Dick by Law

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  Dick By Law

  By

  Robert T. Jeschonek

  *****

  Also by Robert T. Jeschonek

  More Twisted Tales With A Sense of Humor

  Blazing Bodices

  Groupie Everlasting

  Rose Head

  Playing Doctor

  The Love Quest of Smidgen the Snack Cake

  *****

  Dick By Law

  Chapter 1

  Tucker County Courthouse

  Melville, Pennsylvania, 9:31 a.m.

  "You guys have made my day!" Judge Jonah Bartlebaugh's rich, resonant voice boomed from the judge's bench in the vast main courtroom of the Tucker County courthouse. "Thank you for this!"

  Simon Bellerophon, who was sitting at the plaintiff's table near the front of the courtroom, smiled. The happier the judge, the better, right?

  Then why wasn't Simon's lawyer smiling, too?

  Simon frowned as he looked up at Quinn Keegan, his attorney. Quinn was standing beside him, eyes fixed on the judge, face unreadable. He was doing a great job of keeping his feelings under wraps, hiding them even from Simon, who knew him better than anyone.

  Because Quinn, after all, was his foster brother. Who better to help launch his mad quest for revenge?

  "Your Honor?" Quinn's flinty brown features were silhouetted in the sunlight streaming in from the big arched windows ringing the courtroom walls. Swirling dust formed a halo in the multicolored shaft from the stained glass dome in the cupola overhead.

  Judge Bartlebaugh chuckled and flapped a sheet of paper in the air. The crackling flap echoed through the giant, ornate courtroom, which was a remnant of the county's long-gone glory days. Tucker County had been a booming place twenty years ago, before the steel companies had pulled out of Melville, the big-money heart of the region, and shut down all the mills. "You do know this is a first-of-its-kind lawsuit, don't you?"

  "Yes, your honor." Quinn spoke gracefully, as he always did in court...or anywhere else, for that matter.

  "Well, thank you for cutting through the boredom!" Judge Bartlebaugh ran a hand up over his smooth, bare scalp and down the back of his silver fringe of hair. "So what's the gist of your argument?"

  "We see this as a case of truth in advertising," said Quinn. "Dangers to society should be labeled as such."

  Simon straightened in his chair, heart pounding as his brother made the case. There they were, going into battle side by side, kicking ass and taking names.

  And the enemy himself sat thirty feet away.

  Leaning back in his chair, Simon looked across the courtroom at the defense table. The enemy's enormous, beer-bellied attorney, Delroy Swope, blocked the view...all three hundred ice-cream-suited pounds of him.

  As Simon watched, the enemy himself leaned back and met his gaze. With his curly black hair, ruddy, pockmarked face, and wild eyes, he looked like a crazed pirate or a member of the Manson family. His glare caught Simon like hot metal catching skin, radiating waves of pure cherry-red fury. He silently mouthed two unmistakable words in Simon's direction: Fuck you.

  Ladies and gentlemen, the one and only Horne Shaw, so-called claims adjustor for the 5G5 delivery company.

  Just then, Judge Jonah Bartlebaugh's voice snapped Simon's attention back to the front of the courtroom. "Oh, this is good." He chuckled as he stroked his impeccably trimmed silver mustache and beard with his thumb and forefinger. "How can you not love this case?"

  Swope waved his thick arms and shook his head. "First of all, it's pure defamation, Your Honor..."

  "The question was rhetorical." Judge Bartlebaugh chuckled. "But hey, great reaction time!"

  Without another word, Swope dropped into his chair.

  "Mr. Fluff-and-Fold!" Suddenly, Judge Bartlebaugh swung his gaze back to Simon. "This started over a washing machine, right?"

  "Yes, Your Honor," said Simon.

  "So what if Strayer-Roland gives you a new washing machine?" said Judge Bartlebaugh. "Could we make this case go away?"

  "No, Your Honor." Simon said it without hesitation. "There's a principle involved."

  "Oh, good." Judge Bartlebaugh rubbed his hands together briskly. "And what principle is that?"

  "People should have the right to know when they're dealing with someone like him." Simon hiked a thumb in Horne's direction. "They shouldn't have to find out the hard way, after the fact."

