by Randy Rawls
“It’s a date. By the way, you are single, aren’t you?”
That surprised her, but she fought it down. “Not that it’s any of your business, but yes I am.”
“Good. I don’t hang out in dives like Hank’s with married women. They deserve better.”
She slammed the phone down.
FIVE
Rubin and Bert Bernstein sat in Rubin’s study, each nursing an expensive single-malt Scotch, surrounded by the trappings of power and wealth. Ties were loose, but they still wore formal office attire.
Rubin set his glass on the side table, leaned back, and crossed his ankles, being careful not to scuff his shoes. “So, do you think Abby is up to it?”
Bert took a cocktail party sip of his drink, then replied, “If anyone can, she can. While his file says Jeffries has some issues with women—I didn’t give her that part—I can’t see any of our male associates being able to keep up with him. Abby is smart and ambitious. I suspect she’ll do almost anything to get inside his head.”
“Good. That’s what we need.” Rubin drained his glass. “Jeffries is a good man when we need him. Someone to unmask the deadbeats suing us. But, when he saved your daughter, he proved he’s efficient with the strong-arm stuff. We can’t let him go off on his own when the reputation of the firm could be at risk.” He paused and nodded toward the bar. “Another?”
“My drink is fine. When I told Pat you asked me to stop by, she made me promise I’d come home sober.” He chuckled. “She says we’re drinking buddies.”
Rubin’s face split into a smile. “Pat’s a fine woman with good instincts. An excellent choice on your part. Having a beautiful hostess by your side is always a plus.” Rising, he added, “That’s one of the reasons I picked your mother.” He walked to the bar, mixed a fresh drink, then returned to his chair, a sad look covering his face. “May she rest in peace.”
“You miss her, don’t you?”
“Every minute of every day. She was my ambition, the driving force behind me.” Rubin stared into space.
Bert squirmed in his chair. “Father, I know we’ve talked about this, but I’m just not sure about what we’re doing. We’re taking two loyal employees—”
“One of the things that makes you such a good courtroom lawyer and such an incompetent boardroom lawyer is your compassion. Juries see it and want to agree with you. Sharks see it and know they can take a bite. You must accept that, for us, Jeffries is an investigative tool, nothing more. But, as an employee, he’s in a position to hurt us. Anything that brings embarrassment to the firm can cost us clients. And I will never tolerate that.” He paused and sipped his drink. “I told your mother she was too easy on you. Funny how she drove me and pampered you.”
“But what about Abby?”
“Expendable.” Rubin held his drink up to the light. “We select associates for only one reason—to strengthen the practice. They’re like this fine scotch. It exists to please my palate. However, it can’t do that unless I drink it. Miss Archer is a fine lawyer, and I would hate to lose her. If Jeffries is involved in something that might affect us adversely, Ms. Archer will earn a promotion, or a large severance fee. Her talent, charm, and flexibility will decide which it is.”
“But what if she can’t control Jeffries? Suppose no one can? Is it fair to fire her when she’s done her best?”
Rubin fixed his son with a stare. “Best is not good enough unless it wins. Losing is not an option.” He leaned forward, his arms on his thighs. “You’re in line to take over the most powerful law firm in South Florida. You know we have plans to spin out a criminal defense branch. If Abby comes through, I have my eye on her for a junior partnership on the criminal side. Her courtroom talents will stand her in good stead as she defends high-dollar felons.”
He sipped his drink while Bert looked uncomfortable. Rubin let out a contented sigh. “You know our office motto, the one Goldsmith and I pass back and forth each birthday—an attorney who represents himself has a sucker for a client. Well, it could be, an attorney who considers people before his practice will soon have no practice. At the risk of repeating myself, losing is not an option. I know Abby is your wife’s friend, but that has nothing to do with the firm.” He smiled and leaned back. “There’s a bright side. Abby has intelligence, looks, and talent going for her. She’s a woman with all the right equipment. If she knows how to use it, she may pull it off—if there’s anything to do. We don’t know yet that Jeffries is a threat.”
