Flinch Factor, The (8 page)

Chapter Fifteen

My secretary buzzed. “Benny's here.”

I checked my watch. 4:50 p.m.

He'd gone downtown that afternoon for a meeting at the Federal Reserve Bank, which had retained him as a consultant on some trade regulation matter. He'd promised to drop by on his way home.

“It's happy hour, Darling.”

Benny stood in the doorway. He had a six-pack of Schlafly's Hefeweizen in one hand and a large white bag in the other. As he stepped into my office the tangy aroma of barbecue filled the air.

“That smells delicious.”

“Smoki O's finest.”

Smoki O's is a barbecue joint in the warehouse district on North Broadway, a hole in the wall that Benny stops at every time he's downtown.

He took a seat over at my small work table, put the six-pack and the bag on the table, and gestured toward the empty seat next to him.

“Dig in.”

I joined him at the table as he lifted two foil-wrapped containers out of the bag.

“What'd you get us?”

“What do you think? Once upon a time, the Rachel Gold I knew could scarf down some real barbecue—back before she turned her home into a pork-free zone. But since we ain't home, I went whole hog, so to speak.”

“Which parts?”

“Which parts? Come on. We're talking Smoki O's. That means we're talking two parts.”

“Oh, no. Noses again?”

“Not noses, for chrissake. Snoots. And not just any snoots. These are primo snoots. Trust me, if the Rabbis of the Talmud had sampled Smoki O's snoots, they'd have carved out an exception in the laws of kashruth.”

He unwrapped the foil on the containers and looked up with a smile.

“Plus rib tips, my sweet. Snoots and tips—best combo on the planet outside the bedroom.”

“You wore that outfit to meet with officials of the Federal Reserve?”

He gave me a puzzled frown and then looked down at his clothing. He was wearing baggy cargo pants and a navy blue sweatshirt over a red T-shirt. On the front of the sweatshirt was an official-looking logo that read
Department of Redundancy Department.
Benny was a Firesign Theater fan.

He shrugged. “Actually, the sweatshirt adds a touch of class to what might have been missing with just the T-shirt.”

“Which one is it?”

He leaned back and pulled the front of the sweatshirt over his ample belly to reveal the slogan on the red T-shirt:
I AM THAT MAN FROM NANTUCKET.

I rolled my eyes. “Benny.”

“A line from a beautiful poem. My favorite. Meanwhile, it's not like I was down there testifying before Congress. And believe me, those clowns lost all speaking privileges today.”

“Oh? What happened?”

“I get on their elevator and guess what's playing over the goddam speakers?”

I couldn't help but smile. “What?”

He opened a bottle of beer and handed it to me.

“The 101 Strings,” he said.

“Playing what?

“Brace yourself. AC/DC's ‘Highway to Hell.'”

He shook his head in disgust.“Can you believe that? A fucking Muzak rendition of ‘Highway to Hell'? On an elevator owned by the federal government?”

“That's pretty bad,” I conceded.

“Pretty bad? That shit is so wrong in so many ways that all you do is shake your head and say, ‘What the fuck?'”

“Which is what you said to them?”

“For starters. Then I told them the Founding Fathers would be spinning in their graves. I told them if you're going to play AC/DC on government owned and operated elevators, do it the way Ben Franklin would have: electric guitars and all.”

“I must have missed that history lesson. I had always assumed Ben preferred the unplugged version.”

“Why do you think that crazy dude was out in a thunderstorm with a kite? Old Ben was a heavy metal freak.”

“These rib tips are delicious, Benny.”

“Where's Jacki? She's my snoot buddy.”

“She should be back any minute. She had a court hearing out in the county at two-thirty. Afterward, she was going to stop by the Cloverdale City Hall to pick up my Sunshine documents.”

“Oh, yeah. How's Frankenstein going?”

“I'm taking Rubenstein's deposition on Friday.”

“Got any decent ammo?”

“Not much. I'm hoping Jacki brings me back something to work with.”

