The Rainmaker (20 page)

I give him a rapid, fact-filled summary of the Black case that takes ten minutes. In doing so, I fill in the gaps of my termination from the Lake firm. I explain how Barry Lancaster used me so he could steal the case, and this leads to my strong-arm maneuver with Bruiser. “We have to file suit today,” I tell him gravely. “Because Lancaster technically owns the case. I think he’ll file soon.”

Bruiser glares at me with his black eyes. I think I’ve caught his attention. The idea of beating the Lake firm to the courthouse appeals to him. “What about the clients?” he asks. “They’ve signed up with Lake.”

“Yeah. But I’m on my way to see them. They’ll listen to me.” I pull from my briefcase a rough draft of a lawsuit against Great Benefit, one that Barry and I had spent hours on. Bruiser reads it carefully.

I then hand him a termination letter I’ve typed to
Barry X. Lancaster, to be signed by all three Blacks. He reads it slowly.

“This is good work, Rudy,” he says, and I feel like an accomplished shyster. “Lemme guess. You file the lawsuit this afternoon, then take a copy of it to the Blacks. Show it to them, then get them to sign the letter of termination.”

“Right. I just need your name and signature on the lawsuit. I’ll do all the work and keep you posted.”

“That’ll effectively screw the Lake firm, won’t it?” he says, pondering and tugging at a wayward whisker. “I like it. What’s the lawsuit worth?”

“Probably whatever the jury says. I doubt if it’ll be settled out of court.”

“And you’re gonna try it?”

“I might need a little help. I figure it’s a year or two away.”

“I’ll introduce you to Deck Shifflet, one of my associates. He used to work for a big insurance company and reviews a lot of policies for me.”

“Great.”

“His office is just down the hall from yours. Get this thing redrafted, put my name on it and we’ll get it filed today. Just be damned sure the clients go along with us.”

“The clients are with us,” I assure him with images of Buddy stroking his cats and swatting horseflies in the Fairlane, of Dot sitting on the front porch smoking and watching the mailbox as if a check from Great Benefit will arrive at any moment, of Donny Ray holding his head up with his hands.

“Changing the subject a bit,” I say, clearing my throat. “Any word from the cops?”

“Nothing to it,” he says smugly, as if the master fixer has once again performed his magic. “I talked to some people I know, and they’re not even sure it’s arson. Could take days.”

“So they won’t be arresting me in the middle of the night.”

“Nope. They promised me they’d call me if they want you. I assured them you’d turn yourself in, post bond, etcetera. But it won’t get that far. Relax.”

I do in fact relax. I trust Bruiser Stone to be able to squeeze promises out of the police.

“Thanks,” I say.

FIVE MINUTES before closing, I walk into the office of the Circuit Clerk and file my four-page lawsuit against Great Benefit Life Insurance Company and Bobby Ott, the missing agent who sold the policy. My clients, the Blacks, seek actual damages of two hundred thousand dollars, and punitive damages of ten million. I have no idea of the net worth of Great Benefit, and it will be a long time before I find out. I pulled the ten million from the air because it has a nice ring to it. Trial lawyers do this all the time.

Of course, my name is nowhere to be seen. Plaintiff’s counsel of record is J. Lyman Stone, and his garish signature adorns the last page, giving the entire pleading the weight of authority. I hand the deputy clerk a firm check for the filing fee, and we’re in business.

Great Benefit has been officially sued!

I race across town to North Memphis into the Granger section, where I find my clients much as I had left them a few days ago. Buddy’s outside. Dot fetches Donny Ray from his room. The three of us sit around the table while they admire their copy of the lawsuit. They’re very impressed with the big numbers. Dot keeps repeating the sum of ten million, as if she holds the winning lottery number.

I am eventually forced to explain what happened with those awful folks at the Lake firm. A conflict of strategy.

They weren’t moving fast enough to suit me. They didn’t like my hard-charging approach to the case. And on and on.

They really don’t care. The lawsuit has been filed, and they have proof. They can read it all they want. They want to know what will happen next, how soon might they know something? What are the chances of a quick settlement? These questions knock the wind out of me. I know it will take much too long, and I feel cruel concealing this.

