by Kim Hamilton
Since I hadn’t heard from Ms. Trudy about her toilet-related injury, I called Mrs. Bianco to see if she’d had a chance to talk to Trudy’s mother.
“I’m seeing her today at the community center for bridge. It’s championship day. There’s fifty dollars at stake.”
I thanked her for her help and wished her luck.
Next on my agenda was ordering Marshall’s medical records. He had been treated and driven to the hospital by ambulance and had a couple of follow-ups with his primary-care doctor. I sent requests for records to all them via fax, email, and certified mail. Having now covered all the bases from my end, it was a waiting game at this point. I could hear from one or all of the defendants within hours, days, or even a week. Everyone played the game differently.
#
That evening, Mrs. Bianco was sharing her porch and her port with two women I didn’t recognize.
“Jessica, come join us. This is Theresa and her daughter Trudy. Remember we talked about Trudy’s accident?”
This was great news. My second toilet-explosion case. I’d soon be the local expert.
“Hello. I’m so sorry to hear about your accident, Trudy. How’re you feeling?”
Trudy was no taller than five feet and weighed about 200 pounds. She was round. She had a small cast covering her left wrist that wrapped around the lower part of her hand and thumb. I guessed it was difficult for her to sit because she remained standing while the other two were seated.
“It’s getting a little better each day. It still hurts to sit down.” She shifted on her feet and winced at the effort.
I remained standing in deference to her delicate condition. “I have a client who had a similar accident. He has a large abrasion on his torso that we assume was caused by flying porcelain. How did your accident happen?”
“Same thing, I guess. I had cleaned the bathroom, scrubbed the toilet and all. I gave it a flush and started walking out. That’s when I heard the explosion and felt the pain, you know, back there.” She gestured toward her prodigious posterior.
“And how long ago did this happen?”
“It was Saturday. This past Saturday.”
“Did you take pictures of the damage?”
“No! That would be so embarrassing.” She poured another dose of port into her cup.
“I mean the damage to the toilet and your bathroom.”
“I took some pictures with my cellular phone,” her mother said. She reached into her bag and pulled out a smartphone. She showed me several photos. The porcelain carnage was similar to what I had seen in Marshall Ball’s bathroom. I used the phone to email the photos to myself and returned it to Theresa.
My attention returned to Trudy. I went to stand by her, patted her on the shoulder, and said, “That must have been a terrifying experience.”
“It sure was.” She sipped her port. “There’s no bigger humiliation than getting a butt wound when you got a butt the size of mine.”
“You got a nice butt,” Mrs. Bianco said. “It’s a Kim Kardashian butt. People pay money for a butt like that.”
I was surprised that Mrs. B knew of Kim Kardashian and further surprised that she knew big butts were in vogue.
“Yeah, but now I’ll have a big fat scar on my big fat butt.” She emptied her glass for the second time since I arrived.
“I know this will make you uncomfortable, but I’m going to need to get a picture of your wound.”
By now the booze must have kicked in because, after a brief pause, she said, “Oh what the hell.” She turned her back to me, lifted her skirt, and pulled down her granny panties. As I fumbled for my phone, Trudy fell headfirst into Mrs. Bianco’s plentiful basil pot and rolled to her side with her bandaged butt exposed. Theresa bounced over and removed the gauze bandage that protected the wound. I angled in for a few more shots. Trudy mumbled something, made a brief attempt to rise, then settled back down to the floor.
“I suppose it wasn’t a good idea to mix the painkillers with the port,” her mother said.
Mrs. Bianco hustled over with a pillow and tucked it under Trudy’s head. Theresa replaced the gauze dressing and adjusted Trudy’s skirt to cover her backside. She needed to sleep off the alcohol, but I needed a signed retainer agreement.
“How about I order us some pizza while we wait for Trudy to wake up?”
Mrs. Bianco and Theresa agreed. I jumped over the railing to my house and returned with a bed sheet to cover the prone Trudy, the pizza shop menu, blank retainer form, and a pen.
