The Attorney by Steve Martini Read Free Book Online Page A

wheel of Leaping Lena I can see the small parking lot behind the Copy Shop. Near the building's rear ironshuttered door are three spaces for employee parking. An alley runs the length of the block and comes out on the next side street. There is a large dumpster positioned haphazardly in the alley, one corner jutting out, an obstacle on a course, with a lot of trash around it like the owners of this business have bad aim. The shop is the universe of Zolanda Suade.
    It is one of those places with machines that can kick out copies like ticker tape over a parade, where, for a fee, you can also rent a private mailbox. It's an interesting sideline for a woman with her own version of the witness-protection program.
    I am sipping coffee from a paper cup, reclining in the driver's seat, feeling foolish even to be making this attempt. From everything I have heard, "rational" and "objective" are not terms that come to mind when considering Zo Suade.
    Still, it is one of the things you learn in the law: that if you don't ask, some judge will surely look you in the eye and ask why not.
    Suade may be the most virulent, male-hating feminist on the continent, but if I draw her into a courtroom before making an effort to reason with her, I will surely face the question from her lawyer, find myself on the defensive: Why didn't you give her the courtesy of inquiring before filing and serving papers, wasting the court's time?
    There are a few people on the street, cars whizzing by on Palm.
    Some rummy, wearing rags, pushes a shopping cart filled with his possessions heading up the street along the side of the Copy Shop.
    He proceeds at no particular speed, with no apparent purpose other than to vacate one space and occupy another, living in that realm where moving is not so much a journey as an occupation.
    He is midway across the entrance to the parking lot behind Suade's, at the point of no return, moving like a snail, when out of nowhere this boat, a large dark town car gleaming blackness, makes the turn off of Palm, rubber protesting on the road as it swings over the curb and into the driveway.
    The driver makes not even a pretense of braking; there's not the slightest glimmer of red from the taillights. The car nearly spears the man, who moves only at the last instant.
    Instead, the vehicle separates him from his belongings. A glancing blow sends the cart careening in one direction onto its side, the man sprawling in the other.
    Plastic bags filled with private treasures spill over the sidewalk.
    The guy disappears and for an instant I wonder if he's under the car.
    Then I hear the rum-soothed voice from the other side: "Why dun ya just run me over?"
    "Okay." The voice is sharp, clear as crystal from the half-open driver's window as she rolls into the parking lot and swerves into the slip directly behind the shop.
    For a fleeting moment there is the stillness of a framed picture, the car motionless in its stall, the man prostrate on the sidewalk, his belongings strewn, the image like some painting in a postmodern gallery--Chaos Frozen.
    It lasts for only an instant, and is broken by the motion of the driver's door as it opens. She steps out and slams the door, then moves to the rear of the vehicle. There is not an ounce of hesitation, no remorse or compassion, no concern that the man might be injured or dying. He is, after all, still capable of crawling.
    She is an image off the pages of Vogue, sporting a broadbrimmed hat: lady of the hacienda. Her black pants are as tight as a toreador's. A fitted jacket is zipped up over her ample bosom; as she peers across the trunk of the car she is the picture of the matador, sans sword.
    She surveys her handiwork on the sidewalk. Her figure is shapely; curves in all the right places. Her gold jewelry, earrings and a bracelet, glimmer in the sunlight. I cannot tell her age from this distance, but she certainly appears fit.
    The man is now on his hands and knees, working up some venom, mumbling