The Litigators Read Free Page B

been only a client, Wally had made the mistake of referring to her as a “girl.” It had been something like, “Look, girl, I’m doing the best I can here.” He certainly meant no harm by it, and her overreaction was uncalled for, but from that moment on she insisted on being addressed as “Ms. Gibson.”
    She was slightly irritated because her solitude was interrupted. Wally spoke to AC and rubbed his head, and as he headed for the coffee, he asked, “Anything in the paper?”
    “No,” she said, not wanting to discuss the news.
    “No surprise there,” he said, the first shot of the day. She read the
Sun-Times
. He read the
Tribune
. Each considered the other’s taste in news to be rather low.
    The second shot came moments later when Wally reappeared. “Who made the coffee?” he asked.
    She ignored this.
    “It’s a bit weak, don’t you think?”
    She slowly turned a page, then had some yogurt.
    Wally sipped loudly, smacked his lips, frowned as though swallowing vinegar, then picked up his newspaper and took a seat at the table. Before Oscar won the building in a lawsuit, someone had knocked out several of the walls downstairs near the front and created an open lobby area. Rochelle had her space on one side, near the door, and a few feet away there were chairs for waiting clients and a long table that was once used somewhere for dining purposes. Over the years, the table had become the place where newspapers were read, coffee consumed, even depositions taken. Wally liked to kill time there because his office was such a pigsty.
    He flung open his
Tribune
with as much noise as possible. Rochelle ignored him and hummed away.
    A few minutes passed, and the phone rang. Ms. Gibson seemed notto hear it. It rang again. After the third ring, Wally lowered his newspaper and said, “You wanna get that, Ms. Gibson?”
    “No,” she answered shortly.
    It rang a fourth time.
    “And why not?” he demanded.
    She ignored him. After the fifth ring, Wally threw down his newspaper, jumped to his feet, and headed for a phone on the wall near the copier. “I wouldn’t get that if I were you,” Ms. Gibson said.
    He stopped. “And why not?”
    “It’s a bill collector.”
    “How do you know?” Wally stared at the phone. Caller ID revealed “ NAME UNKNOWN. ”
    “I just do. He calls this time every week.”
    The phone went silent, and Wally returned to the table and his newspaper. He hid behind it, wondering which bill had not been paid, which supplier was irritated enough to call a law office and put the squeeze on lawyers. Rochelle knew, of course, because she kept the books and knew almost everything, but he preferred not to ask her. If he did, then they would soon be bickering over the bills and unpaid fees and lack of money in general, and this could easily spiral down into a heated discussion about overall strategies of the firm, its future, and the shortcomings of its partners.
    Neither wanted this.
    A bner took great pride in his Bloody Marys. He used precise amounts of tomato juice, vodka, horseradish, lemon, lime, Worcestershire sauce, pepper, Tabasco, and salt. He always added two green olives, then finished it with a stalk of celery.
    It had been a long time since David had enjoyed such a fine breakfast. After two of Abner’s creations, consumed rapidly, he was grinning goofily and proud of his decision to chuck it all. The drunk at the end of the bar was snoring. There were no other customers. Abner was a man about his business, washing and drying cocktail glasses, takinginventory of his booze, and fiddling with the beer taps while offering commentary on a wide variety of subjects.
    David’s phone finally rang. It was his secretary, Lana. “Oh, boy,” he said.
    “Who is it?” Abner asked.
    “The office.”
    “A man’s entitled to breakfast, isn’t he?”
    David grinned again and said, “Hello.”
    Lana said, “David, where are you? It’s eight thirty.”
    “I have a watch, dear. I’m having