The Litigators by John Grisham Page B

and since Wally was hitting the funeral homes, she had no choice.
    She closed his door behind her and placed the bingo card in front of Mr. Finley. “You’re not going to believe this,” she said.
    “What’s he done now?” Oscar asked as he scanned the card. “Three hundred and ninety-nine dollars?”
    “Yep.”
    “I thought we agreed that $500 was the minimum for a no-fault?”
    “No, we agreed on $750, then $600, then $1,000, then $500. Next week I’m sure we’ll agree on something else.”
    “I will not do a divorce for $400. I’ve been a lawyer for thirty-two years, and I will not prostitute myself for such a meager fee. Do you hear me, Ms. Gibson?”
    “I’ve heard this before.”
    “Let Figg do it. It’s his case. His bingo card. I’m too busy.”
    “Right, but Figg’s not here, and you’re not really that busy.”
    “Where is he?”
    “He’s visiting the dead, one of his funeral laps around town.”
    “What’s his scheme this time?”
    “Don’t know yet.”
    “This morning it was Taser guns.”
    Oscar laid the bingo card on his desk and stared at it. He shook his head, mumbled to himself, and asked, “What kind of tormented mind could even conceive of the notion of advertising on bingo cards in a VFW?”
    “Figg,” she said without hesitation.
    “I might have to strangle him.”
    “I’ll hold him down.”
    “Dump this riffraff on his desk. Make an appointment. They can come back later. It’s an outrage that people think they can just walk in off the street and see a lawyer, even Figg, without an appointment. Give me a little dignity, okay?”
    “Okay, you have dignity. Look, they have some assets and almost no debt. They’re in their sixties, kids are gone. I say you split ’em up, keep her, start the meter.”
    B y 3:00 p.m., Abner’s was quiet again. Eddie had somehow disappeared with the lunch crowd, and David Zinc was alone at the bar. Four middle-aged men were getting drunk in a booth as they made big plans for a bonefishing trip to Mexico.
    Abner was washing glasses in a small sink near the beer taps. He was talking about Miss Spence. “Her last husband was Angus Spence. Ring a bell?”
    David shook his head. At that moment, nothing rang a bell. The lights were on, but no one was home.
    “Angus was the billionaire no one knew. Owned a bunch of potash deposits in Canada and Australia. Died ten years ago, left her witha bundle. She would be on the Forbes list, but they can’t find all the assets. The old man was too smart. She lives in a penthouse on the lake, comes in every day at eleven, has three Pearl Harbors for lunch, leaves at 12:15 when the crowd comes in, and I guess she goes home and sleeps it off.”
    “I think she’s cute.”
    “She’s ninety-four.”
    “She didn’t pay her tab.”
    “She doesn’t get a tab. She sends me a thousand bucks every month. She wants that stool and three drinks and her privacy. I’ve never seen her talk to anyone before. You should consider yourself lucky.”
    “She wants my body.”
    “Well, you know where to find her.”
    David took a small sip of a Guinness stout. Rogan Rothberg was a distant memory. He wasn’t so sure about Helen, and he really didn’t care. He had decided to get wonderfully drunk and enjoy the moment. Tomorrow would be brutal, and he would deal with it then. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could interfere with this delightful slide into oblivion.
    Abner slid a cup of coffee in front of him and said, “Just brewed it.”
    David ignored it. He said, “So you work on retainer, huh? Just like a law firm. What could I get for a thousand bucks a month?”
    “At the rate you’re going, a thousand won’t touch it. Have you called your wife, David?”
    “Look, Abner, you’re a bartender, not a marriage counselor. This is a big day for me, a day that will change my life forever. I’m in the middle of a major crack-up, or meltdown, or whatever it is. My life will never be the same, so let me enjoy this