Trudy awoke an hour later as we were finishing up our meal. Mrs. Bianco went to get her some coffee and I served her up a couple of slices of pepperoni. We all had some nice girl talk and Trudy signed the retainer agreement.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The morning crawled by as we waited for the allotted time to pull off our ambush at the House of Hair. It was hard to concentrate on work. I reviewed a few files but spent most of the time shopping online.
Kari and I swung by to pick up Mrs. Bianco around one thirty. We parked down the street from the salon. Franco and Mrs. B had two o’clock pedicure appointments, but we wanted him seated and captive before she arrived.
Mrs. B was thrilled to be part of this plan. “Are you sure you don’t want me to wear a wire?”
“I’m sure. Plus, I don’t have a wire.”
She sighed and pulled her cell phone from her purse. It was an old flip phone.
Kari winced when she saw it. “That’s your phone? My toaster’s smaller than that.”
“It’s good phone. I have Cecelia on speed dial. I can bring in the heat if Franco give me hard time.”
I hoped she left her gun at home.
Franco’s town car parked across the street from the House of Hair. “There he is.” His personal security detail was not with him today. He stepped from the car and took a look up and down the street. He removed his suit jacket and placed it in the back seat. He took one last look around before entering the House of Hair.
Mrs. Bianco shoved her phone back in her purse and reached for the door. “Time to go.”
“We’ll be there in five minutes,” I said. She marched toward the salon with stoic determination. My plan was underway.
I used the timer feature on my cell phone to pace out the five minutes. “I’m nervous. What if this doesn’t work? I’m all out of ideas.”
“This plan is rock solid. Don’t you be over thinking it. It’s all gonna fall right into place. We got karma on our side. We do good by people and good things happen to us. Mrs. B’s got this one in the bag.”
Upon entering the salon, I was greeted by Paulette. I kept my eyes on her, avoiding looking to the right where I knew Franco and Mrs. B were seated. As rehearsed, Paulette greeted me in a voice that carried throughout the salon. “Jess, your appointment isn’t until next week.”
“I know. I’m here to pick up Mrs. Bianco. I’m taking her to lunch.”
“Over here, Jessica.” Mrs. Bianco waved at me. I walked over with my practiced, polite business smile, Kari at my side.
“Look who’s here.” Mrs. Bianco gestured toward Franco.
I nodded in recognition. “Mr. Giovanni.”
He returned the nod. “Ms. Snow.”
Mrs. Bianco smiled. “You two have case together, no? With that nice dancer fellow? How’s that going?”
I turned toward Franco. He was pretending to be engrossed with the screen on his cell phone and remained silent.
“We seem to have reached a snag.” He still had his face in his phone, ignoring us.
“Franco!” Mrs. B said. “Put that phone down. I know your mother taught you better manners than to play with your cell phone in the middle of a conversation.”
He cringed like a chastised teenager, closed the phone, and placed it on the molded plastic tray table next to him. “I’m sorry.”
“Now that’s better,” Mrs. Bianco said. “Jess was about to tell me what you did for that poor young man who got hurt in your store
.” She looked at me.
“I think Mr. Giovanni should address that.”
She smiled and turned toward him. “Tell me, Franco.”
He shot daggers at me. I gave him a quizzical look and a full-body shrug.
“You see, Mrs. Bianco, the situation is not as simple as it seems.”
“What do you mean? Jess, what’s he talking about? I thought you told me that the nice young man slipped on water at Mr. Giovanni’s store. Isn’t that what happened?”
“That’s exactly what happened, but none of the witnesses will talk about it. They’re all his employees. Kari and I are the only non-employees who witnessed the accident. Mr. Giovanni has declined payment.”
Franco was trying to disappear into the pedicure chair, but he couldn’t go anywhere. He had one foot in the soaking tub and the other in the clutches of Ming Le, who understood enough English to know Franco was being a bully.
“Franco Benito Mauralis Giovanni! Is this true?”