* * * *
Tom hung up the phone, a grin on his face. So, Miss Hoity-Toity wanted to know what he was doing. Well, no way she’d find out, but he could have fun with her. He pictured her comfort level at Hank’s. She was a well-stacked package. If she wore anything less than a muumuu, every guy in the joint would be sizing her up, and some would vocalize what they thought. It should give her a taste of the real world and make for an interesting evening.
During his conversation with Abby, he’d walked into the living room and sat in his favorite recliner. Now, he moved back into the kitchen where the yellow pages lay open to the Publix listings.
Finding the number again, he punched it into his cordless phone. When a voice answered, he said, “Hi. Can you tell me if Johnny Crayson is working this evening?” He slurred the last name a bit, but from the trilogy of Crayson, Drayson, Grayson, he opted for Crayson. No particular reason, but he had to start somewhere. Alphabetical order was as good as anything.
“Who’s calling, please?”
“His cousin. I told him if I ever got this far south, I’d swing by.” Without giving her a chance to think, he went on, “It’s been awhile since I’ve seen him. Is he there?”
There was a slight hesitation before the young woman said, “No. He’s not working tonight.”
“Oh.” Tom injected disappointment into his voice. “I hoped to catch him. Do you happen to know his home address and phone number? I took off without them.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t have access to those records.” She paused, then said in a helpful tone, “If you come by in the morning, maybe the day shift can tell you. They can get into the personnel files. Or, he may be working tomorrow. I simply don’t know.”
“Thank you.” Tom dribbled charm through the line. “That’s an excellent idea.”
He hung up. “Okay, that didn’t work, but I’ll find him tomorrow. He’s not going anywhere and, in the meantime, I can entertain Miss Stuck-Up. Let’s see. How long should I let her wait? The boys at Hank’s will love it.”
* * * *
At eight-fifteen, Tom strolled into Hank’s, taking his time as if he had nothing in the world to do. Abby sat at the bar dressed in a sweat suit. As usual, the TV’s blared, each one tuned to a different game or group of sports-talking heads. The barflies and the grime on the floor and walls were pretty much the same as every other night. However, the bar and the glasses were clean. Tom was smart enough not to inspect the kitchen.
Abby had attracted the attention of several of the patrons whose apparent hobby was to hit on any woman who entered the place. Her discomfort level was obvious.
Tom watched for a couple of minutes, enjoying the scene. Time to ride in for the rescue. Let her know who was boss in the duo. He walked to where she sat and rested his hand in the middle of her back. “Sorry, guys. Bad choice. She’s with me.”
She spun and her mouth opened, but one of the lover-boys, who obviously pumped iron and was proud of it, said, “Drift, creep. The lady prefers—”
He swallowed the rest of whatever he planned to say because Tom had a handful of his shirt jammed tight under his chin. “Don’t make me have to hurt you, boy,” Tom said, enunciating each word. “Go home to your mama while you can.”
The menace in Tom’s voice quieted everyone within earshot. They stared at Tom’s victim as if waiting for his reaction. The rest of the bar quieted in a wave of shushing as the word spread from table to table. The TVs continued to blare, their noise sounding louder in the silenc
e.
Tom released him with a small shove, balancing himself on the balls of his feet, feet shoulder width apart. His stance said make your play.
Lover-boy took a deep breath, putting a strain on the fabric of his shirt, then gave it up, turned, and walked away, mumbling, “Another day, hot shot.”
There was an audible release of breaths throughout the bar as the bartender said, “Jeffries, you gotta stop that shit. Bad for my business. Plus, one night somebody’s gonna call your bluff, and I’ll have cops all over the place. More bad for business.”
“Hank,” Tom said, addressing the bartender, but watching lover-boy. “I never bluff. He was smart enough to realize it. Give him a beer on me.”
The crowd around Abby had vanished. Her head swiveled, stopping on Tom. “Is this when the grateful damsel in distress, saved by the white knight, is supposed to swoon?” She raised the back of her hand to her forehead in a bad dramatic gesture. “Oh, my hero.” She brought the hand down, slapping the bar. “Forget it, asshole. I won’t play Guenevere to your Lancelot. You wasted your show of bravado.” She took a long pull on her beer. “Now let’s get a booth, eat a damn greasy burger, and talk about why you need me.”
