The Zen Man (3 page)

But Wicked didn’t move. Knowing her, she had something else on her mind. It’d always been her style to attack on one issue that ran parallel to the real one. Although what the hell ran parallel to that damn necklace was anybody’s guess.

I set down the knife, picked up my root beer and took a long swig. The carbonation made my eyes sting. Setting it down, I met her gaze and resisted the urge to burp.

“Anything else?”

She swiped at her forehead, as though releasing whatever held back her thoughts. “You fucking addict loser thief…lazy worthless hippie…sucking off your girlfriend…stealing from the rest of us.”

“You’re trying to pick a fight. Well, I’m not the whacked-out guy I used to be. Don’t do drunken, messed-up anymore. The only person you’re embarrassing is yourself. Please…just leave.”

The flush in her face deepened, her features shrinking into a tight mask of ugly. Her pudgy red-tipped hands tightened into balls.

“Deborah, you don’t have to—”

Too late. With a guttural screech like a raptor on crank, she lunged. The wine glass smashed against the butcher table, wine and shards of glass flying.

For an instant, I couldn’t move, too stunned at the hysterical drama unfolding before my eyes. But as she raised her hand with that jagged glass, fear jolted me into action. I scrambled back several feet, putting more distance between us before that glass ended up embedded in my flesh.

Wicked stumbled forward, slashing the air with the broken glass. Backed up against the rock fireplace I held up the knife in self-defense. Mavis was up on all fours, standing on the seat of the recliner, barking. Once in the kitchen on that damn chair, the dog refused to leave it. This time, I was glad. Didn’t need to be protecting
both
of us against Wicked.

“You sonofabitch,” she screamed, blindly waving the notched glass. “That was my grandmother’s necklace, worth thoushands! You junkie, you stole it for money for your drugs!”

That tune was old, but it was falling on fresh ears that crowded the doorway—an ensemble of criminal defense lawyers ogling what might be a potential case. From the other room, the bass-thumping, horn-heavy “Jungle Boogie” by Kool and the Gang swelled. I was starring in a bad remake of
Pulp Fiction
.

“What’s going on?” one of the CrimDefs called out. Another yelled, “You okay, Deb?”

Nice. Watching out for good ol’, pure-as-driven Deb.

Her back to them, she hadn’t been aware she had an audience. But now that she did, somebody start polishing her Oscar. Half-turning, she dropped the glass. It hit the floor with a solid thunk, a shiny piece breaking off and scuttering across the linoleum. She raised a trembling hand to her face and began crying softly.

Jungle Boogie.

“Rick, please put down the knife,” she said between sobs, “you’re frightening me.”

I was pressed so hard against the rock fireplace, a jutting piece of stone threatened to separate my shoulder. I kept holding up the knife, stained with celery and carrot juice, unsure if I was shocked or impressed with her performance. With talent like that, she’d missed her calling by pleading out all those cases instead of trying them in court.

Then, like a hero to save her day, Sam stepped through the crowd in the doorway. He’d lost the jacket and tie. His blue-striped Hugo Boss shirt sleeves were rolled up, a shiny Rolex on his wrist. He scanned the scene, his gaze halting on my knife.

“Can somebody please escort Ms. Levine out of the room,” he intoned in a take-charge voice.

A woman I recalled practicing with back in my public defender days—Iris? Irene?—scurried across the room to Wicked as quickly as her Birkenstocks would let her. With that khaki skirt, Lennon glasses, and frizzy gray hair, I half-wondered if the seventies feminist movement had come alive in the other room as well. I called out to watch for broken glass. Iris-Irene flashed me a go-to-hell look as she wrapped a skinny, but surprisingly toned, arm around the over-wrought Wicked. Sisters saving sisters.

As Iris-Irene and Wicked shuffled and sniffled out of the room, “Jungle Boogie” ended with a funky grunt and a tripped-out bass.

Nick Charles
: Now my friends, if I may propose a little toast. Let us eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.
Nora Charles
: You give such charming parties, Mr. Charles.
Nick Charles
: Thank you, Mrs. Charles.
—The Thin Man

“W
ant to tell me what the fuck all that was about?” Sam settled his tall frame onto one of the bar stools at the oak table. His legs were too long to bend comfortably so they bent at hard angles, the jointed appendages giving him an arthropodan look.

