offering the business end to somebody else.
"There's no reason for hostility," I tell her.
But the look in her eyes tells me that's my opinion. Some of us get off on it.
"I have a client ..."
"Good for you."
"His only interest is in finding his granddaughter." She doesn't say a word and is no longer looking at me. She's back to her envelopes.
"For some strange reason, he thinks you might know where she is." Suade is a stone idol of contempt, an expression that says if I had anything, I'd be here with the sheriff and a summons.
"He's led to this belief by the fact that you met with him once.
At his home. In the presence of his daughter and granddaughter.
That you made certain statements, and that both his daughter and granddaughter disappeared shortly after that meeting."
"Life is just a simmering pot of coincidences," she says. "Tell me.
Did your client see me take this child?"
"What he saw or didn't see is for a court of law. I was hoping that could be avoided."
"I'll bet you were. Now for me, I love going to court," she says.
"All that pomp and ceremony. All that lying. Proof by the preponderance of perjury. Lawyers tripping over their tongues. Notice how they can always come up with some excuse for why then- clients did it or didn't do it. Or why it doesn't matter even if they did do it. Should I tell you how many times I've been to court in the last year?" When I don't ask, she volunteers.
"So many times I've lost count. And no matter how many times I go, it always ends the same way. Like a movie you've seen too many times, with a bad ending. You keep hoping for a happy one, but you never get it.
They always get it wrong. That's why I do what I do. If they knew what they were doing, if they cared, they wouldn't be giving custody to child molesters, and abusive husbands.
Of course that assumes they want to get it right."
"Have it your way," I tell her. "But it's going to get very messy.
My client is what you might call well-off. Deep pockets. And he's willing to spare no expense to make your life hell if you want to force the issue."
"Hell. He's going to make my life hell!" Her eyes light up like two glowing coals. "You tell your client I've been there and back and got the burns to prove it. Trust me, he couldn't find the place with a map and a flashlight if all the road signs pointed up his ass and he had the devil as a guide. But you tell him, he screws with me, and I'll be happy to show him the way." And he would indeed have the devil as a guide, I am thinking.
"You can leave now," she says. "And don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out." She reaches for her purse and buries her hand deep inside.
"Are you threatening me?"
"Do I look like I'm threatening you?"
"I don't know." Which is the way she wants it.
Then curiosity gets the better. "You never told me your client's name?"
"His granddaughter's name is Amanda."
"That doesn't help me." Like she doesn't keep track of the kids.
They're incidental to the process, the war between Zolanda and American justice.
"Jonah Hale is my client." She lights up like a lantern. "Mr. Lotto. Why didn't you say so?" The hand comes out of the bag. The purse is back under the counter. She's suddenly all smiles. The fact that she takes such pleasure in this information has me worried.
"I was just getting ready to do something special for him," she says. "I hope he likes publicity." I don't bite.
She drops behind the counter like a jack-in-the-box on the rebound.
I'm wondering if she's going back into her purse Visions of me running for the door and getting shot in the ass. But instead she's talking to herself all jovial, fussing with boxes and papers as I hear them clunking and shuffling under the counter.
"Where did I put that? Just had it," she says. "Damn. Oh here it is."
She emerges from the other side holding a letter box, heavy with papers.
"Copied these just yesterday," she says. "I was gonna wait and surprise him tomorrow. But since you
"There's no reason for hostility," I tell her.
But the look in her eyes tells me that's my opinion. Some of us get off on it.
"I have a client ..."
"Good for you."
"His only interest is in finding his granddaughter." She doesn't say a word and is no longer looking at me. She's back to her envelopes.
"For some strange reason, he thinks you might know where she is." Suade is a stone idol of contempt, an expression that says if I had anything, I'd be here with the sheriff and a summons.
"He's led to this belief by the fact that you met with him once.
At his home. In the presence of his daughter and granddaughter.
That you made certain statements, and that both his daughter and granddaughter disappeared shortly after that meeting."
"Life is just a simmering pot of coincidences," she says. "Tell me.
Did your client see me take this child?"
"What he saw or didn't see is for a court of law. I was hoping that could be avoided."
"I'll bet you were. Now for me, I love going to court," she says.
"All that pomp and ceremony. All that lying. Proof by the preponderance of perjury. Lawyers tripping over their tongues. Notice how they can always come up with some excuse for why then- clients did it or didn't do it. Or why it doesn't matter even if they did do it. Should I tell you how many times I've been to court in the last year?" When I don't ask, she volunteers.
"So many times I've lost count. And no matter how many times I go, it always ends the same way. Like a movie you've seen too many times, with a bad ending. You keep hoping for a happy one, but you never get it.
They always get it wrong. That's why I do what I do. If they knew what they were doing, if they cared, they wouldn't be giving custody to child molesters, and abusive husbands.
Of course that assumes they want to get it right."
"Have it your way," I tell her. "But it's going to get very messy.
My client is what you might call well-off. Deep pockets. And he's willing to spare no expense to make your life hell if you want to force the issue."
"Hell. He's going to make my life hell!" Her eyes light up like two glowing coals. "You tell your client I've been there and back and got the burns to prove it. Trust me, he couldn't find the place with a map and a flashlight if all the road signs pointed up his ass and he had the devil as a guide. But you tell him, he screws with me, and I'll be happy to show him the way." And he would indeed have the devil as a guide, I am thinking.
"You can leave now," she says. "And don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out." She reaches for her purse and buries her hand deep inside.
"Are you threatening me?"
"Do I look like I'm threatening you?"
"I don't know." Which is the way she wants it.
Then curiosity gets the better. "You never told me your client's name?"
"His granddaughter's name is Amanda."
"That doesn't help me." Like she doesn't keep track of the kids.
They're incidental to the process, the war between Zolanda and American justice.
"Jonah Hale is my client." She lights up like a lantern. "Mr. Lotto. Why didn't you say so?" The hand comes out of the bag. The purse is back under the counter. She's suddenly all smiles. The fact that she takes such pleasure in this information has me worried.
"I was just getting ready to do something special for him," she says. "I hope he likes publicity." I don't bite.
She drops behind the counter like a jack-in-the-box on the rebound.
I'm wondering if she's going back into her purse Visions of me running for the door and getting shot in the ass. But instead she's talking to herself all jovial, fussing with boxes and papers as I hear them clunking and shuffling under the counter.
"Where did I put that? Just had it," she says. "Damn. Oh here it is."
She emerges from the other side holding a letter box, heavy with papers.
"Copied these just yesterday," she says. "I was gonna wait and surprise him tomorrow. But since you
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