Death in the Polka Dot Shoes by Marlin Fitzwater Page B

country. I had never actually met a horse, but I knew them to be great symbols of wealth and pedigree, often associated with white fences and acreage. In defiance of this legal tradition and with a tip of the hat to local pride, I hung a picture of an oyster boat with two old guys raising hand tongs from the misty waters of the Bay. I liked the freshness of starting my own office.
    I didn’t have a library, but it seemed unlikely I would need a lot of precedents anyway. I did have a piece of computer software titled: Practical Law Applications. It could have been called a floppy disc for the mellow minded, but it included a sample will with blank spaces to fill in; sample real estate agreements; and instructions for filing civil lawsuits on behalf of any aggrieved party. I figured if I used two out of three I could survive.
    I was straightening the furniture when Mansfield Burlington grasped the outside door handle, leaned back on his heels to read the stenciled gold letters, Ned Shannon, Attorney at Law, and entered.
    â€œHello Burl,” I almost shouted.
    â€œWhat,” he said, “no waiting room. No big busted secretary. No cases of empty law books.”
    â€œYou mean empty cases with no law books.”
    â€œYou heard me,” he said.
    â€œNo capital, huh,” he said. “I’m here to help. Your first client. I need a new will.”
    â€œCome right in, Burl. You’re in great luck, because I’m having a first time special on wills, one thousand dollars for the whole process or two hundred dollars an hour.”
    â€œHow long will it take?”
    â€œAbout five hours,” I replied, “but it could go longer.” I saw Burl doing the math in his head and realizing the thousand dollars was a floor in this process, no matter what happened.
    â€œYou would be good in the used car business,” Burl joked.
    I had spent so many years as part of a legal team, advising corporate clients on regulatory laws related to safety and environment, that it made me nervous to define a simple legal service and state my fee. At Simpson, Feldstein and James, all that was done for me. Furthermore, I was getting nearly three hundred dollars an hour there and the firm had devised so many ways to hide the fees that I never had to actually say to anyone, “My fee is….” Rather, it was part of a proposal, presented on paper and explained to the client by one of our administrative partners, who painted our merits with such gusto that people actually couldn’t wait to pay us the big money. Indeed, they usually breathed a sigh of relief just knowing that our firm would keep them out of jail, or avoid a fine of even greater dimensions than our fee. Corporations would always rather pay the fee than a fine. It puts them on a much higher road for their public relations team. And over the years we had even made it an honor to pay our fee, a distinction like winning the Purple Heart for being shot in the rear.
    â€œI hear you saved the Blenny Man,” Burl said unexpectedly. “Not many people will thank you for that one.”
    â€œWho’s the Blenny Man?” I asked.
    â€œWord is you and Vinnie plucked that little mouse out of the water, and then towed his boat home like a lost dog.”
    â€œWe did pick up a guy, but I thought his name was Ray,” which was what I thought Vinnie told me.
    I remembered that the guy did look like a little mouse, wet and wrapped in a blanket, with black hair draped in every direction. He hadn’t said much, except thanks for the coffee. Vinnie gave him a mug on the way back to Parkers Marina. I did remember that when he raised the cup to his lips, his teeth were shaking, and his hands were unsteady when they grasped the handle. On his left hand was a diamond ring that looked out of place, and when he saw me notice it, he pulled his hand back under the blanket, still holding the mug with his right. No doubt new wealth. Even so,