sweep of his arm, “yours truly, Ray-chard Balen. I’m forty-four years old, an exceedingly undistinguished graduate of the University of South Carolina law school, and a rather unprepossessing and unattractive specimen of manhood if you are prone to judge solely on appearances. I have never been arrested. I have more money and expensive possessions than a universe governed on the principles of fairness and justice would ever permit. I’ve been told I have absolutely no taste in clothes, music, landscaping, or women. I’m prone to corns, cold sores, and hemorrhoids. I’ve never missed my church tithe, not once. I do not like swimming in the ocean. I have a pair of lucky socks that I only wear when closing cases. I have no real friends to speak of and more enemies than I can count. And I do not like the color blue in any of its various and manifold shades.”
Balen paused, took a sip of coffee, then resumed. “My mother was a whore, the Madam of a first-class Pussy Farm outside North Myrtle Beach. I grew up on the premises. She never made mention of the father from whose loins I sprang, and I never pressed the issue. Growing up, I never lacked for attention, in fact, was excessively doted on by the succession of males passing through the house, most of whom unimaginatively and predictably appended ‘Uncle’ to their surnames on their visits.
“It wasn’t until much later that my mother informed me of the true identities of all these Uncles, and it wasn’t much later after that, when she been diagnosed with breast cancer, that my mother bequeathed to me the trove of materials, including photographs, she’d collected on the house’s patrons over the years and explained to me the various uses it could be put to and how an enterprising young man, such as myself, could benefit from that.”
Raychard Balen spoke in a soft sonorous voice and with a practiced delivery that told Corrine both that Balen was enjoying himself and that he probably inflicted this same story on each new client, and so Corrine prepared herself to wait him out, listening to Balen summarize the lowlights of his college years, his inglorious stint as a law student, a disastrous first and only marriage, and of his return home to set up practice and be a permanent thorn in the side of all those, and the friends and relations of all those, for whom his mother had ever opened her legs.
Balen paused, then leaned further back in his chair, steepling his fingers and resting them atop his head. The armpits of his sports jacket held faint overlapping stains resembling old coffee spills.
“To this day, Mrs. Tedros,” he said, “I remain my mother’s son. I am completely indifferent to the guilt or innocence of my clients and have no qualms whatsoever about representing some of the lowest members on the food chain. I do not have to worry about compromising my ethics or principles because I never had any to begin with. I am the human equivalent of a toilet. An absolutely necessary but underappreciated component of everything we pride ourselves on and value as a civilized culture. Without people like me, everybody would be up to their necks in shit.”
“Ok,” Corrine said and waited, half expecting Balen to continue.
“That’s what your retainer has bought,” he said. “Now, why don’t you tell me what you’ve done.”
Corrine set her coffee cup on the edge of the desk and crossed her legs. “Nothing yet,” she said.
“The problem, then?”
“Somebody’s standing in the way of what I want,” Corrine said.
Balen scratched his cheek and nodded. “An impediment. Ok, I may be able to help you out there, Mrs. Tedros. I’ll make a couple calls and get back to you.”
Raychard Balen stood up, resting his fingers on the desk, and asked, “This impediment, what will be necessary to remove it? In short, how badly do you want this person hurt and for how long?”
“Six feet and forever,” Corrine said.
THIRTEEN
BEN DECOVIC stood on his
Balen paused, took a sip of coffee, then resumed. “My mother was a whore, the Madam of a first-class Pussy Farm outside North Myrtle Beach. I grew up on the premises. She never made mention of the father from whose loins I sprang, and I never pressed the issue. Growing up, I never lacked for attention, in fact, was excessively doted on by the succession of males passing through the house, most of whom unimaginatively and predictably appended ‘Uncle’ to their surnames on their visits.
“It wasn’t until much later that my mother informed me of the true identities of all these Uncles, and it wasn’t much later after that, when she been diagnosed with breast cancer, that my mother bequeathed to me the trove of materials, including photographs, she’d collected on the house’s patrons over the years and explained to me the various uses it could be put to and how an enterprising young man, such as myself, could benefit from that.”
Raychard Balen spoke in a soft sonorous voice and with a practiced delivery that told Corrine both that Balen was enjoying himself and that he probably inflicted this same story on each new client, and so Corrine prepared herself to wait him out, listening to Balen summarize the lowlights of his college years, his inglorious stint as a law student, a disastrous first and only marriage, and of his return home to set up practice and be a permanent thorn in the side of all those, and the friends and relations of all those, for whom his mother had ever opened her legs.
Balen paused, then leaned further back in his chair, steepling his fingers and resting them atop his head. The armpits of his sports jacket held faint overlapping stains resembling old coffee spills.
“To this day, Mrs. Tedros,” he said, “I remain my mother’s son. I am completely indifferent to the guilt or innocence of my clients and have no qualms whatsoever about representing some of the lowest members on the food chain. I do not have to worry about compromising my ethics or principles because I never had any to begin with. I am the human equivalent of a toilet. An absolutely necessary but underappreciated component of everything we pride ourselves on and value as a civilized culture. Without people like me, everybody would be up to their necks in shit.”
“Ok,” Corrine said and waited, half expecting Balen to continue.
“That’s what your retainer has bought,” he said. “Now, why don’t you tell me what you’ve done.”
Corrine set her coffee cup on the edge of the desk and crossed her legs. “Nothing yet,” she said.
“The problem, then?”
“Somebody’s standing in the way of what I want,” Corrine said.
Balen scratched his cheek and nodded. “An impediment. Ok, I may be able to help you out there, Mrs. Tedros. I’ll make a couple calls and get back to you.”
Raychard Balen stood up, resting his fingers on the desk, and asked, “This impediment, what will be necessary to remove it? In short, how badly do you want this person hurt and for how long?”
“Six feet and forever,” Corrine said.
THIRTEEN
BEN DECOVIC stood on his
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