He refused eye contact and stared at his feet, wincing at Ming Le’s indelicate handling of his foot care.
“Yes. It’s true. But its business, you see. It’s not personal.”
“Does your mother know about this?”
These were the six words Franco Giovanni did not want to hear. He flinched. “I don’t discuss my business with her.”
“I know she raised you better than to take advantage of people. She will not like to hear about this.”
Franco’s complexion paled. “You’re not going to tell her are you?”
She pulled out her toaster-sized cell phone. “I’ve got her on speed dial.” She held her finger over the “send” button.
“Okay, okay. Don’t call my mother. We’ll work something out.”
Mrs. Bianco put the phone away. Ming Le loosened her grasp on Franco’s left foot. I exhaled, not realizing that I had been holding my breath.
“You promise you won’t tell momma?”
“You pay Jess the money, I won’t tell your momma.”
The color returned to Franco’s face. His composure restored, he locked eyes with me. “Well played, Ms. Snow.” Then his stern mouth loosened into a grin. “Well played.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now let’s discuss dollars.”
“Before we get into those details, we must agree that there can be no record of this. There will be no signed release, no waiver, nothing. You destroy your file.”
I agreed.
“I’ll give your client $15,000. Like I offered in the hospital. We will not discuss his lost wages because I happen to know he was not scheduled to work until the following weekend.”
“How do you know his work schedule?”
“I just know. Plus, I will give you $5,000 cash for your time and... well, let’s call it your inconvenience.”
I hadn’t expected the additional $5,000. It felt a little dirty. In the strictest sense of the word, I had blackmailed this guy. My conscience was saying, Don’t take the money. But all my recent legal training was saying, Take the money! Take the money!
“You’ve got a deal.” I stepped up to his elevated chair and shook his hand. “You’re paying $20,000 in cash, $5,000 of which is my fee. Nobody speaks of this deal, ever, and there is no signed agreement, just our mutual understanding.”
“And Mrs. Bianco never speaks to my mom about this.”
Mrs. Bianco made a zipper gesture across her lips. “Never.”
I had struck a deal with the mob. My mother was never going to hear about this.
After we dropped Mrs. Bianco off at home, Kari and I headed back to the office. I called Tony along the way and relayed the good news.
“Well that was easy,” he said.
#
I rushed home to get ready for my date with Mark. First-date stress often kicks in while trying to decide what to wear. Since we were going to be outdoors in the August heat, I was limited to short sleeves or sleeveless top and shorts, but not too short. We’d be sitting in stadium seats and I wanted to avoid upper thigh spread. I settled on a black V-neck, fitted tee and tan Bermuda shorts. The shorts had roomy pockets for my phone, some cash, and my ID. I wore my hair down but wrapped a tie around my wrist in case the heat forced me to pull it up off my neck and shoulders. After swiping on some mascara, I was ready to go. I grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and waited on the front porch for Mark.
Mrs. Bianco worked on a crossword as she swayed on her glider.
“I’ve got a date tonight, Mrs. B.”
She looked at me with a hopeful smile. When she took in my outfit, her mouth turned downward. “You’re not wearing that are you?”
“Yeah. We’re going to the Orioles game.”
“Is it that nice fireman from the other night?”
“Yup. Here he is now.” Mark pulled up and double-parked in front of my house. I bounded down the stairs. He got out and came around, opened the passenger door for me, and gave Mrs. Bianco a friendly wave. He was driving a monstrous Dodge Ram pickup. I needed both hands to pull myself up into the cabin.
I settled in, buckled up, and watched Mark do the same. This was the first time I’d seen him in street clothes. He wore a black pocket T-shirt that hugged his muscular chest and arms. It was tucked into tan cargo shorts. This is when I realize that we were wearing identical outfits. He must have seen the look on my face as he took his place behind the wheel.
“Is something wrong?”
“Look at us. We look like twins!”
He eyed my outfit as he put the car in gear. “You look great.”
“Thank you, but we look ridiculous.”
