by Dee Dawning
Julius shook his head in earnest. "No, we don't want to do that. For obvious reasons, my client doesn't want Max to go to prison."
My brow rose. "I'll bite. It's not so obvious to me."
He sighed. "She doesn't want the father of her children to be a felon. Do you have a lawyer you could consult?"
"Not for anything like this."
Julius raised his hand, his forefinger extended. "I have a couple of lawyer friends. Let me make a call."
"By all means."
He cast a perfunctory smile and dialed. "Oh, hi, Zeke. It's Julie."
After chuckling at whatever Zeke said, he went on. "What was the name of that divorce lawyer you called an African American nightmare the other night, at the roast for Jimmy G?"
"Spell that for me." He began writing on a tablet. "Got it. Thanks, pal. I'll see you at the poker game Tuesday."
He ripped the top page off and handed it to me.
I read it. "Letta Storm." I glanced up at him. "A woman?"
"Uh-huh, and a very good barrister according to Zeke."
"I'm confused, is she a friend of Zeke's?"
Julius snickered. "God no! Zeke hates her guts. She made him look like an idiot in a nasty divorce case, a month ago and he wasn't the first one she's made a fool of. If anyone can help you out of this mess, it's her."
"She sounds like my girl. How do I get a hold of her?"
Palms up, arms extended, he shrugged. "Beats me."
I got home around one-thirty. I tried and failed to find Letta Storm in any of the phone books. Frustrated, hurt and angry, I snatched a glass from the cupboard and opened the door of our small liquor collection. Not much of a drinker, I selected a liqueur I was familiar with—crème de cocoa and poured a couple ounces in a short tumbler, then headed back into to the family room.
Sitting on the couch, I took a sip of the chocolaty liqueur. the friendly warmth in my stomach was welcome. Perplexed, I didn't have the slightest idea of what to do.
After another sip, I turned on the TV, settling on one of the ubiquitous, inane, afternoon talk shows. I Lifted my glass for another sip, and realized, I'd emptied it. I was slowly getting angry and fought off an urge to shatter the glass against the wall in favor of filling it to the top.
With my newly filled glass, I headed to my home-office to check the emails on my computer. I was surprised to see Max had emailed me not thirty minutes previous.
The coward couldn't even call.
With shaking fingers, I opened his email.
Dearest Jamilla,
I was shocked by your message. I tried to call you back, but the signal was compromised, so I'm emailing you as the fastest way to get in touch with you.
I can't believe Jeanette did that. Yes, I was married to her. I told you I got divorced. I will explain everything when I get back.
I miss you terribly. I thought I would be able to return next week, but the Emir of Dubai wants to see me about investing in my company, and possibly building a wind farm in the deserts of Saudi Arabia, so it will be a while longer.
Don't worry, I will let you know. In the meantime, don't do anything rash. It could compromise the business and my ability to pay our loan off.
I love you and dream of making love to you hourly.
Max
I may have been naïve enough to marry Max, but I wasn't naïve enough to believe this crap. Printing a copy of the email, I was now even more determined to get in touch with Letta Storm, so I tried googling her and came across her bare bones web site asking the reader to complete a form and send. Finally, I had a way to get ahold of her. I celebrated by refilling my glass. I was about to fill-out Letta Storm's form, when the doorbell rang. Who, the eff, could that be?
Chapter Two – Sal
Thrilled to see Sal, I opened the door and invited him in, "Come in, please."
"What brings you here?"
He knew I needed a friend…and a drink. As he stepped in, he pulled two bottles of my favorite wine out of the bag he held. "I'm here to find out what's happening. How could you get a call from Max's wife when you are his wife?"
I shook my head and shrugged. "Apparently Max doesn't play by the rules. Have a seat. I'll pour us some wine and explain what I know."
Once we were comfy on the couch I spoke, "Sal. I'm in deep trouble. Apparently, I married a man, who lives off women. Wife number one threw him out six months ago after he'd sponged off her for four years. Then he found me. The only difference is, she could afford to have him sponging off her, I can't."
He swallowed his wine in one gulp. "Honey, what're you saying?"
I felt tears welling in my eyes. "I'm saying I could lose everything I've got. Everything I've worked for the last five years."
Sal's busy eyebrows dipped low and his nostrils flared. "Just divorce the son-of-a-bitch and be done with him."
I set my goblet down and shook my head. "I wish it were that that simple. I not only married him, I got a loan for him."
Staring, he sidled over to me, and wrapped his arm around my shoulder. "Princess, I love you like a sister. I have money saved. If you need it, it's all yours."
What a sweet man he was, offering me his life savings. Why couldn't Max be like Salvatore? "Thanks Sal, but I couldn't."
He shrugged. "If you need it, it's yours. I can always make more."
"Right now, what I need is a good lawyer."
He pulled me close in a sideways hug. "We'll beat this thing. My sister-in-law's sister was married to a bastard and swears by her lawyer."
