glanced at the brochures he had gotten from the redhead at the travel agency on the second floor and wondered if he could sweet-talk her into going with him. The Cayman Islands and a hot broad. Paradise.
Jace leaned on the buzzer a second time, even though he could see Lenny Lowell coming out of the office and into the dark cubicle occupied in daylight hours by Lowell’s secretary—a woman with cotton-candy blond hair and cat-eye glasses, known only as “Doll.” Lenny was like a character out of an old movie where all the men wore hats and baggy suits, and everybody smoked cigarettes and talked fast.
Jace had been to Lowell’s office many times. A lot of a messenger’s runs were to or from lawyers of one kind or another—much to the displeasure of the messengers. Lawyers were notoriously cheap and impossible to please. At the annual Thanksgiving bash—Cranksgiving—the messengers always had a piñata in the image of their least favorite attorney of the year. They made the thing extra tough so everyone could get their chance to beat on it repeatedly.
Jace played along with the game and kept to himself the fact that he intended to join the ranks of the loathed someday. Growing up the way he had, he had seen the law work against a lot of people, especially kids. He meant to turn it in his favor—turn his life around, and hopefully some others’ too. But he was taking only two college courses a semester, so most of his messenger cohorts would be dead or gone by the time he passed the bar. If Jace was ever to be immortalized as a piñata, it would be strangers beating the stuffing out of him.
In the meantime, he always made an effort to chat up any lawyers he could, trying to make a good impression, trying to pick up whatever he could about the profession and the people in it. Networking. Working toward the day when he might be looking for a job, a recommendation, career advice.
Lowell pulled the door open, an unnaturally white smile splitting his long, horsey face.
“Neither rain, nor smog, nor gloom of night,” he boomed. He’d been drinking. Jace could smell the bourbon hanging over the bad cologne.
“Hey, Lenny,” he said, pushing his way inside. “It’s raining, man.”
“That’s why they pay you the big bucks, kid.”
“Yeah, right. I’m rolling in it,” Jace said, resisting the urge to shake himself like a wet dog. “I just do this gig for the rush.”
“You got a simple life,” the lawyer said, weaving his way back to his office. “There’s a lot to be said for that.”
“Yeah, like it sucks. Believe me, Lenny, I’d rather be driving your new Cadillac than my bike. Especially tonight. Man, I hate the rain.”
Lowell waved a big bony hand at him. “Nah. It never rains in Southern California. Unless you’re some poor stiff like Rob Cole. Then you get a shitstorm on your head.”
Jace glanced around the office piled with books and papers and file folders. Next to a bowling trophy dated 1974, two framed photographs sat on the desk—one of a racehorse in the winner’s circle with a bunch of flowers around its neck, and one of a pretty young woman with long dark hair and a confident smile—Lenny’s daughter, Abby. A law student, Lenny had told him.
“Gorman will get him off,” Jace said, picking up the bowling trophy to read the inscription: 2ND PLACE TEAM, HOLLYWOOD BOWL, 1974. It wasn’t difficult to picture Lenny in one of those bowling shirts from the fifties, his hair greased back. “Gorman is good. Better than good.”
“It’s better to be lucky than good, kid,” Lowell returned. “Martin’s betting against the house in a rigged game. Money talks. Remember that.”
“I would if I had any.” Jace put the trophy back and scratched his arm under the sleeve of his cheap plastic rain jacket. He had bought half a dozen at the 99 Cent Store because they came folded to the size of a wallet and didn’t take up any space in his messenger bag. One seldom
Jace leaned on the buzzer a second time, even though he could see Lenny Lowell coming out of the office and into the dark cubicle occupied in daylight hours by Lowell’s secretary—a woman with cotton-candy blond hair and cat-eye glasses, known only as “Doll.” Lenny was like a character out of an old movie where all the men wore hats and baggy suits, and everybody smoked cigarettes and talked fast.
Jace had been to Lowell’s office many times. A lot of a messenger’s runs were to or from lawyers of one kind or another—much to the displeasure of the messengers. Lawyers were notoriously cheap and impossible to please. At the annual Thanksgiving bash—Cranksgiving—the messengers always had a piñata in the image of their least favorite attorney of the year. They made the thing extra tough so everyone could get their chance to beat on it repeatedly.
Jace played along with the game and kept to himself the fact that he intended to join the ranks of the loathed someday. Growing up the way he had, he had seen the law work against a lot of people, especially kids. He meant to turn it in his favor—turn his life around, and hopefully some others’ too. But he was taking only two college courses a semester, so most of his messenger cohorts would be dead or gone by the time he passed the bar. If Jace was ever to be immortalized as a piñata, it would be strangers beating the stuffing out of him.
In the meantime, he always made an effort to chat up any lawyers he could, trying to make a good impression, trying to pick up whatever he could about the profession and the people in it. Networking. Working toward the day when he might be looking for a job, a recommendation, career advice.
Lowell pulled the door open, an unnaturally white smile splitting his long, horsey face.
“Neither rain, nor smog, nor gloom of night,” he boomed. He’d been drinking. Jace could smell the bourbon hanging over the bad cologne.
“Hey, Lenny,” he said, pushing his way inside. “It’s raining, man.”
“That’s why they pay you the big bucks, kid.”
“Yeah, right. I’m rolling in it,” Jace said, resisting the urge to shake himself like a wet dog. “I just do this gig for the rush.”
“You got a simple life,” the lawyer said, weaving his way back to his office. “There’s a lot to be said for that.”
“Yeah, like it sucks. Believe me, Lenny, I’d rather be driving your new Cadillac than my bike. Especially tonight. Man, I hate the rain.”
Lowell waved a big bony hand at him. “Nah. It never rains in Southern California. Unless you’re some poor stiff like Rob Cole. Then you get a shitstorm on your head.”
Jace glanced around the office piled with books and papers and file folders. Next to a bowling trophy dated 1974, two framed photographs sat on the desk—one of a racehorse in the winner’s circle with a bunch of flowers around its neck, and one of a pretty young woman with long dark hair and a confident smile—Lenny’s daughter, Abby. A law student, Lenny had told him.
“Gorman will get him off,” Jace said, picking up the bowling trophy to read the inscription: 2ND PLACE TEAM, HOLLYWOOD BOWL, 1974. It wasn’t difficult to picture Lenny in one of those bowling shirts from the fifties, his hair greased back. “Gorman is good. Better than good.”
“It’s better to be lucky than good, kid,” Lowell returned. “Martin’s betting against the house in a rigged game. Money talks. Remember that.”
“I would if I had any.” Jace put the trophy back and scratched his arm under the sleeve of his cheap plastic rain jacket. He had bought half a dozen at the 99 Cent Store because they came folded to the size of a wallet and didn’t take up any space in his messenger bag. One seldom
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