Fixer broke

And I ain't gonna fix it. Not until I find 30 hours in every day...

Chapter Four

I stop into My Dreamland Palace, a German place in Waterloo, for sauerbraten and a decent lager, then carry on down to Chester, Illinois, one of those places that tourists from Europe know about but Americans don't.  Some decent architecture, but mostly it's about where it sits, on a high bluff over the Mississippi, a two-lane bridge below, leading over to a flatland piece of Illinois on the west side of the river.  Chester is the home of Popeye and Olive Oyl, proudly announced as you drive in.  Friendly folks in the town, some decent food, and a long way from everywhere.

I swing into Max's, a bar and grill with wi-fi, get another beer and plug in, to start answering my questions about Jamie, Marie, and Wayne the evil ex.  Plus their daughter, Chloe, my real client.

We all know how the Internet, and especially Wikipedia, has changed our lives, you recover the names of all those things you can't remember, you track down details you may never have known, the world's library right there in a saloon in a river town in southern Illinois.  For those of us who make a living tracking things, finding people, it's beyond your imagination and grows bigger every day.  Without breaking the law you can retrieve more in an hour than in the old days you could assemble in a month.  And if you're prepared to bust a few boundaries and use a few hacker's tricks, well.  There's a lot out there.

Not going to tell my secrets.  But another beer and then a cup of coffee, and I knew a lot more about each of the three adults than their friends probably did.

Much of which was more than nuances, as Jamie would say.  Like the fact that he was famous once - a hip-hop pioneer, whose career flamed on in the '90's, but out in the mid-aughts.  He was probably startled that I didn't recognize him in the park, or in my office.  (No surprise to me.  I haven't had a teenager around the house in decades and I sure never listened to that stuff myself.  Even though all my musician buddies told me to give it a shot.)  Some interesting reasons why his career ended.

Marie was a lady with some serious issues, mostly having to do with drugs.  Been in and out of rehab in the last five years more times than I'd washed my car.  How do I know?  Don't ask, but it's simple, believe me.

So she and Wayne Sloan must have been a real pair.  His drug use  - his drug business - is more than a matter of public record, although certainly that.  It's epic.  He invented distribution methods about which Harvard Business School should write a case.  The DEA is dying to get their hands on him.  There are some cartels with whom he has a tricky relationship.  He is clearly his own best customer, which is frequently fatal and always a mistake.   I'm sure he isn't planning to leave Governor's Harbour any time soon, and no wonder he's looking for a stake.

My cell rang.  It was Marie.  She sounded pissed.  "Mr. Payne, I hope you're moving ahead.  Wayne just texted.  He's upped his demand to three million, and says if we don't move our asses it will go up again."

Chapter Three

With the money promised, they sat back down and I got some more stuff about the cute couple.  He a writer, she a dancer, they said.  There was some money out there - a parent, I figured.   And we went a little deeper into the ex: exactly where he was (Governor's Harbour, in a place called the Pink House), what he did other than take drugs (not much), who would be with him (at least one female and usually a couple of moocher buddies.)   Exchanged numbers, emails, etc. then I slid them out and on their way, back onto the hot streets of St. Louis, my dream city.

At this stage, a new gig, the first thing I do is go for a drive.

My home town is on the west bank of the Mississippi, the first bluff down from the Missouri, the first city in the West, settled by French, ruled by Spanish, slave-holding before the war but Union, under martial law, throughout.  A big, complicated place then, and now, spilling west all the way to St. Charles, where the Missouri loops down and then further west.

But when you drive east from St. Louis, across the Eads Bridge, into Illinois and through the ruin that is East St. Louis, down Route 3 past the chemical plants, suddenly you are in the country and you can think.

There won't be a legal answer here, at least not one with a sheriff on your side.  This will be self-help, a repo operation where you've got to be exquisite with the cargo.


The father's a junkie and strapped for cash.  But thinks he's a rich kid and acts that way.  Probably smart, lazy, entitled, selfish, lost.