  "'Caveat emptor,' Your Honor." Swope wobbled to his feet. "'Let the buyer beware.' That's what we say."

  Judge Bartlebaugh rolled his eyes. "I never would have guessed."

  "Motion to dismiss this frivolous lawsuit, Your Honor," said Swope.

  "Is it frivolous?" Judge Bartlebaugh raised his eyebrows at Simon. "You don't want a new washing machine. You don't want money. You don't want any form of compensation for the damages you've suffered."

  "Correct, Your Honor," said Simon.

  Judge Bartlebaugh grinned and shook his head. "You just want the court to acknowledge officially that the defendant, Horne Shaw..."

  "...is a dick." Simon nodded. "Yes, Your Honor."

  *****

  Chapter Two

  Ten Weeks Earlier

  Melville, Pennsylvania, 10:15 a.m.

  The old woman in a purple dress stood on the customer side of the counter in the musty antique shop. She watched expectantly as an overweight middle-aged man on the other side of the counter flipped through a stack of ancient comic books.

  The overweight man had the comics propped on his ample gut, which stretched his lime green polo shirt to the limits of elasticity. Flipping to the last comic, he took a good long look at it, then flicked it forward to the bottom of the stack and shook his head. "I'm so sorry these aren't worth more, ma'am." The man, who owned the shop, dropped the stack of comic books on the counter. "Some comics just aren't as collectible as others, you understand."

  The old woman in the purple dress sighed. "Just because something's old doesn't always mean it's valuable, I suppose."

  "Sorry I can't help you." The man turned and started toward the rear of the cluttered, cramped antique shop...then stopped. "Okay, look." He reached into a pocket of his khaki trousers and tugged out a single twenty-dollar bill. "I'll take the lot of them. At least you won't leave empty-handed."

  The old woman smiled. "Oh, thank you, young man." She reached for the twenty...

  And someone leaped out from between the merchandise racks and swatted it away.

  "Don't do it!" The person doing the swatting was in his thirties, with short black hair and a slender build. He wore bluejeans and a black t-shirt with the letters "LA" splashed across the chest in a bold font straight out of a comic book. "He's ripping you off, ma'am!" His tone was melodramatic, as if he were playing the role of a hero in a radio drama.

  His name was Simon Bellerophon.

  "What on Earth?" said the old woman.

  The shop owner made a grab for the comics on the counter...but Simon was too fast for him. "Hands off, thou blackguard!" Scooping the comics away from the shop owner, Simon whirled and held them out to the old woman. "He would have given you a pittance for this treasure, milady."

  "Treasure?" said the old woman.

  "You hold a small fortune in your hands." Simon bowed as he gave her the comics. "And I am here to ensure that you get it."

  "Get the hell out of here!" The shop owner sounded furious. "You're interfering with a business transaction!"

  "Highway robbery is more like it!" Simon winked at the old woman. "Each one of those comics is worth thousands of dollars, ma'am."

  The old woman looked at the shop owner. "Is that true?"

  The shop owner locked eyes with her and shook his head. "He's a nutcase. Don't believe him."

  The old woman no
dded decisively. "You're a liar."

  "How perceptive of you," said Simon. "What an excellent judge of character you are."

  With a howl of rage, the shop owner reached under the counter and came up with a baseball bat. "Get out of here. Both of you. And don't come back, Bellerophon! I told you last time."

  "And the time before that." Simon waggled his brows like Groucho Marx, and the old woman laughed.

  The shop owner cracked the ball bat on the counter. "What part of 'banned for life' don't you understand, Bellerophon?"

  "I'll stop coming back here," said Simon, "when you stop ripping off innocent civilians for fortunes in collectibles!"

  "Get out!" Bat in hand, the shop owner started around the counter.

  "Shall we, milady?" Simon hooked his elbow, and the old woman threaded her arm through the loop. "Allow me to tell you of a most scrupulous appraiser who will ensure that you receive more than fair value for yon comical booklets."

  "And who might that be, o' knight in shining armor?" said the old woman as they headed for the door.