“No one’s going to notice. Half the stadium will be wearing black or orange.”
I wanted to ask him to turn the car around so I could change, but I didn’t want to appear petty. Instead, I did something I know men are suckers for—I complimented his vehicle. “This is nice.” I rubbed the leather seat between us. “But why didn’t you get the bigger model?”
He responded with a quick laugh. “My buddy Kyle and I have a side business. We buy old homes, fix them up, and sell them. I keep equipment and materials in the back.”
“When do you find time for that?”
“We work the same shifts each week at the station We focus our off days on our houses.”
His work ethic impressed me. We talked about his current project—a home on a popular street in Hamden that had been abandoned for four years and neglected for several years prior.
Pedestrians and lazy drivers mucked up the flow of traffic as we got closer to the stadium. Mark didn’t seem to notice. He maneuvered his truck around them with impressive calm until he slammed the brakes at the intersection of Conway and Sharp. Our bodies lurched forward, catching on the shoulder harnesses. At the same time, there was a thump on the driver’s side front. With halted breath and wide eyes, we watched a woman do a slow roll off the side of the truck and sink to the street.
Mark threw the car in park and jumped out to check on the fallen woman. I followed. She was on her back, holding her right knee and mouthing profanities. “You son of a bitch with your big ass truck. You hit me. I think something’s broken. I need an ambulance. I need my lawyer.”
It was Melinda.
The harsh reality of my profession punched me in the gut. Having witnessed her scam, there was no denying that hustlers like her would continue to find their way to my office hoping for easy money. But I had the power to turn them away.
“You don’t need a lawyer, Melinda. You need a conscience.”
She looked up at me. “Ms. Snow? That you? How’d you get here so fast?”
I pointed to the truck. “I was in the front seat of the truck you just walked into.”
Mark gave me a surprised look. “You know her?”
“I’ll explain later,” I told him. To Melinda, I said, “I know what you’re up to and I want nothing further to do with you.”
“Oh,” she said, breaking eye contact wi
th me and rising to her feet. “You know what, I think I’m okay after all.” She brushed herself off and patted her hair back into place. “Yup, I’m good. Thanks for your time.” She made a quick turn and shuffled away.
Without a word, Mark and I hustled back into the truck.
“How did you know she wasn’t hurt?”
I explained my recent discovery of Melinda’s tendency to walk into cars so she could make some easy cash.
His soft laugh put me at ease. “That’s quite a job you have. You must get all kinds of crazies.”
“You have no idea.”
Dempsey’s Brew Pub is built into the iconic warehouse building. It occupies a prime space inside the ballpark. Mark had made a reservation. We were seated at a high-top table right away. We ordered Rain Delay IPAs, one of Dempsey’s home brewed beers. The server walked away, and a beautiful blonde stepped up to Mark.
“Hey, Mark.” Her shorts were short, revealing long, lean, muscled legs. A capped-sleeved T-shirt stopped a few inches short of the silver stud in her belly button. Her cavernous cleavage beaconed attention, but Mark’s eyes didn’t fall there. He looked from her eyes to mine, then back to her.
“I haven’t seen you around the Power Plant lately,” she said. With each word, she seesawed her shoulders. Mark inched away. I was pleased to see that his expression showed polite disinterest.
“No, you haven’t.”
Maintaining her close proximity, she looked at me and said, “Who’re you?”
Indifference having failed, Mark switched his dial to measured, courteous scolding. “Melanie, this is Jess. Jess and I were having a private conversation. I’m sure you understand.” She took a step back, and Mark turned his whole body as far sideways as his chair would permit. She reacted with a shrug of her shoulders, headed off to a table occupied by two men, and shimmied her T-shirt at them. I looked at Mark. His eyes asked me if she was gone yet.
“She’s gone,” I said. “Old girlfriend?” I kept my tone casual, but a jealous pang sat just under the surface.
“Old something, but not girlfriend. I know I may have seemed rude to her, but trust me, she doesn’t understand subtle.”