The mother's got a bunch in her background.  Maybe a dancer, but no one's chorus girl, at least not any more.

Jamie seems like a straight-up guy.  Which means I have to be ultra-careful.  The sketchy ones are easy, you keep your guard up anyway.  The nice guy, he's the one who keeps a knife in his boot.

Chapter Two

Nuances. What, did this guy go to Princeton?   "OK I'm all ears.  To the limits of my initial consult, which is free until I get to the point where I decide if I want to take the case.  Then we talk fees."

Jamie still doing the talking.  "Nuance one."  (I guess he liked the term.)  "The ex is a white Bahamian.  Family been there for centuries.  He says he owns everyone who matters.  I've talked to some of those Nassau lawyers you mention.  They want nothing to do with  Mr. Sloan.

"Nuance two.  Mr. Sloan is a very dangerous man, but Marie and I think that he keeps his word. "  She nodded.  "We give him the money, we get back Chloe.  Marie's daughter.

"Nuance three.  We don't have a million dollars."

"Does he need the money?"

"Yeah, it's an old family and he owns a bunch of land, but being a junkie is expensive.  He lives in an old hotel down there, beautiful but shabby, you know?  Like that old Humphrey Bogart movie."

"To Have and Have Not?"

"Yeah.  He has this life down there, characters float through, they're all busted down one way or another.  No place for a kid."

Marie finally intervenes.  "No place for my kid, in any case, Mr. Payne."  She'd lost the sad look.  She looked straight at me.  Knew she was heart-stopping and I'm sure she had stopped plenty.

"I prefer Mac. But whatever.  I assume the objective is to get Chloe back from the Bahamas, unharmed, for  a lot less than a million dollars.  I'll take the case if we can agree on a fee, and if you want me to take it.  Did you check me out like you said you would?"

I figured they had, because Jamie had called the office before they came over and asked for a couple of references.  Gracie had given him the names of two old friends, rich business guys who almost never used me but owed me favors.

"We did, and you checked out.  So about the fee?"

"Some guys charge by hour plus expenses, " I said, starting my standard spiel.  "Some add a success fee.  The ones who make the most, and the ones with the steadiest work, figure how to take the sting out for their clients.  Mostly by getting someone else to pay the fee.  Deal guys get paid from the deal, plaintiff guys take a contingency, and almost everyone looks for an insurance policy that will pick up the tab.  No one likes to pay a lawyer from his own pocket, and the guys who work exclusively for clients who pay themselves either have very rich clients or they aren't making any money.

"Me, I like alternative billing.  Which means I want to get paid for the value of what I bring to the party.   But I get that you don't have a million dollars, so we have to work together to make this worth everyone's time.

"Here's what I will do.  You put ten thousand dollars down.  It will mostly go to expenses, if I am right about how this will go.   In the meantime I will keep track of my time, and charge it to the deposit at one hundred bucks an hour.  Don't get excited, that's less than a plumber, it's not where I want to wind up.

"When the $10K is gone, we talk, and if at that point we all decide it isn't going to work, we all walk away, with me only covered at a hunny an hour.  Or you can put in another ten, and we continue.  And so on.

"There is often a deep pocket that appears in a case like this, an insurance company or a bank or a rich relative.  For them, and for all the rest of the world, my fee is five hundred an hour.  If they step up I get it, first, at that rate, based on my time from the start.

"Plus I get a piece of the story, and I represent you in selling it.  If there's a book deal or a TV show that comes out of it, I own fifty percent of  it."

"Bullshit."  This from Marie.  "You aren't going to own my daughter's story."

"No, I'm going to own fifty percent of the economics.  You and she are going to own the other half and have approval of the content."

"What if we say no?"

"Then I've cut a bad deal."

"Well this sounds like a bad deal for us, Mr. Payne."  I hated to disappoint her.  Those eyes.  "And when  Jamie said we don't have a million dollars, he meant it.  We're artists who haven't hit the big time and since he's 34 and I'm 36, we may never.  In the meantime we'll have to scrape to come up with the first ten and I don't know where the second will come from."

