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Authors: Austin Davis
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“Let’s talk about my suit,” he said. For a moment, I thought he meant the lumpy ensemble he was wearing, which was coming unstitched at the shoulder. “Unless I miss my guess, that’s my file right there.”
The
law
suit—he was talking about the case concerning his dead quarter horses.
“So tell me, what do you think my chances are?”
“Mr. Rasmussen, I have just begun to examine the file. I’ll be happy to discuss your case with you after I have become thoroughly acquainted with it.”
“Come on, Mr. Parker,” Rasmussen insisted, “give me your gut feeling, right now. I’m a man who believes in gut feelings.”
I told him that I didn’t have a gut feeling yet, but that I would share it with him when it came to me.
In other words, I lied to him. My gut had been shouting at me for a good five minutes before Rasmussen appeared in my office. My gut told me we were going to be slaughtered in court, that he would never see any of his money, and that he would most likely be arrested and charged with burning his own horses. But I didn’t tell him any of that, partly because I hoped against hope that I was wrong, but partly because I didn’t want to see his reaction. Bevo Rasmussen was a weird, pathetic little man, but there was something else about him that was past pathetic. I didn’t know exactly what it was, some sort of look in his eyes, perhaps. But it was disturbing. I wasn’t exactly afraid of him. I just wanted him out of my office as quickly as possible.
“Mr. Parker.” It was Molly’s voice on the intercom. “I can’t get Mr. Stroud on the phone. He isn’t answering at home.”
“All right, Molly,” I said into the machine.
“Ho ho,” said Bevo Rasmussen with an ugly leer. “So he’s coming in, is he? I wouldn’t be surprised if Sally Dean hadn’t been wringing him out fit to die.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Haven’t you met Sally Dean?” he replied. “Never mind, you will.” He shook his head and made a grunting noise. “finest piece of tenderloin in the county, would you believe it? She drives all the way down from Mule Springs and cleans his plow for him. A sort of May-December romance, don’t you see?” He shrugged. “Some people have peculiar tastes, that’s all.”
I must have been staring at him, for he winked at me and smiled. “Oh, I know everything that goes on around here, Mr. Parker,” he said. “Everything. You might even say I keep the clocks in this town.” He stood, produced a Panama hat I had not noticed before, and with a flourish settled it on his head.
With his next words something new crept into his voice. “Look that file over real good, Counselor. Stroud won’t give me the time of day anymore, but I’ve got a sixth sense that tells me we’re in trouble.” The wheedling, the contrived affability were gone. In their place I detected the hint of a threat.
He leaned over the desk. “Those goddamn wops owe me a million dollars, and they’re not gonna get away with pissing in my hat. Stroud may not have the marbles left to win this case, and God knows Chandler never had the brains in the first place, but you’re a Houston man, a goddamn city lawyer.” He cracked his knuckles and pointed at me. “You’re it.”
I could not believe it. My own client, this fractured little man, was trying to intimidate me.
“I know you’ll do what it takes,” Rasmussen said, the diamond in his tooth flashing as he smiled. He held out his hand for me to shake. “It’ll be a pleasure doing bidniss with you.”
Ignoring his outstretched hand, I stood up and was about to tell him what I thought of him and his lawsuit and his conjectures about Stroud and Sally Dean, when suddenly a grimace crumpled Rasmussen’s face, and he clapped his hands over his ears. I felt it, too, a silent but palpable buzz, an invisible knife that cut for an instant through the hum of the air conditioner and sliced off the top of my skull. It
“Let’s talk about my suit,” he said. For a moment, I thought he meant the lumpy ensemble he was wearing, which was coming unstitched at the shoulder. “Unless I miss my guess, that’s my file right there.”
The
law
suit—he was talking about the case concerning his dead quarter horses.
“So tell me, what do you think my chances are?”
“Mr. Rasmussen, I have just begun to examine the file. I’ll be happy to discuss your case with you after I have become thoroughly acquainted with it.”
“Come on, Mr. Parker,” Rasmussen insisted, “give me your gut feeling, right now. I’m a man who believes in gut feelings.”
I told him that I didn’t have a gut feeling yet, but that I would share it with him when it came to me.
In other words, I lied to him. My gut had been shouting at me for a good five minutes before Rasmussen appeared in my office. My gut told me we were going to be slaughtered in court, that he would never see any of his money, and that he would most likely be arrested and charged with burning his own horses. But I didn’t tell him any of that, partly because I hoped against hope that I was wrong, but partly because I didn’t want to see his reaction. Bevo Rasmussen was a weird, pathetic little man, but there was something else about him that was past pathetic. I didn’t know exactly what it was, some sort of look in his eyes, perhaps. But it was disturbing. I wasn’t exactly afraid of him. I just wanted him out of my office as quickly as possible.
“Mr. Parker.” It was Molly’s voice on the intercom. “I can’t get Mr. Stroud on the phone. He isn’t answering at home.”
“All right, Molly,” I said into the machine.
“Ho ho,” said Bevo Rasmussen with an ugly leer. “So he’s coming in, is he? I wouldn’t be surprised if Sally Dean hadn’t been wringing him out fit to die.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Haven’t you met Sally Dean?” he replied. “Never mind, you will.” He shook his head and made a grunting noise. “finest piece of tenderloin in the county, would you believe it? She drives all the way down from Mule Springs and cleans his plow for him. A sort of May-December romance, don’t you see?” He shrugged. “Some people have peculiar tastes, that’s all.”
I must have been staring at him, for he winked at me and smiled. “Oh, I know everything that goes on around here, Mr. Parker,” he said. “Everything. You might even say I keep the clocks in this town.” He stood, produced a Panama hat I had not noticed before, and with a flourish settled it on his head.
With his next words something new crept into his voice. “Look that file over real good, Counselor. Stroud won’t give me the time of day anymore, but I’ve got a sixth sense that tells me we’re in trouble.” The wheedling, the contrived affability were gone. In their place I detected the hint of a threat.
He leaned over the desk. “Those goddamn wops owe me a million dollars, and they’re not gonna get away with pissing in my hat. Stroud may not have the marbles left to win this case, and God knows Chandler never had the brains in the first place, but you’re a Houston man, a goddamn city lawyer.” He cracked his knuckles and pointed at me. “You’re it.”
I could not believe it. My own client, this fractured little man, was trying to intimidate me.
“I know you’ll do what it takes,” Rasmussen said, the diamond in his tooth flashing as he smiled. He held out his hand for me to shake. “It’ll be a pleasure doing bidniss with you.”
Ignoring his outstretched hand, I stood up and was about to tell him what I thought of him and his lawsuit and his conjectures about Stroud and Sally Dean, when suddenly a grimace crumpled Rasmussen’s face, and he clapped his hands over his ears. I felt it, too, a silent but palpable buzz, an invisible knife that cut for an instant through the hum of the air conditioner and sliced off the top of my skull. It
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