state police, and his massive head was surmounted with the same shiny origami cap – all sharp angles, with a peak like a stork’s bill – his was festooned with ornate enamelled medallions.
The officer – who Tom assumed, rightly, to be a Tugga-narong – marched up to him, smelled his breath through pump-action nostrils and spat out: ‘Drinking, eh? Anglo’s ruin over here.’ Then he laughed and turned to the lawyer. ‘Gettinoff on your pot an’ stuff, are you, Jethro?’ He jerked a thumb towards the marina. ‘I ken tellya ’ow that tub ainfor the thing. You gotta veep-creep up on ’em fishy-fellers. Veep-creep awlways. I bin out lass Satenday for tuckerbully, an’ gotta 500-pounder juss offa me skiff.’
Swai-Phillips guffawed. ‘Me? I took two 700-pound tunny off Piccaboy’s ’fore lunch the same day. Gaffed ’em, filleted ’em, an’ served ’em up to the old folk at me veranda. I tellya, Squolly, that pot ’o mine don’ juss find de fish – it lures dem in!’
The two men – one, two heads taller than the other – continued their hobbyists’ boasting for another five minutes or so, their claims becoming more and more fantastical.
At some point Swai-Phillips must have passed the officer, whom he called Squolly, the Milford Chemical Bank’s faxed notification of Tom’s asset transfer, because he no longer had it in his hand when he broke off and said to Tom, ‘We’re off now’; then to Squolly, ‘Gotta get this diddy one back ’fore ’e karks wiv de stress of itall.’
The two friends – for, clearly, that’s what they were – then touched palms, and, grasping his client’s shoulder as if it were the tiller of a sluggish sailboat, Swai-Phillips guided Tom out of the building.
Once they were in the lawyer’s SUV, and a fair way off from police headquarters, cruising along the wide boulevards through the commercial district, Tom recovered his thick tongue and asked Swai-Phillips: ‘What happened there? I mean, Adams said I’d be arrested.’
‘You were.’
‘Then what about Miranda? He, S-Squolly, he never read me my rights.’
‘Rights!’ Swai-Phillips laughed. ‘The only rights hereabouts are the ones we make!’
And to illustrate this witticism, he signalled and took the next right into a cross street.
Tom absorbed this for a while, then said: ‘When will the judge decide if I get bail?’
This time the lawyer laughed long and hard; a series of independent bellows of such force that even the oversized car rocked.
‘Oh.’ He recovered himself and patted Tom’s bare knee. ‘You got bail alrighty, no worries there, my friend, yeah. With a hundred K down flat, Squolly would’ve given bail to a kiddie-fiddler!’
And Swai-Phillips erupted all over again, his preposterous silvery Afro shaking like the foliage of a birch tree.
Put out, Tom almost inquired whether, since there had been no sign of a judge, a bribe had been involved. But then he thought better of it: he was beginning to understand how far out of his depth he was. To ask his own lawyer such a thing would only be to flounder still more in this treacherous quicksand.
The shock, the heat and the leaden charge of Adams’s palm spirit Daquiri were all puddling together into a bad headache, when the SUV pulled into the Mimosa’s parking lot. Swai-Phillips hit a button on the dash, and the native music that had been unobtrusively playing – and which, Tom now realized, had the same, insistent bing-bong beat as the ring tone on his hired cellphone – cut out.
The lawyer stopped the car and turned in his seat. Tom looked into the wrap-around shades and saw in their bulbous lenses his own pale face, leeched of any colour or composure.
‘OK, Brodzinski.’ The lawyer was all business now. ‘Come by my office tomorrow morning, as soon as you’ve moved your stuff over to a longer-let apartment. Budget will be a consideration for you now, yeah? I can recommend the Entreati Experience on Trangaden
The officer – who Tom assumed, rightly, to be a Tugga-narong – marched up to him, smelled his breath through pump-action nostrils and spat out: ‘Drinking, eh? Anglo’s ruin over here.’ Then he laughed and turned to the lawyer. ‘Gettinoff on your pot an’ stuff, are you, Jethro?’ He jerked a thumb towards the marina. ‘I ken tellya ’ow that tub ainfor the thing. You gotta veep-creep up on ’em fishy-fellers. Veep-creep awlways. I bin out lass Satenday for tuckerbully, an’ gotta 500-pounder juss offa me skiff.’
Swai-Phillips guffawed. ‘Me? I took two 700-pound tunny off Piccaboy’s ’fore lunch the same day. Gaffed ’em, filleted ’em, an’ served ’em up to the old folk at me veranda. I tellya, Squolly, that pot ’o mine don’ juss find de fish – it lures dem in!’
The two men – one, two heads taller than the other – continued their hobbyists’ boasting for another five minutes or so, their claims becoming more and more fantastical.
At some point Swai-Phillips must have passed the officer, whom he called Squolly, the Milford Chemical Bank’s faxed notification of Tom’s asset transfer, because he no longer had it in his hand when he broke off and said to Tom, ‘We’re off now’; then to Squolly, ‘Gotta get this diddy one back ’fore ’e karks wiv de stress of itall.’
The two friends – for, clearly, that’s what they were – then touched palms, and, grasping his client’s shoulder as if it were the tiller of a sluggish sailboat, Swai-Phillips guided Tom out of the building.
Once they were in the lawyer’s SUV, and a fair way off from police headquarters, cruising along the wide boulevards through the commercial district, Tom recovered his thick tongue and asked Swai-Phillips: ‘What happened there? I mean, Adams said I’d be arrested.’
‘You were.’
‘Then what about Miranda? He, S-Squolly, he never read me my rights.’
‘Rights!’ Swai-Phillips laughed. ‘The only rights hereabouts are the ones we make!’
And to illustrate this witticism, he signalled and took the next right into a cross street.
Tom absorbed this for a while, then said: ‘When will the judge decide if I get bail?’
This time the lawyer laughed long and hard; a series of independent bellows of such force that even the oversized car rocked.
‘Oh.’ He recovered himself and patted Tom’s bare knee. ‘You got bail alrighty, no worries there, my friend, yeah. With a hundred K down flat, Squolly would’ve given bail to a kiddie-fiddler!’
And Swai-Phillips erupted all over again, his preposterous silvery Afro shaking like the foliage of a birch tree.
Put out, Tom almost inquired whether, since there had been no sign of a judge, a bribe had been involved. But then he thought better of it: he was beginning to understand how far out of his depth he was. To ask his own lawyer such a thing would only be to flounder still more in this treacherous quicksand.
The shock, the heat and the leaden charge of Adams’s palm spirit Daquiri were all puddling together into a bad headache, when the SUV pulled into the Mimosa’s parking lot. Swai-Phillips hit a button on the dash, and the native music that had been unobtrusively playing – and which, Tom now realized, had the same, insistent bing-bong beat as the ring tone on his hired cellphone – cut out.
The lawyer stopped the car and turned in his seat. Tom looked into the wrap-around shades and saw in their bulbous lenses his own pale face, leeched of any colour or composure.
‘OK, Brodzinski.’ The lawyer was all business now. ‘Come by my office tomorrow morning, as soon as you’ve moved your stuff over to a longer-let apartment. Budget will be a consideration for you now, yeah? I can recommend the Entreati Experience on Trangaden
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