“You better hope she brings back a photo of Rubenstein blowing a council member.”

“As my father would have said, from your lips to God's ears.”

He scarfed down another snoot and took a big gulp of beer.

“How are things going with your dead guy?” he asked. “The one who was banging my Subaru colleague?”

“That's what I've been working on this afternoon.”

“Turn up anything?”

“I don't know. I can't figure it out.”

“What do you have?”

“A license plate and a name.”

“Tell me.”

Without revealing the identity or anything else about my source, I told Benny about the license plate number from the pickup truck and its connection to Nick.

“Cops run the plates for you?”

I nodded.

“And?”

“The truck is registered to Corundum Construction Company.”

“Which is?”

I frowned. “I can't figure that out.”

Benny crunched on another snoot as he thought it over.

“Makes sense,” he said.

“What makes sense?”

“Your guy did renovations on homes. That means he dealt with others in the construction industry. We can safely assume he wasn't the only
fegala
doing renovations. He must have met the other guy on a job site.”

“That was my thought, too. I called Nick's secretary Linda as soon as I got the license plate information. She told me that Nick never did any work with that company.”

“Maybe they were on same job site doing different things.”

“It's possible, but Linda did a search of Nick's records. She came up with nothing that indicated that Corundum Construction had ever been on the same job site with Nick.”

“What kind of work does the company do? New homes? Rehabs? Commercial? Residential?”

“I have no idea. I can't find any information on them.”

“Who owns them?”

“According to the Missouri Secretary of State, Corundum Construction Company is the d/b/a of one R.S. Corundum.”

‘Who's that?”

“Beats me. I checked the telephone directory. There's no listing for Corundum in the business section and there's no listing for anyone named Corundum in the white pages.”

“Unlisted number?”

“For a construction company? That would be weird. How could people reach them? I did an Internet search, too. Nothing.”

“Maybe they're out of business.”

“Then how do you explain the license plate?”

Benny shrugged. “Hasn't expired.”

I frowned. “I suppose.”

“You're saying Moran's secretary had no information on that company?”

“She'd never heard of them.”

“Maybe your police buddy can help. What's his name?”

“Tomaso. I can't go to him on this. At least not yet. He was willing to run the plate for me without any other information, but if I want anything more I'll have to tell him how I found out about the plate, and I can't do that.”

He belched and gave me a playful grin. “You got yourself what I'd call a real Corundum conundrum.”

“Try saying that fast five times.”

“Try saying what?” said a familiar voice.

We both turned.

Standing in the doorway—indeed, filling up the doorway—was Jacki Brand, all six feet three inches and 250 pounds of her, dressed in heels, white blouse, and navy skirt.

She sniffed the air. “Barbecue?”

“Snoots and tips,” Benny said. “Grab a chair, Sexy.”

“Maybe a few nibbles,” she said. “I've got a dinner date tonight.”

“Freddy?” I asked.

She took a seat and nodded. “Freddy.”

Judge Fred Epstein was Jacki's latest beau. They were an odd couple, since he was fifteen years older, eight inches shorter, and a hundred pounds lighter than his lady love. He told me it was love at first sight the day Jacki appeared before him in family court on a motion for protective order in a nasty divorce case. Indeed, the only downside to their relationship was that Judge Epstein was one of the better judges for divorce cases. Because Jacki specialized in divorce cases, their relationship meant that she could have him in the bedroom or the courtroom but not both. Except for the one time a case of hers got reassigned to Judge Flinch, she'd never regretted the tradeoff.

Benny gave her a Groucho Marx leer. “Freddy's in for a treat tonight. You are looking quite voluptuous, Ms. Brand.”

She blushed. “If I didn't know you better, Benny, I'd think you were flirting.”

“I am flirting. What do you mean ‘know me better'?”

“She means,” I said, “that she might think you were flirting if she didn't know that you prefer girls who might ask you to their senior prom.”

“Oh, very funny, Rachel Gold. Ho, ho, ho. Such a clever girl.”

