by Andy Siegel
What’s with this Minnow character? The note Lily tossed on my desk an hour ago was a one-sentence warning: Drop the case or you’ll be sorry. Highly imaginative. But it’s hard not to be insulted by something so formulaic. I pick up the phone.
“Chris Charles,” I hear a real person answer, not the voicemail.
“Hi Chris. This is Tug Wyler, Cookie’s new attorney. Do me a favor. Get over it! Can you call your guy off? I mean, I’m working this case for Henry Benson,” I say, as if it were a mob threat. “And he’s one guy you don’t want to cross, believe me.”
“I’m sorry, but what are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Minotero, your investigator.”
“Minotero?”
“Yes, Minotero, your investigator. He just delivered a note here, which I’m sure you’re aware of.”
“Really, I don’t know any Minotero, and I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He almost sounds convincing. “I can’t afford an investigator. I work out of my basement, for God’s sake. That was my big case you took, but I understand. I know who you are. She’s in more experienced hands. I appreciate that.”
End of conversation.
So if I believe him—and for some reason I do—then what school is this Minnow swimming with?
Tactic-switching time.
I pick up the phone and call Pusska, my private investigator. She took a course over the Internet and in less than a week became a licensed PI. The vibe she gives off is keep-your-distance. You could call her cold, but the better term would be hardened. On the plus side, when she decides to make an approach, she’s always successful. She’s thirty-three and gorgeous—tall, blonde, with killer blue eyes and full lips. She’s skilled at connecting with guys, making her way in with the lure of sex, which, according to her, can be used to get anything, at any time, from any man. A useful skill set for an investigator.
She picks up on the second ring. “Vhat?”
“Hi, Pusska. How’s it going?”
“Vhat do you vant? Don’t bother me vith small talk. I busy.”
“Sorry. I took over a case from another attorney and, not long after, this little turd started warning me to stay away—which, of course, I don’t intend to. But I don’t actually understand yet why I’m being threatened. I spoke to the lawyer I’m replacing, and he’s adamant he didn’t sic anyone on me. So I really don’t know who else would have a stake in or be concerned with a run-of-the-mill personal injury case.”
Then I remember little Suzy. And all the cut-throat stakeholders in that case.
“Put down and push send. Bye.” The line goes dead.
That’s how Pusska works. You just gotta accept it.
After I dispatch a detailed e-mail to her, I gather up my stuff and head for Grand Central. I walk uptown slowly, looking around for Minnow. I guess he’s slithering around in other ponds.
Before getting on the train, I call home. The two troublemakers pick up at the same time. I say, “Hi, Penelope. Hi, Connor. Is Mommy there?”
“Hi,” Penelope returns. “I told you I changed my name to Summer, Daddy. Now please respect my decision.”
“Yeah, Dad, and I’m Dirk.”
“Now both of you just stop it. You’re going to get me into real trouble with your mother if you continue with that.”
“No, we’re not.” This from Penelope. “Mom changed her name, too.”
“Really?” I question. “What are you talking about?”
My son explains. “Well, Dad, you see, Mom always loved the name Amber, so she decided to change her name, too. Her new name is Amber Sizzle.”
“Amber Sizzle? What kind of name is that?”
Summer—I mean Penelope—enlightens me. “Well, Dad, Mom was making bacon this morning and Brooks came up with it.”
This is just great. I have a wife named Amber Sizzle, a daughter named Summer, a son named Dirk, and a new client named Cookie. My life sounds like it’s turning into a low-budget porn flick.
“Okay,” I say, sighing just the tiniest bit. “Just tell Ms. Sizzle I’m on my way home.” Click.
My train ride, happily, is uneventful. My daily commute has comprised the only peaceful moments of the last seven days. I close my eyes and take in the multiple happenings since last Tuesday. The strange vision of seeing Cookie cartwheeling in a halo; meeting her unlikely boyfriend, Major; two of my children, and now apparently my wife, changing their names; having to defend my integrity and my law license in court after being accused of suborning perjury by a client who fired me after I procured a million dollars for her; little Minnow, the mystery man; videoing a soft-porn spinal tap in my office; and finally, Robert Killroy and Ethel, the ray off sunshine in my week.
I look forward to working hard for them and contributing toward Robert’s financial independence. Helping and protecting the rights of people with fewer benefits in life—including those who might be shorted by the legal process, even by their own attorneys—are the reasons I became a seeker of justice.
The money ain’t bad either. But I’m not taking a fee on Robert’s case. It was clear from my interaction with Granny that there was no other way to gain her trust so her grandson could have proper representation. Good thing too because, among other issues, the case was just days away from final dismissal. I’d rather represent Robert for free than allow him to be another innocent victim of the miscarriage of justice. Don’t get me wrong, though. If I had a choice here, I’d take a fee.
At least I admit it.
As I step off the train, I realize I never asked Ethel or Robert how the accident happened. But since Ethel is certain the police report is wrong, that’s good enough for now.
As I walk to my car, I think how justice is something you shouldn’t have to shop for, but it is. Meaning, different personal injury lawyers have different abilities. It could happen that Lawyer A resolves a case for one hundred thousand dollars while Lawyer B, a more able and skilled attorney, resolves that very same case for five hundred thousand. So choose your lawyer wisely.