A glimmer of hope seeped into my mind. "Who is it?"
"I'm not sure. She's some black woman with red hair. I'll call my brother and ask him."
Sal called his brother, Carlo who asked his wife Marcy, who didn't know either. She gave Carmelita's number to Carlo who gave it to Sal, who then called Carmelita, who didn't speak English well. And Sal, a second generation American of Italian decent, didn't speak Spanish, hardly at all.
We finished two glasses of wine during the ten-minute conversation in bastardized Italio/Spanish.
I understood practically nothing.
He hung up and smiled at me. "Her name is Letta Storm."
A wave of excitement coursed through me. Bouncing up and down on the cushion, I blurted, "That's her! Someone else recommended her. Did you get her phone number?"
He head turned from side to side. "Carmelita didn't have it, but she said she was mucho grande. Her lawyer gave her ex-husband so much grief, he moved back to Mexico."
I scratched my head. "How do I get ahold of her?"
"She said information has her number."
"Oh, good." I picked up my cell phone and punched in 411. I nodded at Sal when the computerized voice read off a number and said, "I will connect you now."
The phone rang six times, and a recording came on. "Hello, this is Letta Storm, Attorney at Law. Please leave your name, reason for calling, a phone number and if you have one, an email address. Or if you prefer, you may write me at perfectstorm (one word) at lstorm dot com. I will respond within twenty-four hours."
I chuckled. Perfect Storm. I like that. "Hello, Ms Storm. My name is Jamilla Turner Randle. I need a miracle and a good attorney. You came highly recommended from two sources, so I would love to meet with you and discuss my situation. I will also fill out and send the form on your website. My phone number is 213-555-2323. Please call or write as soon as you can."
Shortly after I left the message for Letta Storm, Sal said, "I'm sorry to leave you like this, but only Raul is at the restaurant and I need to get back to prepare for the dinner rush. We hugged and cheek kissed. He said, "Call if you need anything," and then left.
* * * *
Still parked across the street from Jamilla's house, Sal pulled his cell phone out and called his cousin Tony.
"Hello?"
"Tony, it's Sal."
"Hi Sal. What can I do for you?"
"It's not what you can do for me. It's what I can do for you."
"Jamilla, remember her."
"Oh, yeah. What about her?"
"I just left her. I'm not sure of the details, but she told me her marriage is unraveling. This could be your chance, cuz."
"Fantastic, back to plan one."
"She's put on a few pounds. Does that matter?"
"Naw. Just figure out a way I can meet her and I'll take it from there."
"What about the barbeque I'm having Saturday night?"
"Is she coming?"
"Not yet, but she and I are tight. I'll get her there."
"Thanks, Sal. I owe you one."
"If you get anywhere. Just be nice to her. That's all I ask."
* * * *
I hadn't had any lunch and my stomach let me know by turning into knots. It was only a quarter after three, so I plucked a skimpy lean cuisine dinner—barely a snack in my opinion—from the frozen wastelands of my freezer and shoved it into the microwave.
I took my snack/dinner—yum-yum—to my study and booted up my computer. I intended to fill out the form on the mysterious Letta—perfect—Storm's website, when my cell phone rang. An electronic voice instructed me, "Check your email," followed by a dial tone. I clicked on my email bookmark and discovered an email from [email protected].
Dear Mrs. Turner Randle,
For me to consider your case, you must provide the following information so I can perform a preliminary check on you.
Please furnish your full name, date of birth, social security number, last school you attended, and the grade you attained. If you will, I also would like the same information on your husband plus his title/occupation and the name of the attorney representing him.
Upon receipt of this information, if I am interested in representing you, you will hear from me within twenty-four hours. If you do not hear from me within that time, I suggest you look for another attorney.
Regards, L
Needless to say, I was disappointed. I responded with all the information I could, explaining the situation as best as I understood it. I sent my response, and speculated if I'd ever hear from Letta Storm, again.
Receiving that ridiculous email from my two-timing husband, then putting up with Letta Storm's nonsense had caused my perfectly crummy mood to ripen into full-fledged disgust. I was fed up and wanted to hurt someone—Maximilian. I couldn't just do nothing, so I set up an appointment at four-thirty for a key specialist to change all the locks. Then I rushed to the U-Haul moving center about a mile away and bought a dozen boxes and packing tape.
Back home, while the locksmith changed the locks and the garage door opener codes, I started throwing everything that belonged to Max in the boxes and taped them shut.
To my amazement, the key guy handed me a bill for two hundred and fifty bucks. Two hundred and fifty smackeroos for twenty minutes? "How come so much?"
"I had to put a new fifty-dollar lockset on the front door and there was a hundred dollar service charge for same day service."
I shrugged and wrote the check. I had to admit he was fast and efficient. As I handed him the check, he handed four new keys to me along with the recoded garage door remotes. "Thank you, ma'am. If you have any problems within ninety-days, give us a call."
