No Time To Run (Legal Thriller Featuring Michael Collins, Book 1) (2 page)

Inside the airport, Michael’s nerves had grown worse. What little confidence he had shown Kermit that morning was in retreat as he made his way through one line, down a corridor, and then through another.

Everything was lit up by the bright, artificial glow of fluorescent bulbs. The light bounced off of the polished floors and tiled walls, giving the airport a disorienting hum. Parents and kids, honeymooners and college trust fund babies hustled from check-in to security, and then to the gate.

Michael’s low-grade headache turned up a notch. The dozen tiny screws had joined forces. They were now working as one, drilling deeper into his head.

After getting his ticket and seat assignment, Michael floated along in the stream of passengers until he found a gift shop. He bought a pre-paid calling card, and then looked for a bank of pay phones.

Michael had what could loosely be described as a plan, but thinking about it turned the screws tighter and forced his stomach into a remarkable gymnastic routine.

He eventually found a payphone. Michael hesitated at first, and then picked up the receiver.

Following the instructions on the back of the calling card, Michael took a deep breath, and then punched in a series of numbers. He paused, and then finished dialing. A long time had passed since he had last called, and if asked, he probably couldn’t say the specific numbers out loud, but his fingers remembered.

“
Wabash, Kramer & Moore.”

The woman who answered was professional with an edge of perkiness. It was a style that was pounded into all of the receptionists at the firm: be nice, not chatty; be quick, but act like you care.

“
Lowell Moore,” Michael said. The screws turned again.

“
One moment.” A new series of pauses and clicks ensued, and then finally another ring and a click.

“
This is Lowell Moore’s office.”

“
Hello,” Michael said. “Is this Patty?” Patty Bernice was Lowell Moore’s longtime legal assistant. She was a short, round woman who was considered by most associates in the firm to be a living saint. She took the blame for mishaps that weren’t her fault, and often placed a blank yellow Post-It note on the side of her computer screen as a warning to all associates and paralegals that Lowell was in one of his “moods.”

“
Who is this?”

“
Michael.” He took a deep breath. “Michael John Collins.”

Another pause, longer this time. “Michael Collins,” Patty said. “It’s been a while.”

“
It has. Too long to be out of touch,” he lied. “Is Lowell around? I know he’s busy, but I’m calling from an airport in Mexico and it’s pretty important.”

“
I think so,” Patty said. “Let me see if he’s available.”

There was a click as Michael was put on hold. He hadn’t thought about what he would do if Lowell pushed his call into voicemail. He just assumed that the conversation would happen, but, the longer he was on hold, Michael began to wonder.

Minutes passed, and then Michael heard his flight number being called over the public address system. Pre-boarding had begun.

“
Come on,” Michael said under his breath. He looked at his watch, and started to fidget, then finally, a familiar voice. 

“
Mr. Collins.” Lowell spoke with far too much drama. “A surprise. How are you? Good to hear from you.”

“
Good to talk to you too, sir.” Michael’s voice was higher now, and each word was distinct and clear. It was his bright-young-associate voice, and it shocked Michael how fast it came back to him. “Listen, Lowell, I know you are busy so I’ll get to the point. I have a friend who’s in some trouble up there, and I was wondering if one of the investigators at the firm could check it out.”

There was silence.

Michael sensed the wheels turning in Lowell’s head. Lowell Horatio Moore was the only one of the three named partners still working at Wabash, Kramer & Moore. Tommy Wabash died of a heart attack at age forty-seven. In the end, the 5’9” son of Protestant missionaries weighed in at a remarkable 287 pounds. Jonathan Kramer “retired” after a murky and rarely discussed incident involving a female summer associate, his sailboat, enough cocaine to jack up an elephant, and inflatable water toys.

“
An investigator,” Lowell said. “I don’t know.”

The firm’s on-book investigators, meaning investigators that were officially on the Wabash, Kramer & Moore payroll, were billed out at $275 per hour. The off-book investigators were paid at least four times that much, depending on the information or task assigned to them. The off-book investigators were usually former FBI or cops. They weren’t afraid to conduct business in ethical gray areas and that risk was rewarded. Most of the firm’s cases were won or lost based upon what they found.

Michael knew his request would divert one of those precious billing machines from the paying clients with nothing in return, so he had to give Lowell something.

“
I’m thinking about coming back.” Michael said it with such earnestness that he almost convinced himself. “I’m not sure, but I thought maybe I could get set-up in the visiting attorney’s office, do any extra work that you might have, and then handle this case for my friend, kind of a
pro bono
deal to get me back into the swing of things.”

Lowell was silent again, thinking through Michael’s offer.

The turnover at the 1,500-attorney law firm of Wabash, Kramer & Moore was incredibly high. It bled senior-level associates. Either they burned out and became high school teachers or went someplace else with a vague hope of having a life and seeing the spouse and kids, assuming the spouse and kids hadn’t already left them.

“
Sure you’re up for that?” It was Lowell’s attempt to sound concerned about Michael’s welfare, but he couldn’t disguise the excitement. His young protégé might be back.

“
It’s been over two years,” Michael said. "I think it might be time." 

Lowell thought for a moment. “Are you here now?”

“
No, I’m at the airport.” Michael looked at the line of passengers winding through a series of ropes, and disappearing through the gate assigned to his flight. “My plane’s about to take off.”

Lowell asked for Michael’s flight information, and then told Michael that he was going to send a car for him when he arrived. “You can stay in my guesthouse.”

“
You don’t have to do that.”

“
I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Lowell continued. Everything was a negotiation. “And what was the name of that friend of yours?”