"Then we take that risk together."

They look at each other.  From him - "We'd like to talk about it, Mac."

"Feel free," I said, standing up and buzzing Gracie at the same time.  She came in.  My guardian angel, dexterous, steady.  "Gracie, would you show Mr. Doggett and Ms. Sloan the way out?  And" - I looked at each of them, and wondered why they hadn't made the big time - "please let me know if you want to go forward."

Marie fixed me  like she'd pin a bug.  "We don't need to wait.  Gracie, please email me the bank instructions.  We'll wire it today."

I guess that was scraping.  Whatever.  We were on.

Chapter one

"Yes. You are definitely going to need a lawyer."  I was passing a guy in a city park, a black guy, good dresser, talking into his cell phone.

I couldn't help but pause. I'm a lawyer of sorts. I get cases others don't, mostly referrals. City cases: lost property, lost people. I'm called more of a fixer than a lawyer, and maybe so. I try to stay in bounds.

The black guy looked up from the phone, cupped his hand over it, and said - "yes?" Me, a little embarrassed - "Sorry. Couldn't help but overhear. The part about the lawyer."

"So you're a lawyer? Congratulations." He seemed kind of amused, relaxed, not pissed about my listening in. "But the lady on this phone has a serious case. It'll take a serious lawyer. Not a guy who looks like he bought his suit 30 years ago."

Well dang. He had the age of the suit about right, but I thought it looked good and was glad it still fit. "You don't like the suit?"

"Nah I like it OK. Kind of retro. You a serious lawyer?"

"I am. And a fixer." OK, I embrace it.

"Maybe you're the one. Gimme a card, I'll check you out." I gave him one, then a small salute, walked on, and he went back to his call.

The next time I saw the guy, he was being shown into my office by my secretary, Gracie. With him a great-looking woman. She was white. I guess I'm so old that I noticed, but not so old that I cared about the fact that they were a couple. In their thirties, I'd say, and startlingly handsome. They walked past you on the street, you'd swivel your head. Knockouts.

They sat down, we did the coffee/water thing, they introduced themselves, he James Doggett, she Marie Sloan. From him - "They call me Jamie. What do we call you?"

"Mac." It's short for McIntosh, which is my middle name. J. McIntosh Payne. Fancy, I know. So I go by Mac, which takes the sting out a little.

Me, to her - "So I guess you need a lawyer. How can I help you?"

"I've lost someone." She looked beyond sad - what's the word - she looked bereft.

"Someone important, I guess. Who?"

"My daughter."

Turns out she'd been married and the father had made off with the kid, who was nine. And had taken her to the Bahamas. Which made me think at first that this was not going to be my case. I don't do child custody or matrimonial.  But this one had twists.

The ex-husband was named Wayne Sloan - I guess she'd kept the last name - and from his place in the Bahamas he'd sent them a message. They could have the little girl back. For one million dollars cash.

"Holding his own kid for ransom?"  I've seen my share of creeps, but really.  "The guy's evil."

From Jamie, "Ah, he's a junkie. Lost his soul a long time ago."

"And not too smart.  You can hire really good counsel in Nassau for way under a million bucks and get her back."

"Yeah," said Jamie, looking over at Marie. "But there are some nuances here."

Borderline

Below are texts from some old blogs, Flotsam and Considerati, which were what they were.  Fixer, which starts above, is more in the nature of a story.

opening shot

there is a green rail, glistening with recent rain
between this coffee house and the road
purely decorative
except that it marks territory
and with your ice cream table
pushed right up against it
you're a coffee drinker
and cars are cars.

Adios Considerati!

Three is too many. Two may be too many, too. And one too. For now, from this author, go to strays.blogspot.com for more like this, plus other non-policy-wonk stuff. I guess truefreelawyer.blogspot.com will linger for a while, but I fear it will grow increasingly circumspect.

***************************************************************************