In the few minutes since the nominee for Best Actress had been helped out of the room, the hangers-on had vacated their watch at the entranceway, leaving Sam, myself, and the wannabe security dog Mavis alone in the kitchen-den. I’d been sweeping wet shards of glass off the floor, not sure if I felt more confused or pissed at Wicked’s accusation that I’d stolen from her, but definitely embarrassed by the resulting drama. That’s the thing with having made a train-wreck of your life—sooner or later you have to face the debris of your past. The trick is putting the pieces back together so the locomotive can chug along life’s rails again.

“Ignoring me?” asked Sam.

“Nah, heard you.” I stepped on the pedal to the trash can. The silver lid yawned open. “Not everything that counts can be counted…and not everything that can be counted counts.” I tipped the dust pan. Pieces of glass clattered down the bin.

Sam made a disgruntled noise. “Should’ve known the Zen Man would answer with a fucking Zen quote. Got any scotch in that bar?”

“For the record, that was Einstein.” I released my foot—the lid shut with a thump. “I believe Laura stashes some scotch in there, and to answer your other question, I have no idea what the fuck that was about.” As I hung the dust pan in the utility closet and washed my hands, Sam poured himself a drink.

“Look,” Sam said, sitting back down, “I had no idea she’d carry on like that. If I’d known she was prone to alchy rages, I’d never have brought her.” He glanced at Mavis, curled up in the recliner. “Some dog. Greets unarmed guests snarling, refuses to get off that chair when people are wielding deadly weapons.”

“Yeah, she’d probably benefit from some reverse psychology.”

“Where’d you get him?”

“Her. Rottie rescue.”

I returned to the table and took a swig of my root beer. Under the fluorescent lights, Sam’s face looked gray, haggard. Almost felt sorry for him that he’d hooked up with Wicked.

“Has she mentioned a ruby and diamond necklace?”

He frowned, which deepened the stress lines between his brows. “No. What about it?”

“Wicked thinks I stole it.”

“Who?”

“Deborah.”

He did a mild double-take. “You call her…Wicked?”

“For Wicked Wench of the West, but after tonight’s incident, I’ll ask you to keep that to yourself. I’d really like the rest of this weekend to be incident-free.”

“Wicked Wench of the West.” His mouth twitched in a grin. “Only you, Zen Man.” His gaze dropped to the knife on the table, back to my face. “Menacing with a deadly weapon can get you one-to-four.”

“If I was menacing anything it was a
celery
, not a person.”

“Right, I know.” He took another sip. Setting down his drink, he continued, “You’re a big bad PI now, so what
do
you carry for protection?”

“Besides my rapier wit, a stun gun. Keep it under the front seat of the car.”

“Use it often? I mean, the stun gun?”

I feigned a laugh. “I see dating my ex hasn’t damaged your sense of humor. I waved it once at some punk kids to scare them off, but that’s it. Been dormant for so long, probably doesn’t have any charge left.”

“Never carry the real thing?”

“Never.”

“Some Sam Spade you are.”

“Think Rockford. Kept his in a cookie jar. Don’t need to carry a big stick to be a tough boy.”

Sam swirled his drink, the lines in his face waning. “Shouldn’t have made that menacing comment. Just watching your back, Rick.”

This was the old Sam I knew. He could be an arrogant, insulting bastard, but underneath that scaly shark skin he had a soft spot for his pals. Years ago, after my marriage had crashed, I’d moved into the Bates Motel—named after Katharine Lee Bates who wrote America the Beautiful for Pike’s Peak. Most people thought Bates stood for the Hitchcock thriller, and for that reason alone you’d think the owner would’ve changed the name, but he never did. So at the macabre-sounding Bates Motel, I lived on matzo crackers, cheese, vodka, and enough ganja to stun a moose. Sam would show up with take-out and encourage me to get my act together, partly because I was his law partner, but he also didn’t want my life to unravel. It did anyway.

“If we’re watching each others’ backs, RoofTop, I have to admit I’m surprised you got involved with her.”

“Nobody calls me that anymore.”

“Yeah, well, Zen Man was news around here, too. So, how long you two been happenin’?”

