Strip Tease by Carl Hiaasen Page B

circumstances. Mordecai was having difficulty finding guidance. His law books were barren of precedents. Enthusiasm was equally hard to come by. When he told his mother of the case, she slapped him across the face with an oven mitt. It was her way of reminding him that two of his uncles were Orthodox rabbis. Mordecai’s plan for the Paul Guber case was further hindered by the victim’s own friends, who couldn’t recall the name or location of the synagogue at which the savage attack had occurred. The young men blamed their confusion on darkness, the late hour and alcohol, but Mordecai knew better. Collective amnesia was a sure sign of conspiracy. He considered asking Paul Guber for the true details of the incident, but that would’ve required Paul to open his mouth and speak, thus ruining a key plank of Mordecai’s legal strategy. He wanted the jury to behold a stockbroker rendered mute and helpless by violent trauma. A stockbroker who could still work the phones wasn’t nearly so pitiable a plaintiff. Mordecai’s plan called for poor Mr. Guber to remain silent.
    The lawyer decided to try visual aids. He got a map of Broward County and attached it to a tall easel. With colored pins he marked the location of every synagogue from Tamarac to Hallandale. Mordecai’s idea was to assemble Paul Guber and his buddies in front of the map; either it would jog their memories, or help them agree on a plausible story. Synagogues in the most affluent neighborhoods were denoted by shiny green pins—Mordecai’s subtle way of suggesting a suitably prosperous defendant.
    The map was brought to Paul Guber’s hospital room, and his friends gathered on each side of the bed. Mordecai stood back and waited. The men squinted at the map. They mumbled. They pointed. They rubbed their chins in feigned concentration. It was a dreadful scene. After an hour, Mordecai ordered them all to go home and think about it.
    Outside the hospital room, Paul’s fiancée said, “What does it mean?”
    “It means I’m losing interest,” the lawyer replied.

    Back at the office, Mordecai’s secretary seemed relieved to see him, which was unusual. She took him to the conference room, where a new client was waiting. It took all of Mordecai’s courage to shake the man’s hand.
    “I’m Shad,” the man said. “We talked on the phone.”
    The man was broad, bumpy and hairless. He wore a tank top, parachute pants and black Western boots. He had the grip of a wrestler.
    Mordecai’s secretary vanished. The lawyer took a seat at the table and motioned for Shad to do the same. “You got a fridge?” Shad said.
    “Pardon?”
    Shad opened a brown grocery sack and took out the Ziploc pouch containing the undamaged foil seal; this he held up, dramatically, for Mordecai to see. Then Shad reached in the sack and removed the container of Delicato Fruity Low-Fat Yogurt. “Blueberry,” he announced, removing the Glad Wrap.
    “Ah yes,” said Mordecai. “You’re the one with the insect.”
    “Roach,” Shad said, firmly. He pushed the yogurt across the table. Mordecai examined it tentatively, finding nothing.
    “It’s in here?” He peered at the flawless creaminess.
    “You bet,” Shad said. “We’re talking jumbo.”
    Mordecai lifted the wax carton up to the light. “I wish I could see it.”
    Shad offered him a spoon and said, “Happy hunting.”
    The lawyer hesitated. “First we should get some pictures.” He buzzed the secretary and told her to bring the camera. Moments later, she buzzed back to report it was out of film.
    Shad said, “Hope you got a fridge.”
    “Well, of course.”
    “And I’d like a receipt.”
    Mordecai was offended. “You don’t trust me?”
    “Not yet,” said Shad.
    “Don’t worry. We’ll have a contract.”
    “Still, I’d like a receipt. That’s my future there.” He pointed at the yogurt carton. “That’s my retirement.”
    Mordecai explained the customary arrangement in such cases. When he got to the