunk to drive, and I took them both home.
Prince is usually in his office by eleven because Yogi's does a brisk lunch business. I find him there at noon, at his desk, shuffling paper and dealing with his daily hangover. He eats painkillers and drinks mineral water until the magic hour of five, then slides into his soothing world of rum and tonic.
Prince's office is a windowless room under the kitchen, very much out of sight and accessible only by quick footwork through three unmarked doors and down a hidden staircase. It's a perfect square with every inch of the walls covered with photos of Prince shaking hands with local pols and other photogenic types. There are also lots of framed and laminated newspaper clippings of Prince be-
ing suspected, accused, indicted, arrested, tried and, always, found innocent. He loves to see himself in print.
He's in a foul mood, as usual. I've learned over the years to avoid him until he's had his third drink, usually about 6 P.M. So I'm six hours early. He motions for me to come in, and I close the door behind me.
"What's wrong?" he grunts. His eyes are bloodshot. He's always reminded me of Wolfman Jack with his long dark hair, flowing beard, open shirt, hairy neck.
"I'm in a bit of a bind," I say.
"What else is new?"
I tell him about last night-the loss of job, the fire, the cops. Everything. I place particular emphasis on the fact that there's a dead body and that the cops are very concerned about it. Rightfully so. I can't imagine being the favorite suspect, but the cops sure seem to think so.
"So Lake got torched," he reflects aloud. He seems pleased. A good arson job is just the sort of thing that would amuse Prince and brighten his morning. "I never particularly liked him."
"He's not dead. He's just temporarily out of business. He'll be back." And this is a major cause of my concern. Jonathan Lake spends a lot of money on a lot of politicians. He cultivates relationships so he can call in favors. If he's convinced I was involved in the fire, or if he simply wants a temporary scapegoat, then the cops will come after me with a vengeance.
"You swear you didn't do it?"
"Come on, Prince."
He ponders this, strokes his beard, and I can immediately tell he's delighted to suddenly be in the middle of it. It's crime, death, intrigue, politics, a regular slice of life in the gutter. If it only had some topless dancers and a few payoffs to the police, then Prince would be yanking out the good booze to celebrate.
"You better talk to a lawyer," he says, still stroking his whiskers. This, sadly, is the real reason I'm here. I thought about calling Booker, but I've troubled him enough. And he's currently laboring with the same disability that afflicts me, to wit, we haven't passed the bar and we're really not lawyers.
"I can't afford a lawyer," I say, then wait for the next line in this script. If there were an alternative at the moment, I would happily lunge for it.
"Lemme handle it," he says. "I'll call Bruiser."
I nod and say, "Thanks. Do you think he'll help?"
Prince grins and spreads his arms expansively. "Bruiser will do anything I ask him, okay?"
"Sure," I say meekly. He picks up a phone and punches the number. I listen as he growls his way past a couple of people, then gets Bruiser on the line. He speaks in the rapid, clipped phrases of a man who knows his phones are wired. Prince spits out the following: "Bruiser, Prince here. Yeah, yeah. Need to see you pretty quick. ... A little matter regarding one of my employees. . . . Yeah, yeah. No, at your place. Thirty minutes. Sure." And he hangs up.
I pity the poor FBI technician trying to extract incriminating data from that conversation.
Firestone pulls the Cadillac to the rear door, and Prince and I jump in the backseat. The car is black and the windows are deeply tinted. He lives in darkness. In three years I've never known him to engage in any outdoor activities. He vacations in Las Vegas, never leaving the casinos.
I listen to what quickly becomes a tedious recitation of Bruiser's greatest legal triumphs, almost all of which involve Prince. Oddly, I begin to relax. I'm in good hands.
Bruiser went to law school at night, and finished when he was twenty-two, still a record, Prince believes. They
were best of friends as children, and in high school they gambled a little, drank a lot, chased girls, fought boys. Tough Memphis neighborhood on the south side. They could write a book. Bruiser went to college, Prince got himself a beer truck. One thing led to another.
The law offices are in a short, red-bricked strip shopping center with a cleaner's at one end and a video rental at the other. Bruiser invests wisely, Prince explains, and owns the entire unit. Across the street is an all-night pancake house and next to it is Club Amber, a gawdy topless joint with Vegas-style neon. This is an industrial section of town, near the airport.
Except for the words LAW OFFICE painted in black on a glass door in the center of the strip, there is nothing to indicate which profession is practiced here. A secretary with tight jeans and sticky red lips greets us with a toothy grin, but we do not slow. I follow Prince through the front area. "She used to work across the street," he mumbles. I hope it was the pancake house but I doubt it.
Bruiser's office is remarkably similar to Prince's-no windows, no chance of sunlight, large and square and gawdy, photos of important but unknown people clutching Bruiser and grinning at us. One wall is reserved for firearms, all sorts of rifles and muskets and awards for sharpshooting. Behind Bruiser's massive leather swivel chair is a large, elevated aquarium with what appear to be miniature sharks gliding through the murky waters.
He's on the phone, and so he waves at us to take our seats across from his long and wide desk. We sit, and Prince can't wait to inform me. "Those are real sharks in there," he says, pointing to the wall above Bruiser's head. Live sharks in a lawyer's office. Get it. It's a joke. Prince snickers.
I glance at Bruiser and try to avoid eye contact. The phone looks tiny next to his enormous head. His long,
half-gray hair falls in shaggy layers to his shoulders. His goatee, completely gray, is thick and long and the phone is almost lost in it. His eyes are dark and quick, surrounded by rolls of swarthy skin. I've often thought he must be of Mediterranean extraction.
Although I've served Bruiser a thousand drinks, I've never actually engaged in conversation with him. I've never wanted to. And I don't want to now, but, obviously, my options are limited.