  Simon opened the door and waved her through with a bow. "To tell the truth," he said, "in some ways, he reminds me a great deal of myself."

  "In what ways?" said the old woman.

  "In all ways." Simon grinned and squinted. The sun was in his eyes, glinting from the windows of the shuttered steel mill across the street. "For I myself am that man." He pointed at the big letters "LA" on the chest of his t-shirt. "I am the Lone Appraiser."

  Then, laughing, he led her down the street past the mill, flipping through the stack of comics along the way.

  *****

  Chapter 3

  Two hours later, Simon burst into the offices of In¢entive$, Incorporated...in other words, the living room of his house on the outskirts of Melville.

  The living room, as usual, was a disaster area. The In¢entive$ crew--heavyset brunette Josie Coleman, green-haired Taiwanese Chip Maple, and slinky angel of darkness Ankha Fedalla--sprawled on the couch and floor amid piles of paper, pizza boxes, and crushed soda cans. It was like staring at the aftermath of a collision between an office supply store and a pizza place. In other words, home sweet home to Simon.

  When Simon walked in carrying a brown paper sack, he barely got a reaction from the team. They'd been together too long; they knew each other too well.

  Simon took a good look at his makeshift family, then cleared his throat loudly. He was glad they were all hard at work, but he needed their attention now. "He-e-e-e-ere's Johnny!" He said it like Ed McMahon on the old Tonight Show. "Who wants gobs?"

  "Where from?" Josie, dominating the couch in her bright orange t-shirt and green shorts like a giant pumpkin, kept typing and clicking on her laptop. She was in her mid-thirties, the same age as Simon, and had known him since college. She'd been with In¢entive$ from the start, five years ago; she'd taken on the role of the big sister he'd never had. "Saint Stephen's, Amish Maid, or Fike's?"

  "Only the best for my loyal staff." Simon scooped one out of the paper sack he carried and held it out like a bar of purest gold. "Glosser's Deli!"

  Josie slid the laptop aside, jumped off the sofa, and snatched the wax-paper-wrapped gob from Simon's hand. "And the Lord said, 'Let there be light!'"

  "You look like you could use some help with that." Chip, who'd been lying on his back on the beige shag carpet, threw aside the sheet of figures he'd been reading and popped up from the floor. The youngest of the group at 22, he was all about everything indie--indie music, indie movies, indie comics, indie clothes. Fresh out of college, he'd started at In¢entive$ as an unpaid intern and had never left; Simon joked that he couldn't remember ever actually hiring him. If Josie was Simon's older sister, Chip was his beloved kid brother.

  "Allow me." Chip wiped his hands on his neon blue and black bowling shirt, then grabbed the sack of gobs from Simon's grip. Chortling, he marched the sack over to the coffee table, whose glass surface was buried in paperwork and fast food debris.

  When Chip dumped the contents of the sack on top of the other junk on the table, Ankha shot out spidery fingers capped with black nail polish and snagged a gob without hesitation. Tucking the phone between ear and shoulder, she unwrapped the wax paper, exposing the gob--a clamshell of dark chocolate cake with a thick layer of creamy white frosting sandwiched in the middle.

  If Josie was Simon's surrogate older sister, and Chip was his little brother, Ankha was his weirdo cousin. Always dressed in black, she was either 29 or 29,000 years old, depending on which Goth personality she was channeling on a given day. She'd joined In¢entive$ two years ago, after a fender bender with Simon; instead of wracking her for the damage she'd caused, Mr. Good Samaritan had hired her for the team.

  "So, Simon." Chip took a bite of gob and talked with his mouth full. "What are you gonna eat? Tofu shreds on a bed of lettuce?"

  "The sweet taste of victory is all I need." Simon opened the front door and leaned out to pluck mail from the mailbox. "I just saved another civilian from the clutches of Screw Lou."

  "Oh, Simon." Josie shook her head, making the brown pigtails on either side bounce and flounce emphatically. "You didn't sneak into FesterTreasures again, did you?"

  "It's a free country." Simon shrugged. "If YesterTreasures is where some son of a bitch is scamming little old ladies, then that is where the Lone Appraiser will go!"

