The Litigators

CHAPTER 8


When Helen Zinc pulled in to the driveway at 418 Preston, the first thing she noticed was not the well-worn exterior of Finley & Figg, Attorneys-at-Law; rather, it was the flashing neon sign next door advertising massages. She turned off the lights and the engine and sat for a moment to gather her thoughts. Her husband was alive and safe; he’d just had “a few drinks,” according to one Wally Figg, a somewhat pleasant man who’d phoned an hour earlier. Mr. Figg was “sitting with her husband,” whatever that meant. The digital clock on the dash gave the time as 8:20, so for almost twelve hours now she had been worrying frantically over his whereabouts and safety. Now that she knew he was alive, she was thinking of ways to kill him.

She glanced around, taking in the neighborhood, disapproving of everything about it, then got out of her BMW and slowly headed for the door. She had asked Mr. Figg how, exactly, her husband made his way from the tall buildings of downtown Chicago to the blue-collar neighborhood around Preston Avenue. Mr. Figg had said he didn’t have all the details, and it would be best if they talked about it later.

She opened the front door. A cheap bell rattled. A dog growled at her but made no effort to attack.

Rochelle Gibson and Oscar Finley were gone. Wally was sitting at the table, clipping obituaries from old newspapers, and dining on a bag of chips and a diet soda. He stood quickly, swiped his hands on his pants, and offered a big smile. “You must be Helen,” he said.

“I am,” she said, almost flinching as he thrust out a hand to shake.

“I’m Wally Figg,” he said, already sizing her up. A very nice package. Short auburn hair, hazel eyes behind chic designer frames, five feet eight, slender, well dressed. Wally approved. He then turned and waved an arm in the direction of the cluttered table. Beyond it, against the wall, was an old leather sofa, and on the sofa was David Zinc, dead to the world, comatose again. His right pants leg was torn—a small wound from the car smashup and its aftermath—but other than that he looked quite undisturbed.

Helen took a few steps over and gave him a look. “Are you sure he’s alive?” she asked.

“Oh yes, very much so. He got into a scuffle at the car wreck and tore his pants.”

“A scuffle?”

“Yep, guy named Gholston, a slimeball across the street, was trying to steal one of our clients after the big wreck, and David here chased him off with a piece of metal. Somehow he tore his pants.”

Helen, who had endured enough for one day, shook her head.

“Would you like something to drink? Coffee, water, Scotch?”

“I don’t drink alcohol,” she said.

Wally looked at her, looked at David, looked back at her. Must be a strange marriage, he thought.

“Neither do I,” he said proudly. “There’s fresh coffee. I made a pot for David, and he drank two cups before taking his little nap.”

“Yes, thank you,” she said.

They sipped coffee at the table and spoke softly. “The best I can tell,” Wally said, “is that he snapped on the elevator this morning as he was going to work. Cracked up, left the building, and wound up in a bar where he pretty much spent the whole day drinking.”

“That’s what I gather,” she said. “But how did he get here?”

“Haven’t got that far yet, but I gotta tell you, Helen, he says he’s not going back, says he wants to stay here and work.”

She couldn’t help herself as she glanced around the large, open, cluttered room. It would be difficult to imagine a place that appeared to be less prosperous. “Your dog?” she asked.

“That’s AC, the firm dog. He lives here.”

“How many lawyers are in your firm?”

“Just two. It’s a boutique firm. I’m the junior partner. Oscar Finley’s the senior partner.”

“And what kind of work would David do here?”

“We specialize in injury and death cases.”

“Like all those guys who advertise on television?”

“We don’t do TV,” Wally said smugly. If she only knew. He worked on his scripts all the time. He fought with Oscar about spending the money. He watched with envy as other injury lawyers flooded the airwaves with ads that, in his opinion, were almost always poorly done. And, most painfully, he imagined all the lost fees from all the lost cases scooped up by less talented lawyers willing to roll the dice on a TV budget.

David made a gurgling sound and followed it up with a quick nasal snort, and though he was at least making noises, there was no indication he was anywhere near consciousness.

“Do you think he’ll remember any of this in the morning?” she asked as she frowned at her husband.

“Hard to say,” Wally observed. His romance with alcohol was long and ugly, and he had spent many fogged-in mornings struggling to remember what had happened. Wally took a sip and said, “Look, really none of my business and all, but does he do this often? He says he wants to work here, and, well, we need to know if he might have a problem with the bottle.”