I cajole them into signing a letter addressed to Barry X. Lancaster, their old lawyer. It tersely fires him. There’s also anew contract with the firm of J. Lyman Stone. I talk real fast as I explain this new batch of paperwork. From the same seats at the kitchen table, Donny Ray and I watch as Dot stomps through the weeds again and quarrels with her husband to get his signatures.

I leave them in better spirits than when I found them. They’re taking a fair amount of satisfaction in the fact that they’ve sued this company they’ve hated for so long. They’ve finally fought back: they’ve been stepped on, and they’ve convinced me that they’ve been wronged. Now, they’ve joined the millions of other Americans who file suit each year. It makes them feel somewhat patriotic.

I SIT in my hot little car in rush hour traffic, and think about the insanity of the past twenty-four hours. I’ve just signed a quicksand employment contract. A thousand dollars a month is such a paltry sum, yet it frightens me. It’s not a salary, but a loan, and I have no idea how Bruiser plans for me to immediately start generating fees. If I collect on the Black case, it’ll be many months away.

I’ll continue to work at Yogi’s for a while. Prince still pays me in cash—five bucks an hour plus dinner and a few beers.

There are firms in this town that expect their new associates
to wear nice suits every day, to drive a presentable vehicle, to live in a respectable house, even to hang out at the fashionable country clubs. Of course, they pay them a helluva lot more than Bruiser’s paying me, but they also weigh them down with a lot of unnecessary societal burdens.

Not me. Not my firm. I can wear anything, drive anything, hang out anywhere, and no one will ever say a word. In fact, I wonder what I’ll say the first time one of the guys in the office wants to dart across the street for a quick table dance or two.

Suddenly, I’m my own man. A wonderful feeling of independence comes over me as the traffic inches forward. I can survive! I’ll put in some hard time with Bruiser, and probably learn much more about law than I would with the boys in the buildings downtown. I’ll endure the snubs and quips and put-downs from others about working in such a seedy outfit. I can handle it. It’ll make me tough. I was a bit haughty not long ago when I was safe and secure with old Brodnax and Speer, and then with Lake, so I’ll eat a little crow.

It’s dark when I park at Greenway Plaza. Most of the cars are gone. Across the street, the bright lights of Club Amber have attracted the usual crowd of pickup trucks and corporate rental cars. The neon swirls around the roof of the entire building and illuminates the area.

The skin business has exploded in Memphis, and it’s difficult to explain. This is a very conservative town with lots of churches, the heart of the Bible Belt. The people who seek elective office here are quick to embrace strict moral standards, and they’re usually rewarded accordingly by the voters. I cannot imagine a candidate being soft on the skin trade and getting elected.

I watch a carload of businessmen unload and stagger into Club Amber. It’s an American with four of his Japanese
friends, no doubt about to top off a long day of deal-making with a few drinks and a pleasant review of the latest developments in American silicon.

The music is already loud. The parking lot is filling fast.

I walk quickly to the front door of the firm and unlock it. The offices are empty. Hell, they’re probably across the street. I got the distinct impression this afternoon that the firm of J. Lyman Stone is not a place for workaholics.

All the doors are closed and I presume locked. No one trusts anyone around here. I certainly plan to lock mine.

I’ll stay here for a few hours. I need to call Booker and update him on my latest adventures. We’ve been neglecting our studies for the bar exam. For three years we’ve been able to prod and motivate each other. The bar exam is looming like a date with a firing squad.

Sixteen

I
SURVIVE THE NIGHT WITHOUT AN ARREST, but with little sleep as well. At some point between five and six, I surrender to the muddled thoughts racing wildly through my mind, and get out of bed. I haven’t slept four hours in the last forty-eight.

The phone number is listed, and I punch the numbers at five minutes before six. I’m on my second cup of coffee. It rings ten times before a sleepy voice says, “Hello.”

“Barry Lancaster please,” I say.

“Speaking.”

“Barry, Rudy Baylor here.”

He clears his throat and I can see him lurching up from his bed. “What’s up?” he asks, his voice much sharper.

“Sorry to call so early, but I just wanted to mention a couple of things.”

“Like what?”

“Like the Blacks filed suit yesterday against Great Benefit. I’ll send you a copy as soon as you boys get yourselves a new officé. They’ve also signed a release, so you’ve been terminated. No need to worry about them again.”