He took a swig of beer.

“You know what your problem is?” he said. “Actually, both of your problems?”

I winked at Jacki and turned to Benny. “Enlighten us, Professor.”

“You can't deal with consistency in a man.”

“Is that so?” I said. “Please explain, Ralph Waldo.”

“By the time I turned twenty-five, I had discovered that I preferred girls who were around that age.”

“Hardly a unique discovery.”

“Ah, but I didn't realize then that my tastes had fully matured.”

“Meaning?” I asked.

“Meaning that I still prefer girls around that age, and probably always will.”

“Fully matured?” Jacki chuckled.

I said, “It's not worth it, Jacki. We know the man is a total pig, but he brought you snoots and he brought me ribs and he brought both of us beer. As I've learned, he's much more fun to eat with than argue with.”

She eyed the basket of snoots and nodded. “Good advice.”

She turned to Benny, pressed her hands together in front of her chest, and bowed toward him. “I thank you and your mature tastes.”

He pried the cap off a bottle of beer and handed it to her.

“Up yours, Hot Stuff. Have some snoots.”

I smiled as I watched them banter.

Jacki Brand and I met nearly a decade ago when she was still a Granite City steelworker named Jack Brand. When St. Louis University Law School accepted his application to the night program, Jack Brand decided to quit his steelworker job and pursue both of this dreams: to become a lawyer and to become a woman.

I hired him as my legal assistant at the front end of those pursuits, when he had just started attending law classes and taking hormone shots and wearing dresses and wigs. The new Jacki Brand helped keep my law practice organized, and I helped teach her to be a woman. The week after she received her law school diploma, she underwent the final surgical procedure that lopped off the last dangling evidence of her original gender.

When she passed the bar exam six years ago, I changed the title of my firm from the
Law Offices of Rachel Gold
to
Rachel Gold & Associates, Attorneys at Law
. A year ago, I made her my law partner. I kept it a secret until the new signs and business cards were ready. She left for court that morning from the offices of
Rachel Gold & Associates
and returned that afternoon to
Gold & Brand, Attorneys at Law
. You haven't experienced joy and gratitude until you've been swept off your feet in a bear hug by your blubbering six-foot three-inch 250-pound high-heeled partner.

Jacki still acts as if I did her a big favor, but it was—as I keep trying to tell her—a no-brainer. She has become one of the most respected and sought-after divorce lawyers in town, especially by wealthy women. They adore her—and not only for her blue-collar moxie but for the sight of their soon-to-be exes, generally arrogant corporate execs, surgeons, and lawyers, trying not to cringe at the initial settlement conference as they shake hands with a towering attorney whose previous job really did involve bending steel.

I said to Jacki, “Did they have anything for me at the Cloverdale City Hall?”

“Anything?” Jacki said. “Good grief. How about four boxes of documents?”

“Four? I can't believe it.”

“That's what I said when the city clerk rolled them out on a hand cart. I was expecting maybe a couple folders.”

“Did you look in the boxes?” I asked.

“All four were sealed with packing tape. That's how I had to sign for them. But I asked him about the contents. He told me that their city attorney is very strict. Immediately after each meeting he makes the clerks gather up every single document at every council member's place and file them away in separate folders. They aren't allowed to throw anything out. The clerk told me they made us copies of everything. Everything.”

“Meaning?” I asked.

“From doodles to empty candy wrappers.”

“Mr. Rubenstein,” Benny said in his serious deposition voice, “I've asked the court reporter to mark this Butterfingers wrapper as Plaintiffs' Exhibit Five.”

I groaned. “Four boxes.”

“When are you taking his deposition?” Jacki asked.

“Day after tomorrow.”

She winced. “Ouch. If you need help reviewing the documents, I can call Freddy and tell him something's come up.”

“You're a sweetie, Jacki, but I'll be okay. I'm the one who's going to be asking Ken Rubenstein the questions on Friday. It's better if I'm the one who looks through the documents.”