“
Andie Larone,” Michael said. “She was arrested yesterday. Don’t have many details because Andie doesn’t know much herself.” Michael felt his stomach flip. “When she asked for an attorney, the cops stopped talking to her. That’s why I need the investigator.”

“
We can talk more about that when you get here.”

Michael said goodbye, and just managed to get out a quick “thank you” before the chips, beer, and tequila from the previous night crept upwards.

CHAPTER FOUR

Michael’s ears popped at 28,000 feet. Noise filled his head. He was swimming in sounds –  the rattling coffee cart, the coughing man in aisle 8, the snoring woman in aisle 17, and, of course, the bing-bing of the seat belt warning light turning on and off, off and on.

Michael raised his small plastic cup and rattled the remaining cubes of ice. The stewardess noticed him, gave a nod, and then worked the beverage cart back. With each step she smiled, then snapped a wad of gum, smiled, and then snapped again.

“
Another rum and Coke.” Michael handed her the cup.

“
Just enough Coke to make it brown?” she asked with a Southern lilt.

“
A very light tan.” Michael opened his wallet and removed a few bills.

“
This one’s taken care of, sweetie.” Her smile maintained, but Michael continued to hold out the money, expecting the stewardess to take it. “It’s all paid for,” she said, again. “That gentleman in the back already gave me the money.” Smile, snap. “Said he was a friend of yours and figured you’d be a little parched.”

Michael turned, and scanned the seats behind him with a lump in his throat. “Which man?”

The stewardess looked, initially maintaining her chew of the gum and perky demeanor, but quickly the smile faded.

“
Now that’s a weird ‘un,” she said; snap with no smile this time. “I don’t see him no more.” She shrugged her shoulders, handed Michael his drink, and then continued down the aisle with her cart.

The smile and snap returned after just a few steps, but for Michael everything became a little tighter. His seat became smaller. The row in front of him became closer. The ceiling dropped a foot, and the other passengers crowded in.

He got up and walked down the aisle. Michael looked for someone, although he didn’t know who. Up the aisle, and then back again. Nothing. 

Michael returned to his seat. A weight pressed down on his chest.

He reached into his knapsack, and removed the red envelope from the bottom of the bag.  He stared at the large block lettering on the front of the envelope. It was addressed to him: Michael John Collins, Esq.

He had received the envelope two weeks earlier. It had been a lazy day, sunny and typical. After a morning of Hemingway and an afternoon of poems by Ferlinghetti, Michael had wandered back to Hut No. 7 to wash up and change clothes for dinner with Andie. A new Italian restaurant had opened up on Avenida Juarez in Playa del Carmen, and although it was hard for Michael to believe, he was actually excited to taste something made without avocados, lime or cilantro.

Michael hadn’t seen it at first. The envelope was on his pillow, and it wasn’t until he came out of the bathroom a second time that the envelope caught his attention.

Initially he thought it was from Andie or maybe even left by Kermit as some type of joke. Then he opened the envelope and thought otherwise.

It was the beginning of the end.

The front of the card was a picture of the New York City skyline. Inside, there was no signature or note, only the pre-printed message:

MISSING YOU IN THE BIG APPLE

HOPE TO SEE YOU SOON

Michael looked up from the card as the memory merged into the present. He put the card back inside the envelope, and then scanned the plane again for a familiar face. After craning his neck for long enough to make the people sitting around him nervous, Michael set the card down. He reached into his pocket and removed Kermit’s two magic blue pills.

He popped them into his mouth with a chaser of rum and Coke. His ears popped again, and Michael’s head filled back up with sound. He closed his eyes and decided to keep them closed until the captain announced their descent into LaGuardia airport.

###

When the plane touched down in New York, Michael waited for all of the people who sat behind him to exit first. He watched as each person wobbled down the aisle, hoping for a moment of recognition that never came.

Eventually, the smile-snap stewardess approached to inquire if there was something wrong.

“
No,” Michael said. “I’m going.” He picked up his knapsack, climbed out of his seat, and walked toward the exit.

As he stepped from the plane onto the enclosed walkway leading to the terminal, cold winter air rushed through a narrow crack. He must have shaken, because the stewardess laughed.

“
Might need to think about buying a jacket,” she said.

Michael turned, couldn’t think of anything witty to say, and so he turned back, continuing up the walkway.

With each step, the muscles in Michael’s body became more tense. Nothing felt natural, and Michael had to remind himself to breathe. One foot in front of the other, he told himself, keep moving. 

Michael stepped into the terminal. He half-expected to be rushed by thugs brandishing semi-automatic weapons or maybe a group of men in ski masks would throw a hood over his head and ship him off to a dark hole.

His eyes darted from one person to the next, but there were no thugs. There was, however, something worse: Agent Frank Vatch.

Agent Vatch was one of the meanest and nastiest paraplegics he had ever known, although Michael didn’t know a whole lot of paraplegics. Rumor had it that Vatch’s demeanor was caused by the origin of his disability.
Some said he was paralyzed when a donkey kicked him at a petting zoo as a child, others said that he was snapped in half by his grandmother’s malfunctioning La-Z-Boy recliner, and still others believed the paralysis occurred during his first sexual encounter.

Michael had his own theory about the agent's personality: Frank Vatch was simply born an asshole.

“
Michael Collins.” Vatch wheeled toward him with a crooked grin. His narrow tongue flicked to and from the edges of a slit, assumed to be his mouth. “A weird co-winky-dink running into you here after such a long absence.” He wheeled closer. “If you would have called, I could’ve gotten flowers, maybe chocolates.”