“How’d you file suit?”

“That’s really none of your business.”

“The hell it’s not.”

“I’ll send a copy of the lawsuit, you’ll figure it out. You’re a bright guy. Do you have a new address yet, or does the old one still work?”

“Our box at the post office was not damaged.”

“Righto. Anyway, I’d appreciate it if you’d leave me out of this arson business. I had nothing to do with the fire, and if you insist on implicating me, then I’ll be forced to sue your thieving ass.”

“I’m petrified.”

“I can tell. Just stop throwing my name around.” I hang up before he can respond. I watch the phone for five minutes, but he doesn’t call. What a coward.

I’m very anxious to see how the fire plays in the morning paper, so I shower, dress and leave quickly under the cover of darkness. There’s little traffic as I head south toward the airport, toward Greenway Plaza, a place that’s beginning to feel like home. I park in the same spot I left seven hours ago. Club Amber is dark and quiet, the lot littered with trash and beer cans.

The slender bay next to the bay which I think houses my office is rented by a stocky German woman named Trudy who runs a cheap coffee shop. I met her last night when I walked over for a sandwich. She told me she opened at six for coffee and doughnuts.

She’s pouring coffee as I enter. We chat for a moment as she toasts my bagel and pours my coffee. There are already a dozen men cramped around the small tables, and Trudy has things on her mind. For starters, the doughnut man is late.

I get a paper and sit at a table by the window as the sun is rising. On the front page of the Metro section is a large photo of Mr. Lake’s warehouse in full blaze. A brief article
gives a history of the building, says that it was completely destroyed, and that Mr. Lake himself estimates the loss at three million dollars. “The renovation has been a five-year love affair,” he is quoted as saying. “I’m devastated.”

Weep some more, old boy. I scan it quickly and do not see the word “arson” used. Then I read it carefully. The police are tight-lipped—the matter still under investigation, too early to speculate, no comment. The usual cop-speak.

I didn’t expect to see my name kicked about as a possible suspect, but I’m relieved nonetheless.

I’M IN MY OFFICE, trying to seem busy and wondering how in the world I’m supposed to generate a thousand dollars in fees over the next thirty days, when Bruiser barges in. He slides a piece of paper across my desk. I grab it.

“It’s a copy of a police report,” he growls, already heading for the door.

“About me?” I ask, horrified.

“Hell no! It’s an accident report. Car wreck last night at the corner of Airways and Shelby, just a few blocks from here. Maybe a drunk driver involved. Looks like he ran a red light.” He pauses and glares at me.

“Do we represent one of the—”

“Not yet! That’s what you’re for. Go get the case. Check it out. Sign it up. Investigate it. Looks like there might be some good injuries.”

I’m thoroughly confused, and he leaves me that way. The door slams and I can hear him growling his way down the hall.

The accident report is filled with information: names of drivers and passengers, addresses, telephone numbers, injuries, damage to vehicles, eyewitness accounts. There’s a
diagram of how the cop thinks it happened, and another one showing how he found the vehicles. Both drivers were injured and taken to the hospital, and the one who ran the red light apparently had been drinking.

Interesting reading, but what do I do now? The wreck happened at ten minutes after ten last night, and Bruiser somehow got his grubby hands on it first thing this morning. I read it again, then stare at it for a long time.

A knock on the door jolts me from my confused state. “Come in,” I say.

It cracks slowly and a slight little man sticks his head through. “Rudy?” he says, his voice high and nervous.

“Yes, come in.”

He slides through the narrow gap and sort of sneaks to the chair across my desk. “I’m Deck Shifflet,” he says, sitting without offering a handshake or a smile. “Bruiser said you had a case you wanted to talk about.” He glances over his shoulder, as if someone may have entered the room behind him and is now listening.

“Nice to meet you,” I say. It’s hard to tell if Deck is forty or fifty. Most of his hair is gone, and the few remaining streaks are heavily oiled and slicked across his wide scalp. The patches around his ears are thin and mostly gray. He wears square, wire-rimmed glasses that are quite thick and dirty. It’s also difficult to tell if his head is extra large or his body is undersized, but the two don’t fit. His forehead is divided into two round halves that meet pretty much in the center, where a deep crease joins them then plummets to his nose.