Hank chuckled. “Sounds like you met your match, Jeffries. Do like the lady says. I’ll bring the beer.”
Tom laughed. “I like ’em when they talk tough. Back corner, Hank. The boys there are just leaving.”
He took Abby’s elbow and steered her to the booth in the darkest and most private area of the bar. It also happened to have the only non-blaring TV above it—because it was broken.
When he stopped at the table, the guys occupying it looked up. “Yeah, what can we do for you?” the biggest said. “Your little act at the bar didn’t impress us. Anyone can play bad-man with a kid like him.”
Tom opened his mouth, but Abby cut in. “This one’s on me.” She addressed herself to the three guys in the booth. “My man and I got some cuddling to do. Finish your beers and move on—fast.”
“You stupid bitch,” the first speaker said, rising. His head snapped backward as he recoiled from the double slap Abby gave him. Showing no grace, he dropped onto the seat.
“Watch your mouth,” Abby said. “Not that you’d recognize it, but there’s a lady present.” She stared at each of them in turn. “Any other comments?” Abby waited. “Good. And before you make any more mistakes, you oughta know my main man here is nastier than I am, ain’t ya, honey?” She punched him on the shoulder. “Gotcha knife, don’cha?”
Tom swallowed a smile. “I’d do what she says. There are times we have to go all night before she calms down enough to sleep. She’s one mighty high-edged woman.”
He ignored the glare Abby gave him as the three patrons worked their way out of the booth. The one Abby hit gave them plenty of room as he walked away.
“Is this where you wanted to sit?” Abby said in a sweet voice, sliding in. “Have a seat…on the other side. And while you could be right, you’ll never have the pleasure of seeing me glow.”
Tom watched the three previous table-sitters as they approached the bar. Soon, everyone near them stared in Abby’s direction. “Shit, girl. You’re ruining my image of you. I thought you were just a frilly debutante. Now, I’m thinking you might be worth putting some effort into.”
“Don’t bother with the crap,” she said. “That was to let you know I can be as big an asshole as you. Chalk it up to been there, done that, hate the T-shirt. So if you have any ideas, know I can snap you in half.”
Tom guffawed. “Hank. Hurry with those beers. This lady needs something to cool her down.”
Hank set two bottles on the table. “Can I hope you won’t make this your nightly hangout? Them was three of my best customers you just chased out of here. And them guys at the bar paid up and left. They come here to hide from their ol’ ladies, and get some peace and quiet. This is all they got.” He scowled at Abby. “I bet they’d rather face their wives than go up agin you agin.”
Abby gave him an I’m sorry smile. “I got carried away. Must be all you macho guys. Bring me a medium-rare burger with the works and onion rings. I’ll behave myself and make sure my protector leaves you a big tip.”
Hank laughed and over his shoulder as he walked away, said, “I’m hoping so—both counts.”
Abby looked around the bar. “Not a bad joint. And you’re right about one thing. It’s so noisy we have total privacy.” She sipped. “The beer is cold. If the burgers are as juicy as you say, I could learn to like it here.”
“Don’t you dare. I’d have to move on—or make some moves on you.”
“Suit yourself. I’m sure I won’t be the first to ignore your advances. You look like you sleep alone most of the time. But while the kitchen does its thing, let’s get started.” She pulled a steno pad from her purse. “What’s the deal you’re into?”
“Just like that? You think I’m going to lay out my life? Not a chance, chicky. We’re here so I can tell you to butt out. I don’t need a lawyer, and, in spite of what you might think, don’t find you interesting as a woman. So there’s no need for you to hang around.” He smiled. “However, we can enjoy the ambiance and pretend we’re friends tonight. Then you go back to your upscale life, and I’ll continue to roll in the gutter. Tomorrow, you report to Bert that I’m impossible to deal with, and you find me repugnant. If you like, I’ll tell him the same thing. That way neither he nor his old man can blame you.”