When I walk in the door, my family’s seated in the kitchen around our oversized round farm table made from antique wood planks. The day we bought it, I said, “Honey, why do we need such a big kitchen table?” I was expecting her standard irrational answer. Instead, she finally made sense with her explanation—“to keep the proper aesthetic proportion with our big teak island.”
But Amber Sizzle didn’t disappoint me when I asked my next question. “Why do we need to spend double the money for an antique table when a new one is half the price?”
“Because we do.” It’s her stock reply whenever I ask why we have to pay more for everything than seems necessary.
“What’s up, everybody?”
No answer. Penelope is intently watching TV, tightly holding the remote in her hand for safekeeping. Connor is checking the sports scores on Tyler’s laptop, and Brooks is doing something on his iPhone, the one I was against getting him for this exact reason.
I turn to Tyler. “What’s up, honey?”
“The name’s Amber Sizzle, remember? Until theirs change back. Everything’s on hold until that happens.” Crap. She’s not gonna let this go.
“I’ll have a talk with them.” I offer a reassuring nod.
“That’s a mighty fine idea you got there, Mr. Wyler,” she says archly. Right. Then, in a change of tone, she sternly informs, “Your dinner’s in the warmer.”
I take out my plate and walk back to the table. Once I remove the tin foil I see my dinner: three burnt mini lamb chops, two string beans. I look up for an explanation. But I’m not going to make a big deal about it.
“Sorry, the kids were hungry.” I nod. Connor looks up.
“Dad,” he says, “when did you get home?” Brooks looks up from his device, “Yeah, when did you get home?”
“Just a few m
inutes ago. How was school today, boys?” Before I finish my question their heads are back down into their devices. Something needs to be done about this technological home invasion before it gets out of hand. At the very least I’d expect my kids to notice when I arrive home.
“Oh,” Tyler says, “I have my OB-GYN appointment next month. I made it the same day as Penelope’s dance audition. It’s near your office, so I’m going to drop her off with you, go to my appointment, and then you’re going to take her for her audition. By the time I’m done, you’ll be done, and I’ll pick her back up at your office.”
“Sounds like a plan to me.”
“Well, then you better not forget this plan the way you have a habit of doing. I’m going to text and e-mail you the specifics to make sure you keep that morning free.”
“I will. Not a problem.” I briefly consider asking why she insists on going to her gynecologist in the city, given that we moved out over a decade ago. Oh, well.
The phone rings—once, twice—and nobody’s making a move for it. On ring three, I say to the royal family of the round plank table, “Can someone answer the phone? I just sat down to eat.”
“Dad.” Brooks is using that specific tone denoting my having asked a stupid question. “It’s not for me. I have an iPhone.”
“Yeah,” Connor chimes in, “it’s not for me. But can you buy me an iPhone?”
Penelope is absorbed with the remote and SpongeBob. I don’t even look at Tyler because it’s clear she ain’t making a move for it.
The answering machine intervenes, and the caller leaves a message. “Hi, this is Robert Killroy …”
Not long after this, I find myself brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed. I spit a swoosh of toothpaste-filled water, turn the faucet off, and enter my bedroom. Tyler’s leaning on her pillows, strategically propped behind her at the perfect angle to comfortably play with her iPad. No surprise there. Once they install a vibrating mechanism into those, my marriage is over. But for now I have to contend with her current iPad game fixation: Candy Crush Saga.
“S’up, honey?”
“Quiet, I’m playing.”
“I can see you’re playing, but why do I have to be quiet? It’s Candy Crush.”
“I said quiet; this is important.”
“What could be so important about Candy Crush?”
“I’ll tell you what’s so important,” she says vehemently. “I turned Irma onto it last week, and now she’s three levels higher than me, that’s what’s so important. She hasn’t stopped playing for one minute. She’s an animal.”
“So what? She’s three levels higher than you. Big deal.” Tyler turns her head away from the game only for an instant. But it was way long enough to give me her crazy eyes. They have a tendency to slightly bulge when she’s about to blow.
“Are you kidding me?” She fumes with her fingers moving a mile a minute, tapping her iPad. “There’s no way I can let Irma beat me. We’re competitive cousins. We’ve been competing about everything since we were kids. You know that.”
“I guess I do.”
Tyler believes everyone understands about competitive cousins.
“Shit.” Man, she’s really ticked.
“Shit what? Fail to get to the next level?”
“Yep. And I ran out of lives, so now I have to wait before attempting this level again.” She puts her iPad down, required to wait the designated time period before the geniuses who designed Candy Crush will allow her to play this level again. She shakes out her hand a few times, up and down.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’ve been playing awhile.” Then she mumbles like some addicted computer gamer, “I need more lives.”
“You know, while we’re on the topic of Candy Crush lives, you have to stop sending friend requests to my Facebook friends who don’t even know you.”
“Why?” But not a warm and fuzzy, wifely concerned why. It’s a hard, flat syllable.