From the other room pounded “Play That Funky Music, White Boy,” punctuated by drunken, loud whoops. How quickly the CrimDefs recovered from homicide attempts in their midst.

“A few weeks.” Sam’s face seemed to lengthen before my eyes, as though some external force was weighing him down. “Fern and I are separated.”

“For how long? A few weeks?”

“Look, I’m technically single, things happened with Debby, and my only crime in bringing her here was I didn’t tell you first.” He paused. “You’re pissed about Mellow Yellow.”

I rapped the bottom of the can on the table. “I still dream I’m driving that car sometimes. At least she didn’t paint it green.”

“Fitting color to match your jealousy.”

“Yeah, okay,” I said, nodding my head. “I’ll accept that. But what I can’t accept is you calling her
Debby
. She’s a Debby as much as Lady MacBeth’s a Bethy.”

He raised his drink to me. “What can I say, I like strong women.”

The antithesis to Fern, no doubt. I checked the doorway to ensure we didn’t have any imminent visitors. “I have a bigger issue with
Debby
than just the car,” I said, lowering my voice. “I’m afraid she’ll screw up my chances to make nice with people who could be potential clients or, God willing, put in a good word for me with the Attorney Regulation Board when I re-apply for my law license.”

A chorus of voices sang “Play that funky music, white boy” along with the music. I tried to recall if any of them were any color other than parchment.

“I’d heard you were going after your law license.”

“Yeah.” I meant to say something about how I’d paid my dues, was ready to tackle the game again, but instead what came out of my mouth surprised even me. “Can’t believe I threw it all away.”

He nodded. “Can’t believe it, either. You were one of the best, Rick. Before we joined forces, I hated being pitted against you. Don’t let this go to your Deadhead, but your brilliance intimidated me in the courtroom.”

“Sam Wexler, intimidated? I’m flattered.”

“Then you started partying too hard…and we lost you.”

We. At first I pondered who exactly comprised
we
, then decided it included just about everyone we knew. I knew. In my spectacular fall, I’d even alienated my own mother.

“I’ve been clean and sober five years.”

“Documented?”

“Taking weekly UAs for the last three years. Have passed them all with flying colors.” Urine Analysis, UA, tests. The Attorney Regulation Board required two years clean tests, no missed weeks, to return to the fold, but I kept taking UAs because I liked a provable track record. More for myself than anyone else.

Sam gave me a long, calculating look. “Been thinking a lot about what I’m going to say next. Don’t need to give me an answer right away, just ask that you think about it. After you pass the bar, I’d like us to set up shop again, just like the old days.”

I nearly choked on my root beer. I swallowed, set down the can, stared at Sam over the table.

“Problem with that?” he asked.

“Aren’t you afraid what others will think, taking in a reformed junkie?”

Sam shrugged, lifted his glass. “I’ll need your clean and sober brilliance when we tackle the re-trial for that class action suit.”

“Re-trial.”

“The class-action suit brought against TeleForce six years ago. Our clients, the plaintiffs, just won their appeal, asked me to represent them on retrial.” When I didn’t say anything, he added, “Thought you knew.”

I rolled the cold root beer can between my palms. “First I heard of it. But then, I don’t keep up with cases I fucked up.”

“We both lost that case.”

“Yeah, but if I hadn’t been snorting lines in the bathroom before court, we’d have had a better chance of winning.”

He winced. “In the courthouse
bathroom
? How’d you get it past the guards?” He waved his hand. “Don’t explain. What’s important is that’s behind you. Us. We have a second chance. Next bar exams are in, what, February?”

I nodded. “Late February. After the new year, I’ll be studying my ass off.”

“When do they post the results?”

“May, I think. Then I need to first pass a hearing in front of the Attorney Regulation Board. They want to be certain that I’m an upstanding citizen.”

“You’ll pass. Which means you’ll be relicensed by August, can sit second at the trial. Until then, you can do litigation support, help me sift through discovery, re-interview witnesses.” He paused. “You in?”

In? I was signed, sealed, delivered, but being a legal eagle at heart, I had to negotiate.

“On one condition.”

He arched a questioning brow.

“At some point this weekend, steal those car keys and let’s take a spin in Mellow Yellow.”

“Now don’t make a move or that dog will rip you to shreds.”
—Nick Charles