  "Just so's you stuck it to 'im good, Boss," Chip said around a mouthful of gob.

  "Did he get out the baseball bat?" said Josie.

  Simon laughed as he sorted the mail. "Of course he did! Sadly, he didn't get around to swinging it."

  "Aw, gee." Josie slumped and stuck out her bottom lip. "Dat's my favorite part."

  "Enough about me!" Simon slipped one white envelope in the back pocket of his jeans and tossed the rest of the mail on the coffee table. "Tell me what trouble you've been up to, loyal minions...and it better be good!"

  Chip popped a last bite of gob in his mouth and rubbed his hands together like a mad scientist. "Oh, it's good, isn't it, Josie?"

  "What if we told you..." Josie leered and cackled. "What if we told you we gave away money to teenagers for volunteering at the nursing home?"

  Simon gasped and clutched his chest. "No!"

  "And then," said Chip, "we got a verbal commitment on a sizeable donation from a major corporation."

  Simon shook his head in mock disgust, though he was secretly proud of his team. It wasn't always easy finding sponsors for a non-profit based in a struggling Rust Belt mill town. "I knew I shouldn't have left you three to your own evil devices!" He shook his fist at Josie and Chip.

  "Do you know what we did after that?" said Chip.

  "We gave more money to another bunch of teenagers," said Josie, "for setting up a homeless shelter!"

  "How dare you!" said Simon. "How dare you fulfill the mission of this community-minded not-for-profit organization!"

  Suddenly, Ankha spoke up. "Keep it down!" She shook the phone handset overhead. "I'm on the phone, in case you hadn't noticed!"

  "Sorry, Mistress of Darkness." Simon tiptoed into the kitchen.

  Chip followed. "It's almost W-M time, Sime." He reached up and scrubbed his spiky hair, a pincushion of black roots and bright green highlights.

  "What time is that, Chip?" Simon opened the fridge and drew out a pitcher of lemonade. "W-M as in Whack-a-Mole time? Water Making time? Whipping Mutton time?"

  "W-M as in washing machine," said Chip. "As in they're delivering your new Apex front-loader from Strayer Roland in one hour."

  "You weenie." Josie laughed in Simon's face as she squeezed past him. "You don't know how lucky you are. You'd be such a mess if it wasn't for us."

  "That reminds me," said Chip. "I need a raise."

  "Me, too," said Josie.

  "Me, three!" Ankha said from the living room.

  "One raise, coming right up." Simon smiled as he pulled four glasses from the cupboard and filled them with lemonade. The truth was, he did know h
ow lucky he was; other than his foster brother Quinn Keegan, the In¢entive$ threesome were his best friends in the world. Josie, Chip, and Ankha knew him better than almost anyone.

  "So how does it feel?" said Josie.

  Simon handed her a glass of lemonade. "How does what feel?"

  "This is a big day for you." Josie put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "You don't realize it yet, but today will change the rest of your life."

  "Why's that?" said Simon as he handed Chip a glass.

  "Switching from a top loader to a front loader." Josie nodded and winked. "Who knows where that could lead."

  "All I know is, I can't wait to find out." Simon raised his glass. "To the start of a wonderful new adventure!"

  Chip clinked his glass against Simon's. "Laundry...the final frontier!"

  "You're entering a whole new cycle." Josie clinked her glass against Simon's and Chip's. "From this day on, you will never be the same."

  "I knew I did the right thing, buying this washer." Simon sipped his lemonade. "I am so glad I didn't spend the money on something boring and non-life-changing like a trip around the world."

  Josie squinted and bowed her head. "You'd be surprised how far a washer can take you. They don't call it the 'spin cycle' for nothing."

  *****

  Chapter 4

  Hours later, Simon gazed at the mint-condition front-loader washing machine newly installed in the laundry room, a converted sun porch at the back of his house. The white skin of the washer gleamed and sparkled in the sunlight streaming into the room, and Simon's pulse quickened. He felt a rush of pride.

  Then, he stared down at the beat-to-hell pedestal that had come with it.

  Josie nudged the pedestal with her toe, as if it were a pile of road kill. "Did they let a gorilla loose on that thing or what?"