After he left, I went back to loading the rat's things into boxes. I called a charity to pick up the boxes, but they couldn't get there for a week. The next one didn't pick up in my area at all. The last one asked me to bring the donations to them. Christ, I couldn't even give away expensive and I mean expensive, men's clothes and accessories. I gave up. Screw them.
I stuck the boxes in the garage. Maybe I'd have a garage sale next week. I could even get my kid brother, who was going to college and could use the money, to help.
I felt a lot better. He wasn't out of my life yet, but at least he was out of my house.
Exhausted, I must have fallen asleep on the couch. The doorbell woke me. I forcing myself up and ambled toward the front door when it rang again. "Coming," I yelled a second before jerking it open. Sal was back holding a Styrofoam container that smelled suspiciously like beef brisket.
He held the container out to me. "Here, I knew, under the circumstances you wouldn't feel like cooking, so I brought your favorite, beef brisket and cottage fries."
"Oh, thank you. You're a lifesaver. All I had all day is one of those Lean Cuisine thingys."
Sal's bushy eyebrows dipped. "Really? Are you trying to lose weight?"
"Ah, in a word, yes! Since I've been married to the bigamist, who's been gone more than he's been here, I've drowned my misery in food and added ten pounds to my already overweight frame."
Sal shrugged and smiled. "Whatever. You know me. I like my women a little zaftig. If I wasn't twenty-five years older than you, I'd find a deserted South Sea island and take you away from all this."
I laughed. "You always say that. It doesn't bother you that I'm black?"
Sal shook his head with gusto. "You always ask that."
I realized I was being rude. "Come in, please."
"No, I can't, I need to get back to the store." He pushed his forefinger on my nose the way he does when he's about to make a point. "We're all something. It's what inside us, not outside, that matters. And you, dear Jamilla, have the right stuff." He sighed. "Ahh, if I was younger, I would show you how good an Italian lover could be."
I laughed.
"You laugh, but it's true. I was good, still am, but I'm too old for you. Which brings me to the other thing I came here for…"
I believed he was, and probably is still, good in bed. I pushed my forefinger against his hefty nose and smiled. "And what is that, lover boy?"
He laughed. "You have the personality to go with your great looks."
I started to protest, but he held up a hand and continued. "Nuh-uh, we've had this argument before, too. Just because you don't think you're attractive, doesn't mean I and the rest of the rest of the world can't think you are."
I rested my hands on my hips and pursed my lips. "Whatever. What's the other thing you came for?"
"Remember the barbeque I had last spring?"
"You mean the one where I drank so much I passed out and slept it off in your guest room?"
He smiled and nodded. "Ah-huh." He snapped his fingers. "My one chance to tap that lovely body and I didn't."
"And that's one of the reasons we're good friends—because I can trust you. What's the thing you came for?"
"I'm having another barbeque Saturday night and I want you there."
I shook my head. "I don't know."
He frowned. "I insist. You're too tense, you need to relax. Don't make me kidnap you."
I did want to forget about my problems, even it was only for one night. "Okay, on one condition."
His frown deepened. "What?"
"That you don't tell anyone about how I passed out last year."
He grabbed my free hand, pulled me into an embrace, and kissed my cheek. "It's a deal." Turning to leave, he exclaimed, "I gotta go. Be there by six."
Chapter Three – Antonio
It was still dark the next morning, when I jerked my eyelids open to the funky melody on my phone. Raising up on my elbows I rubbed the detritus from my eyes and squinted at the clock. 6:11? I reached for the object of my distress. What the f…who could this be? "Hello?"
"Mrs. Randle?" an electronically modified voice asked.
I knew from before, it was Letta Storm. "Damn, Ms Storm, could you call me any earlier? What do you want?"
If the robotic sounding voice was weird, the robotic sounding laugh was bizarre. "Sorry, they wake me up early here. I want to work for you."
I calmed down. "Fantastic. When can we meet?"
"That's a problem right now. I'm in the middle of a weight reduction program up in Ojai."
"How much longer will you be there?"
"Until I lose thirty pounds. About ten more days."
I couldn't help but scrunch my nose and mouth up
in disappointment. "I really would like to see you sooner."
"I'd like to see you sooner, too. Could you possibly come here?"
"What and where is Ojai?"
"It's a small town about eighty miles north and west of your salon."
"I guess so. Is Sunday morning soon enough?"
"Sure, that'll be good. They have us doing less on Sunday. I'll email you directions."
I did a dance. Letta Storm was going to represent me.
Holding the phone out, I stretched my arms and yawned. My jaw cracked. "Yoww!" Damn that hurts.
It was too early to get up, so I slept for another hour.
When I woke again, I reluctantly swung my legs out of bed and headed to my office and turned on my computer. While it booted up, I padded to the kitchen to make coffee. When I came back, a few minutes later, a cup of coffee in hand, I went to my computer and, as she'd promised, found Letta's email.
Hello Jamilla,
I apologize for dragging you up to Ojai. I think at least for starters, I can operate from here.