“He doesn’t drink much at all. Never has. He might occasionally at a party, but he works too hard to drink much. And since I rarely touch the stuff, we don’t keep it around the house.”

“Just curious. I’ve had my problems.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. I’ve been sober for sixty days now.”

That didn’t impress Helen as much as it worried her. Wally was still fighting the bottle, with victory far away. She was suddenly tired of the conversation and tired of the place. “I suppose I should take him home.”

“Yes, I suppose. Or he could stay here with the dog.”

“That’s what he deserves, you know? He should wake up in the morning here on the sofa, still dressed, a splitting headache, upset stomach, parched tongue, and have no idea where he is. That would serve him right, don’t you think?”

“It would, but I’d rather not clean up after him again.”

“He’s already—”

“Twice. Once on the porch, once in the restroom.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. But he needs to go home.”

“I know. Let’s get him up.”

Once awake, David chatted pleasantly with his wife as if nothing had happened. He walked unaided from the office, down the front steps, and to the car. He yelled a long good-bye and a hearty thanks to Wally and even offered to drive. Helen declined. They left Preston and headed north.

For five minutes nothing was said. Then Helen casually began, “Look, I think I have most of the major plot points, but just a few details might help. Where was the bar?”

“Abner’s. A few blocks from the office.” He was sitting low, with the collar of his overcoat turned up over his ears.

“Been there before?”

“No, great place, though. I’ll take you there sometime.”

“Sure. Why not tomorrow? And you walked into Abner’s at what time this morning?”

“Between 7:30 and 8:00. I fled the office, ran a few blocks, found Abner’s.”

“And started drinking?”

“Oh yes.”

“Recall what you consumed?”

“Well, let’s see.” He paused as he tried to remember. “For breakfast, I had four of Abner’s special Bloody Marys. They’re really good. Then I had a plate of onion rings and several pints of beer. Miss Spence showed up, and I had two of her Pearl Harbors, wouldn’t want to do that again.”

“Miss Spence?”

“Yep. She shows up every day, same stool, same drink, same everything.”

“And you liked her?”

“I adored her. Very cute, hot.”

“I see. She married?”

“No, a widow. She’s ninety-four and worth a few billion.”

“Any other women?”

“Oh no, just Miss Spence. She left sometime around noon, and, uh, let’s see. I had a burger and fries for lunch, then back to the beer, and then at some point I took a nap.”

“You blacked out?”

“Whatever.”

A pause as she drove and he stared out the windshield.

“So how did you get from the bar to that law office back there?”

“A cab. Paid the guy forty bucks.”

“Where did you get into the cab?”

A pause. “Don’t remember that.”

“Now we’re making progress. And the big question: How did you find Finley & Figg?”

David began shaking his head as he pondered this. Finally, he said, “I have no idea.”

There was so much to talk about. The drinking—could there be a problem, in spite of what she’d told Wally? Rogan Rothberg—was he going back? Should she bring up Roy Barton’s ultimatum? Finley & Figg—was he serious? Helen had a lot on her mind, plenty to say, a long list of complaints, but at the same time she couldn’t help but be slightly amused. She had never seen her husband so plastered, and the fact that he’d jumped from a tall building downtown and landed in the outback would soon become a family tale of legendary proportions. He was safe, and that was really all that mattered. And he probably wasn’t crazy. The crack-up could be dealt with.

“I have a question,” he said, his eyelids getting heavier.

“I have lots of questions,” she replied.

“I’m sure you do, but I don’t want to talk now. Save it for tomorrow when I’m sober, okay? It’s not fair to hammer me now when I’m drunk.”

“Fair enough. What’s your question?”

“Are your parents, by chance, in our home at this moment?”

“Yes. They’ve been there for some time. They’re very concerned.”

“How nice. Look, I’m not walking into our home if your parents are there, got that? I don’t want them to see me like this. Understand?”

“They love you, David. You scared all of us.”

“Why is everyone so scared? I texted you twice and said I was okay. You knew I was alive. What’s all the panic about?”

“Don’t get me started.”

“So I had a bad day, what’s the big deal?”

“A bad day?”

“Actually, it was a pretty good day, come to think of it.”

“Why don’t we argue tomorrow, David? Isn’t that what you asked?”

“Yes, but I’m not getting out of the car until they leave. Please.”

They were on the Stevenson Expressway, and traffic was heavier. Nothing was said as they inched along. David struggled to stay awake. Helen finally picked up the cell phone and called her parents.