“Well, I imagine the only reason you’re sending them friend requests is in the hopes that they’ll accept so you can then invite them to play Candy Crush, giving you a larger pool of people to send you lives, right?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll take that as a yes. Can you stop that please?”
“No. I need more lives. This is an Irma thing. You don’t understand.”
I take a deep breath, then exhale in surrender.
“Can I ask you about something I think may be related, then?”
“What?”
“Yesterday I got several Facebook friend requests from a bunch of guys who were on my lacrosse team in college. I haven’t heard from them in over twenty years. Then all in one day, seven teammates reach out to me. Do you know anything about that?”
“No. Maybe.”
“I’m listening. Tell me about this no-maybe.”
“I needed lives yesterday, badly. Irma was still one level behind me, and I didn’t want her to pass me. I was desperate but had exhausted all my resources. I’d gone through all your Facebook friends, so I had to find a new pool. So I went down to the basement … which reminds me: you have to clean out the storage area this weekend. Anyway, I went through a few boxes until I found your Tulane yearbook, went to the athletics section, identified the names of your teammates, found some of them on Facebook, and then I blasted them.”
“You’re crazy. Stop that.”
“You don’t get this. Irma is sabotaging my resource of lifelines. We know all the same people, and they know she’s my competitive cousin, and they’re sending her lives and not me.”
“Why would they do that?”
“She may have been a bit nicer than me when we were younger. I don’t know.”
“A bit?”
“Okay, a lot. But I wasn’t going to be phony-nice to people decades ago in the hopes that when I needed Candy Crush lives from them in the future they would be there for me.”
“But now you’re making Facebook friend requests to people you don’t even know so you can invite them to play Candy Crush and get lives from them. That’s pretty phony.”
“What’s your point?”
“Nothing.” I better stop now or I’ll blow my chances. And this is definitely not the time to bring up all the money she’s been spending on iTunes purchasing lives. Better make nice. “Honey, it’s no big deal. Tomorrow you should pull out my high school and law school yearbooks and blast everyone in them. You might find yourself with a few new friends who will send you lives.”
“Thanks,” she responds cheerfully.
Now is my only shot. I get into the position that says it wouldn’t be so bad if you lent me a hand over here. She takes notice and lifts a brow.
“What?” she asks. Unnecessarily, I might add.
“I don’t know, honey,” I say, trying not to seem too needy. “Last week you cancelled TNHJ, and I was hoping for an unscheduled make-up event. It’s been a rough week. You know what I mean?”
“What I know is Tuesday Night Hand Job has been suspended indefinitely until you get Connor and Penelope to change their names back.”
I knew it.
“But I wasn’t responsible for that.”
“Yes, you were. And I couldn’t take care of you tonight anyway.”
“Why’s that?”
“CCHC,” she responds.
“CCHC?” I repeat in a questioning tone. “What’s CCHC?”
“Candy Crush Hand Cramp.”
Chapter Ten
I go to meet Mick at his place. Jingles, like before. But it’s not the rain check I’d have preferred, since it’s still about business, not entertainment. I’d normally feel uncomfortable going there because it’s Cookie’s workplace. But I know she won’t be around because I made her promise that she wouldn’t dance again until receiving medical clearance from her t
reating surgeon. Some injury lawyers direct their clients to stop doing what they normally do until the case is over in an effort to build up damages. But any lawyer who gives that instruction is telling you point-blank they can’t be trusted.
“How ya doing?” I say, the way you do when you don’t know the other guy’s name.
“S’up, Wyler?” It’s the same giant doorman. In this instance, I wish I were less memorable.
“Not much.” I put my fist out there for a friendly bump. He looks at it hanging, then reluctantly obliges. “You know my name, what’s yours?” Like I’ve said, doormen are a good source of cases for me.
“Nteekay.”
“Nteekay,” I repeat. “You African?” I ask, immediately wishing I hadn’t.
“Nah, man. Brooklyn. N-T-K,” he says, one hard letter at a time. “I give it on a need-to-know basis, Wyler.”
Oops. My bad.
He flings a thumb back at the door. I meekly walk by him.
I take out my wallet as I approach the cashier’s window. “Here ya go,” I say, placing two twenties down. Just finishing putting on her lipstick, she gives a pucker into her compact, then stows it into her zebra hand pouch. I liked the leopard one better.
“Hey there, darling,” she says in what I perceive to be a flirty tone. “You’re comped tonight.” She gives me a wink.
“Thanks. I don’t get much consideration from beautiful women like you.” Yeah, that’s the play. Be humble.
“Darling, Mick paid for ya. Now run along before I forget he did.”
This time Mick’s at a table fifteen feet back from the edge of the stage. It’s his idea of a location fit for business inside a venue that’s clearly not. After he greets me, he wants to get right down to it. I give him the international hand gesture for “give me a sec.” I signal the waitress.
“Sobieski orange vodka, please.” That’s my new drink. It used to be tequila, but now it makes me sick. Not the alcohol, the memory it brings back of being a coma victim. That’s another story.
“We got Stoli O. Want it or not?”
“Yes, please,” I tell her. “Go ahead,” I say to Mick.
He takes a chug of his beer. “So, I’ve reviewed Cookie’s case.”
