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Authors: Austin Davis
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was as if the air in the room had come apart along a razor-thin line. My vision blurred. An invisible cat danced its claws along my spine. The feeling lasted for maybe four seconds, then was gone. I had never felt anything like it.
“That son of a bitch!” snapped Bevo, storming out of the room. I stood blinking, probing my skull with my fingers to see if it had cracked.
“A word, Mr. Parker,” said Gilliam Stroud, who had materialized in front of my desk, broad-shouldered, hands behind his back.
“Did you feel that?” I asked him. My temples were throbbing. “Was it a sonic boom?”
Stroud ignored my questions. “I guess you’re wondering why you’re here,” he said.
“Mr. Stroud, there’s something weird going on.”
“Listen to me, son,” he said. “You have a mission.”
“You told me about it yesterday, remember?” I answered, closing one eye, then the other, checking my vision. “You said I was here to keep you from getting depantsed in court.”
“That’s one mission. There is another.” Stroud spoke in grim tones, a mortician explaining a mistake in the billing. “You have been hired, Mr. Parker, to perform a rescue.”
“A rescue?”
“You are here to rescue the founder of this firm.”
“Hardwick Chandler? Rescue him from what?”
“From the perils of the flesh,” Stroud intoned. “Nookie, my boy.”
“Nookie?”
“Our colleague is addicted to women, and his addiction has left him poised upon the verge of ruin.”
My brain had not stopped spinning. “Mr. Stroud, I think there’s something wrong with the air conditioner in this building.”
“When a noble man is destroyed, a little something dies in all of us. Don’t you find that to be so?”
I studied the old man’s face. Dizzy though I was, I recognized a summation speech when I heard one—or, rather, a parody of a summation speech, theatrical intonations and all—and it irritated me.
“Ask not for whom the bell tolls,” said Stroud.
“I’ll tell you what’s going to ruin Hardwick Chandler,” I said. “The damned interrogatories in the Rasmussen case. They’re going to ruin all of us. Mr. Stroud, tell me you turned them in. Tell me you didn’t forget to do that.”
He hushed me with an upraised hand. “Later, son. We’ll iron all that out later. Right now we have a far bigger problem on our hands. The salvation of a soul in need, a brother at the bar laid low by circumstance and a saucy eye.”
“Oh, come on,” I said. But I could not jolly him out of his hammy mode of Shakespearean regret. He loved Hardwick Chandler like a son, he avowed, and he couldn’t bear to see his son destroy himself.
“Together,” Stroud announced, “we shall exert so positive an influence as to rehabilitate a good man and a fine lawyer.” Stroud produced from behind his back the bundle that he had been hiding. It was a pair of pants on a hanger.
“Go!” he said, thrusting the pants at me.
“Go where?” I asked, taking the pants.
Stroud reached across the desk and clapped a giant hand on my shoulder. “Go and rescue Hardwick Chandler!”
CHAPTER 9
It turned out that Hardwick Chandler needed more than a pair of pants to be rescued. He needed a whole suit of clothes and a pair of shoes, all of which Molly Tunstall handed me on my way out the door. I wasn’t to know the reason for the wardrobe until I arrived at the farmhouse out in the country close to Mineola where, according to Gilliam Stroud, Chandler was holed up, “sideswiped,” said the old man, “by appetite.” Stroud gave me directions that kept me wandering back roads for an hour, griping at the cows as I passed.
I was driving by a six-foot-high section of chain-link fence, wondering what sort of cattle needed such a barrier to prevent their escape into the woods, when suddenly I passed what looked like an emaciated child in a gray ball cap and shaggy parka, staring at the road from inside the fence with his hands tucked high behind his
“That son of a bitch!” snapped Bevo, storming out of the room. I stood blinking, probing my skull with my fingers to see if it had cracked.
“A word, Mr. Parker,” said Gilliam Stroud, who had materialized in front of my desk, broad-shouldered, hands behind his back.
“Did you feel that?” I asked him. My temples were throbbing. “Was it a sonic boom?”
Stroud ignored my questions. “I guess you’re wondering why you’re here,” he said.
“Mr. Stroud, there’s something weird going on.”
“Listen to me, son,” he said. “You have a mission.”
“You told me about it yesterday, remember?” I answered, closing one eye, then the other, checking my vision. “You said I was here to keep you from getting depantsed in court.”
“That’s one mission. There is another.” Stroud spoke in grim tones, a mortician explaining a mistake in the billing. “You have been hired, Mr. Parker, to perform a rescue.”
“A rescue?”
“You are here to rescue the founder of this firm.”
“Hardwick Chandler? Rescue him from what?”
“From the perils of the flesh,” Stroud intoned. “Nookie, my boy.”
“Nookie?”
“Our colleague is addicted to women, and his addiction has left him poised upon the verge of ruin.”
My brain had not stopped spinning. “Mr. Stroud, I think there’s something wrong with the air conditioner in this building.”
“When a noble man is destroyed, a little something dies in all of us. Don’t you find that to be so?”
I studied the old man’s face. Dizzy though I was, I recognized a summation speech when I heard one—or, rather, a parody of a summation speech, theatrical intonations and all—and it irritated me.
“Ask not for whom the bell tolls,” said Stroud.
“I’ll tell you what’s going to ruin Hardwick Chandler,” I said. “The damned interrogatories in the Rasmussen case. They’re going to ruin all of us. Mr. Stroud, tell me you turned them in. Tell me you didn’t forget to do that.”
He hushed me with an upraised hand. “Later, son. We’ll iron all that out later. Right now we have a far bigger problem on our hands. The salvation of a soul in need, a brother at the bar laid low by circumstance and a saucy eye.”
“Oh, come on,” I said. But I could not jolly him out of his hammy mode of Shakespearean regret. He loved Hardwick Chandler like a son, he avowed, and he couldn’t bear to see his son destroy himself.
“Together,” Stroud announced, “we shall exert so positive an influence as to rehabilitate a good man and a fine lawyer.” Stroud produced from behind his back the bundle that he had been hiding. It was a pair of pants on a hanger.
“Go!” he said, thrusting the pants at me.
“Go where?” I asked, taking the pants.
Stroud reached across the desk and clapped a giant hand on my shoulder. “Go and rescue Hardwick Chandler!”
CHAPTER 9
It turned out that Hardwick Chandler needed more than a pair of pants to be rescued. He needed a whole suit of clothes and a pair of shoes, all of which Molly Tunstall handed me on my way out the door. I wasn’t to know the reason for the wardrobe until I arrived at the farmhouse out in the country close to Mineola where, according to Gilliam Stroud, Chandler was holed up, “sideswiped,” said the old man, “by appetite.” Stroud gave me directions that kept me wandering back roads for an hour, griping at the cows as I passed.
I was driving by a six-foot-high section of chain-link fence, wondering what sort of cattle needed such a barrier to prevent their escape into the woods, when suddenly I passed what looked like an emaciated child in a gray ball cap and shaggy parka, staring at the road from inside the fence with his hands tucked high behind his
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