He snarls a few brief remarks, and hangs up the phone. Prince makes quick introductions, and Bruiser assures us that he knows me well. "Sure, I've known Rudy for a long time," he says. "What's the problem?"
Prince looks at me, and I go through the routine.
"Saw it on the news this morning," Bruiser injects when my narrative reaches the part about the fire. "Already had five calls about it. Doesn't take much to get the lawyers gossiping."
I smile and nod because I feel I'm supposed to, then, get to the part about the cops. I finish without further interruption, and wait for words of counsel and advice from my lawyer.
"I was desperate."
"So where do you work now?"
"I don't know. I'm much more concerned about being arrested at the moment."
This makes Bruiser smile. "I'll take care of that," he says smugly. Prince has assured me repeatedly that Bruiser knows more cops than the mayor himself. "Just let me make some phone calls."
"He needs to lay low, doesn't he?" Prince asks, as if I'm an escaped felon.
"Yeah. Keep low." For some reason, I'm struck with the certainty that this advice has been uttered many times in
this office. "How much do you know about arson?" he asks me.
"Nothing. They didn't teach it in law school."
"Well, I've handled a few arson cases. It can take days before they know whether or not it's arson. Old building like that, anything could've happened. If it's arson, they won't make any arrests for a. few days."
"I really don't want to be arrested, you know. Especially since I'm innocent. I don't need the press." I say this with a glance at the wall plastered with his newspaper stories.
"Don't blame you there," he actually says 'with a straight face. "When do you take the bar exam?"
"July."
"Then what?"
"I don't know. I'll look around."
My buddy Prince suddenly charges into the conversation. "Can't you use him around here, Bruiser? Hell, you got a bunch of lawyers. What's one more? He's a top student, works hard, bright. I can vouch for him. The boy needs a job."
I slowly turn and look at Prince, who smiles at me as if he's Santa Claus. "This'll be a great place to work," he says right jolly like. "You'll learn what real lawyers do." He laughs and slaps me on the knee.
We both look at Bruiser, whose eyes are darting as his mind races wildly with excuses. "Uh, sure. I'm always looking for good legal talent."
"See there," Prince says.
"In fact, two of my associates just left to form their own firm. So, I've got two empty offices."
"See there," Prince says again. "I told you things would work out."
"But it ain't exactly a salaried position," Bruiser says, warming to the idea. "No sir. I don't operate that way. I
expect my associates to pay for themselves, to generate their own fees."
I'm too stunned to speak. Prince and I did not discuss the topic of my employment. I hadn't wanted his assistance. I don't really want Bruiser Stone as my boss. But I can't insult the man either, not with the cops poking around, making not so vague references about the death penalty. I'm unable to muster the strength to tell Bruiser that he's sleazy enough to represent me, but too sleazy to employ me.
"How does that work?" I ask.
"It's very simple, and it works, at least on my end. And keep in mind that in twenty years I've tried everything. I've had a bunch of partners and I've had dozens of associates. The only system that works is one where the associate is required to generate enough fees to cover his salary. Can you do that?"
"I can try," I say, all shrugs and uncertainty.
"Sure you can," Prince adds helpfully.
"You draw a thousand dollars a month, and you keep one third of the fees you generate. Your one third is applied against the draw. One third goes into my office fund, which covers overhead, secretarial, stuff like that. The other one third comes to me. If you don't cover your draw each month, then you owe me the balance. I keep a running total until you hit a big month. Understand?"
I ponder this ridiculous scheme for a few seconds. The only thing worse than being unemployed is having a job in which you lose money and your debts become cumulative each month. I can think of several very pointed and unanswerable questions, and I start to ask one when Prince says, "Sounds fair to me. Helluva deal." He slaps me on the knee again. "You can make some real money."
"It's the only way I operate," Bruiser says for the second or third time.
"How much do your associates make?" I ask, not expecting the truth.
The long wrinkles squeeze together across his forehead. He's deep in thought. "It varies. Depends on how much you hustle. One guy made close to eighty last year, one guy made twenty."
"And you made three hundred thousand," Prince says with a hearty laugh.
"I wish."
Bruiser is watching me closely. He's offering me the only possible job left in the city of Memphis, and he seems to know I'm not anxious to take it.
"When can I start?" I ask in an awkward attempt at eagerness.
"Right now."
"But the bar exam-"
"Don't worry about it. You can start generating fees today. I'll show you how to do it."
"You're gonna learn a lot," Prince joins in, almost beside himself with satisfaction.
"I'll pay you a thousand bucks today," Bruiser says, like the last of the big spenders. "Get you started. I'll show you the office, sort of get you plugged in."
"Great," I say with a forced smile. It is utterly impossible at this moment to pursue any other course of action. I shouldn't even be here, but I'm scared and need help. Left unsaid at this moment is the matter of how much I will owe Bruiser for his services. He is not the kind of good-hearted soul who might do an occasional favor for the poor.
I feel a bit ill. Maybe it's the lack of sleep, the shock of being awakened by the police. Maybe it's sitting here in this office, watching live sharks swim about, getting myself hustled by two of the biggest hustlers in the city.
Not long ago I was a bright, fresh-faced, third-year law
student with a promising job with a. real firm, anxious to join the profession, work hard, get myself active in the local bar association, start the career, do all the things my friends would do. And now I sit here, so vulnerable and weak that I agree to whore myself out for a shaky thousand dollars a month.
Bruiser takes an urgent phone call, probably a topless dancer in jail for solicitation, and we ease from our seats. He whispers over the phone that he wants me to return this afternoon.
Prince is so proud he's about to bust. Just like that, he's saved me from the death penalty and found me a job. Try as I might, I cannot be cheerful as Firestone weaves through traffic and speeds us back to Yogi's.