The King of Torts

"She’s very pretty," Ridley whispered, very close to his right ear. Indeed she was. And she was dancing with Jason Myers who, though he was two inches shorter, appeared to Rebecca to be the only person in the world. She smiled and glowed as they spun slowly around the dance floor, the bride doing most of the work because her groom was as stiff as a board.

Clay wanted to attack, to bolt through the crowd and sucker punch Myers with all the force he could muster. He would rescue his girl and take her away and shoot her mother if she found them.

"You still love her, don’t you?" Ridley was whispering.

"No, it’s over," he whispered back.

"You do. I can tell."

"No."

The newlyweds would go somewhere tonight and consummate their marriage, though knowing Rebecca as intimately as he did, he knew she had not been doing without sex. She’d probably taken this worm Myers and educated him in the ways of the bed. A lucky man. The things Clay had taught her she was now passing along to someone else. It wasn’t fair.

The two were painful to watch, and Clay asked himself why he was there. Closure, whatever that meant. A farewell. But he wanted Rebecca to see him, and Ridley, and to know that he was faring well and not missing her.

Watching Bennett the Bulldozer dance was painful for other reasons. He subscribed to the white man’s theory of dancing without moving his feet, and when he tried to shake his butt the band actually laughed. His cheeks were already crimson from too much Chivas.

Jason Myers danced with Barbara Van Horn who, from a distance, looked as though she’d had another round or two with her discount plastic surgeon. She was poured into a dress that, while pretty, was several sizes too small, so that the extra flab was bulging in the wrong spots and seemed ready to free itself and make everyone sick. She had plastered across her face the phoniest grin she’d ever produced – no wrinkles anywhere, though, due to excessive Botox – and Myers grinned right back as if the two would be close chums forever. She was already knifing him in the back and he was too stupid to know it. Sadly, she probably didn’t know it either. Just the nature of the beast.

"Would you like to dance?" someone asked Ridley.

"Bug off," Clay said, then led her to the dance floor where a mob was gyrating to some pretty good Motown. If Ridley standing still was a work of art, Ridley in full motion was a national treasure. She moved with a natural rhythm and easy grace, with the low-cut dress just barely high enough and the slit in the skirt flying open to reveal all manner of flesh. Groups of men were gathering to watch.

And watching also was Rebecca. Taking a break to chat with her guests, she noticed the commotion and looked into the crowd, where she saw Clay dancing with a knockout. She, too, was stunned by Ridley, but for other reasons. She continued chatting for a moment, then moved back to the dance floor.

Meanwhile, Clay’s eyes were working furiously to check on Rebecca without missing a movement from Ridley. The song ended, a slow number began, and Rebecca stepped between them. "Hello, Clay," she said, ignoring his date. "How about a dance?"

"Sure," he said. Ridley shrugged and moved away, alone for only a second before a stampede surrounded her. She picked the tallest one, threw her arms around him, and began pulsating.

"Don’t remember inviting you." Rebecca said with an arm over his shoulder.

"You want me to leave?" He pulled her slightly closer but the bulky wedding dress prevented the contact he wanted.

"People are watching," she said, smiling for their benefit. "Why are you here?"

"To celebrate your wedding. And to get a good look at your new boy."

"Don’t be ugly, Clay. You’re just jealous."

"I’m more than jealous. I’d like to break his neck."

"Where’d you get the bimbo?"

"Now who’s jealous?"

"Me."

"Don’t worry, Rebecca, she can’t touch you in bed." On second thought, perhaps she’d like to. Anyway.

"Jason’s not bad."

"I really don’t want to hear about it. Just don’t get pregnant, okay?"

"That’s hardly any of your business."

"It’s very much my business."

Ridley and her beau swept by them. For the first time Clay got a good look at her back, the full extent of which was on display because her dress didn’t exist until just a few tiny inches above her round and perfect cheeks. Rebecca saw it too. "Is she on the payroll?" she asked.

"Not yet."

"Is she a minor?"

"Oh no. She’s very much the adult. Tell me you still love me."

"I don’t."

"You’re lying."

"It might be best if you leave now, and take her with you."

"Sure, it’s your party. Didn’t mean to crash it."

"That’s the only reason you’re here, Clay." She pulled away slightly but kept dancing.

"Hang in there for a year, okay?" he said. "By then I’ll have two hundred million. We can hop on my jet, blow this joint, spend the rest of our lives on a yacht. Your parents will never find us."

She stopped moving and said, "Good-bye, Clay."

"I’ll wait," he said, then got knocked aside by a stumbling Bennett who said, "Excuse me." He grabbed his daughter and rescued her by shuffling to the other side of the floor.

Barbara was next. She took Clay’s hand and flashed an artificial smile. "Let’s not make a scene," she said without moving her lips. They began a rigid movement that no one would mistake for dancing.

"And how are you, Mrs. Van Horn?" Clay said, in the clutches of a pit viper.

"Fine, until I saw you. I’m positive you were not invited to this little party."

"I was just leaving."

"Good. I’d hate to call security."

"That won’t be necessary."

"Don’t ruin this moment for her, please."

"Like I said. I was just leaving."

The music stopped and Clay jerked away from Mrs. Van Horn. A small mob materialized around Ridley, but Clay whisked her off. They retreated to the back of the room where a bar was attracting more fans than the band. Clay grabbed a beer and was planning an exit when another group of onlookers encircled them. Lawyers in the bunch wanted to talk about the joys of mass torts while pressing close to Ridley.

After a few minutes of idiotic small talk with people he detested, a thick young man in a rented tuxedo appeared next to Clay and whispered, "I’m security." He had a friendly face and seemed very professional.

"I’m leaving," Clay whispered back.

Tossed from the Van Horn wedding reception. Ejected from the great Potomac Country Club. Driving away, with Ridley wrapped around him, he privately declared it to be one of his finest moments.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The announcement had said the newlyweds would honeymoon in Mexico. Clay decided to take a trip himself. If anyone deserved a month on an island, it was he.

His once formidable team had lost all direction. Perhaps it was the holidays, perhaps it was the money. Whatever the reason, Jonah, Paulette, and Rodney were spending fewer hours at the office.

As was Clay. The place was filled with tension and strife. So many Dyloft clients were unhappy with their meager settlements. The mail was brutal. Dodging the phone had become a sport. Several clients had actually found the place and presented themselves to Miss Glick with demands to see Mr. Carter, who, it happened, was always in a big trial somewhere. Usually, he was hunkering down in his office with the door locked, riding out yet another storm. After one particularly troubling day, he called Patton French for advice.