Abby leaned back in the booth. “You really are a piece of work. And repugnant is a good descriptor. Do you know what it means? But I’ve handled harder cases than you. You’ll learn to get along, and I’ll do my job.”
“Lady, you ever seen a dead body up close and personal?”
Without a flinch, Abby said, “Yeah. Have you?”
Tom started, but recovered. “I don’t mean some morgue shot in one of your malpractice cases. I mean fresh ones scattered around like so many leaves from a tree—blood and body parts everywhere.”
“Many. And I didn’t pitch my guts over a single one of them. What’s it to you?”
Tom stared at her. “Okay, there’s something here I don’t know. The way you cleared this table. Your tough talk. I’ve seen enough to know when it’s real and when it’s not. You’re the genuine article. You’ve been there before. What’s your background?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I grew up with five older brothers. They were in my face all the time. Then I worked my way through college as a cocktail waitress before going in the Army. I’m betting you’re the type that thinks every cocktail waitress wants to hop in bed with him—not true. Then I did six years with two tours in Iraq—convoy commander. And buster, you might think Special Forces is tough, but try taking a fleet of unarmored eighteen wheelers through Baghdad. You’d come out—if you made it through—with your suntan paled to a light yellow. Anything else you need to know? If so, I’ll send you a résumé.”
Tom leaned against the seatback, studying her. More woman than he’d anticipated. Maybe he’d been wrong. This one might be worth the effort.
“Food’s up,” Hank said, sliding it onto the table. “Looks like you’re ready for another round—ah…beer, I mean.”
* * * *
Abby bit into her cheeseburger. Knowing Jeffries watched, she let a dribble of juice work its way out from the corner of her mouth and slide downward. She ignored it while she chewed, swallowed, and took a swig of her beer. Setting the bottle down, she ran the back of her hand across her chin. If he wanted to play hard case, she’d show him she knew the game. The important thing was to keep the Bernsteins happy. That’s where her fortune lay, and she wouldn’t forget it. She wanted a partnership, and if it meant putting up with a boor like Jeffries, she’d do it.
Over another bite, she eyed him. She had to admit he filled his clothes well and had a natural, rugged look. On him, jeans and a polo shirt with a Western hat were a fashion statement, casting a manly aura. All he needed was a whit
e stallion to complete the image, and it wouldn’t surprise her if he had one at home. She mentally shook her head. That didn’t change the fact he was a horse’s ass and her path to a better position with BGE&B.
As she finished her onion rings, Hank brought another round of beer. “Glad you two lovebirds quieted down. You’re the topic of the night at the bar. Don’t give ’em anything else, okay?”
“We’ll be good,” Abby said. “Or at least, I will. I can’t speak for my Neanderthal friend. I have a hunch he enjoys being contrary.”
“Hey, not true,” Tom said. “Nothing I like more than a peaceful evening with a lady, sharing a couple of beers. Maybe I’ll find one tomorrow night.”
Hank walked away, shaking his head.
“Can we talk?” Abby asked.
“That famous question.” Tom sneered. “Must be in a woman’s genes. Sure. Pick a subject, any subject, as long as it’s not my business. I enjoy a good conversation.”
“Look, I’m not here to argue with you. If you won’t talk to me, I’ll just come up with another way to do my job. But rest assured, as long as the Bersteins keep me assigned to you, I’ll be there when you need a lawyer.” She smirked. “And from what I’ve seen, I’m convinced you will need one.” She threw her business card on the table and slid out of the booth. “Oh. Thanks for dinner. You were right about the food.”
* * * *
Tom watched her walk away, her hips in a delightful sway, a smile twitching the edges of his mouth. Quite a woman. Maybe when this was all over… Nah, by then, she’d be his bitter enemy. After finishing his beer, he walked to the bar. “Hank, got a tab for me? Seems I’ve been stiffed again.”
Hank laughed as he printed out the bill. “Could it be your pussy cat personality? She probably likes ’em a little rougher and tougher.”
“Careful,” Tom said, sliding his credit card across the bar. “I could come back tomorrow night.”
