become accustomed?â
She folded her hands and closed her eyes for a long time. âIâve never really thought about it. The money was just there. For whatever I wanted.â
âThree thousand? Four? Ten?â
âThree, I should think.â
âWeâll go for five. Has your husband ever hit you? Slapped you around?â
âNo. What do you think he is?â
âA man who didnât have the guts to warn you he was about to break your life in half. Do you sniff coke, Mrs. Stone?â
âYou canât be serious.â
âWhy not? Itâs evidently replaced milk as the worldâs most perfect food.â
âNo. Nothing like that.â
âWell, we all have sins, Mrs. Stone. What are yours?â
She laughed uneasily. âThis is sort of like church, isnât it?â
âThis is nothing like church. How about it?â
âYou first.â
âMe? I bet sports with money I donât have. I lie to my clients when they need it and sometimes when they donât. I cheat on my girlfriend almost as much as she cheats on me. Letâs get back to you.â
âWell, I cheat, too, as I said. I spend lots of money on worthless trinkets to punish Chas for neglecting me. I drink too much sometimes, and am honest when I shouldnât be except when I pretend to like people I canât stand. Does all that mean I wonât win my case?â She was almost giddy, momentarily forgetting what losing her case would mean.
âHell, lady. In this office that makes you a saint. Now, how do you feel about your husband right this minute?â
âHow do you mean?â
âI mean if he comes around next week and talks nice, brings you a box of mints, apologizes for taking all the money, and offers to stick his cock in you again, what are you going to do? Think about it.â
It took her three seconds. âIâm going to cut the crooked son of a bitch off and fry it up for breakfast.â
D.T. clapped his hands. âHot damn, Mrs. Stone. I think weâre about to have some fun. Here. Sign these forms.â
âBut theyâre blank.â
âNot for long.â
âIs that legal?â
âDonât worry about it.â He gave her his pen.
After scratching out her name, Mareth Stone stood up and shouldered her purse and looked at him. âDo whatever has to be done, Mr. Jones.â
âLucky for you thatâs my Golden Rule, Mrs. Stone,â he said, and then leaned back in his chair. âRight about here I usually tell my clients to relax, to leave it all to me, that everything will be all right. But I donât think Iâm going to tell you that.â
âWhy not?â
âBecause Iâm afraid you might believe me.â
âBut Iâm fine. Really.â
âThatâs what I mean. You donât even know whatâs happened to you yet. Some time or other youâre going to crash. It may be tonight, it may be a year from tonight. Youâll feel alone, cheated, wronged, guilty, worthless, and ashamed, and youâll be a little bit right about all of it, but it wonât help. Youâll be very depressed, so depressed you canât move, canât get dressed in the morning, canât eat, nothing. One of my clients stayed in bed for twelve days. Pissed and shit and everything, right there on the old Posturepedic. Luckily they found her before â¦â
âI wonât do anything like that. Good Lord. I â¦â
âLet me finish. When it happens, friends can be a help. So can family. So can I, a little, and I know some people who can help you a lot more. Counselors. Support groups. Shrinks. You can call me any time. Hereâs my card. Put it by the phone. Call me day or night. I mean it. Okay?â
âOkay. But I donât do things like that, Mr. Jones. I really donât.â
She was so convincing he knew better than to believe her.
THREE
Mareth
Hundreds of Years to Reform a Rake