Power Lawyer 3 Read online

  “Why, Mr. Creed,” she laughed gently. “You do know how to flatter a woman. I could email you some names. I leave it to you to contact them and see if they’ll talk, though I should warn you that this isn’t really a topic one discusses.”

  “I understand,” I assured her.

  She gave me a sly smile, and we finished our tea with more mundane conversation. I made sure she had both my email and Sofia’s email stored in her phone before I left, and she held her hand out again as I stood up.

  “Please feel free to call me again if you have any more questions,” she said with a wink.

  I could see the humor in her eyes, and I knew she was trying very hard not to laugh outright at the reaction of the other women. I decided to play along and I leaned over her hand and placed a kiss on her knuckles. She was positively shaking with the effort not to laugh when I looked up.

  “I’ll be sure to do that,” I said loudly enough for the tables nearest to ours to hear.

  She covered her mouth with her hand when I released it, and I did my best saunter as I left the tea room. I could hear the titters start as soon as I stepped outside, but I kept a straight face until I was around the corner and out of sight of our audience. I burst out laughing, and instantly regretted it, as I sucked in a lungful of dirty air. I ended up coughing the rest of the way back to my car.

  Once I was safely inside the Honda, I checked the time and realized most of the afternoon was already gone. I texted Sofia and told her to go ahead and leave if she hadn’t already. By the time I made it back to Van Nuys, it would be past closing time anyway, and the work I had left to finish for the day could just as easily be done at home. Sofia texted back to say that she was sending out the last of the bills, and then she was off.

  The drive home was a long, slow slog. Night seemed to descend early, thanks to all the smoke in the air, but the street lights weren’t much help. Their light seemed trapped in the haze, and the streets were darker than usual. I finally found a decent spot for the Honda, and made my way to the apartment. I stripped off my clothes as soon as I was through the door, and took a quick rinse in the shower. Feeling somewhat more alive, I slipped on some old sweats and sat down in front of my laptop.

  I didn’t realize how much time had passed until I glanced at the clock. I suddenly realized that I hadn’t eaten anything since tea, and my stomach rumbled in response. I considered take-out options, but decided I’d rather eat out. There was a good seafood shack called Russo’s nearby, and I felt the need to get out and stretch my legs, even if the air was still fouled by the fire.

  Russo’s is owned by an old Cajun who came to California with the Navy. When he retired, he returned home to the family shrimping business in Louisiana, but then decided he’d rather cook shrimp than catch shrimp. He convinced his assorted family members that he could create a thriving Cajun seafood place in California, if they would supply him with the right seafood. Lucky for me, Russo didn’t want to open a fancy restaurant. He found a place that suited his price range, and far enough away from other seafood places, right in my neighborhood.

  His sons now do most of the cooking, but they still get all the fresh gulf seafood from the family business. You’d be hard pressed to find a better meal at places that cost two or three times more, and none of them have Papa Russo’s secret sauce. I found a spot at the bar, and ordered a shrimp po’boy and a Chafunkta Old 504. Both arrived just minutes later, and my stomach grumbled in anticipation. The fried shrimp spilled over the edges of the crispy, fluffy roll, and I thanked them for their service before smothering them in a hefty dose of Papa Russo’s secret sauce.

  The shrimp were perfect, still delicate despite the frying process, and the breading made for a crispy contrast. The sauce had a solid kick, a pleasant blend of various peppers and other spices that I hadn’t quite identified yet. Once I polished off the shrimp, I used the french-style roll to sop up the rest of the sauce. I only slowed down long enough to sip my beer, a Louisiana specialty infused with coffee and vanilla that matched the heat of the sandwich perfectly.

  When I’d scooped up the final drop of the sauce, the waiter swept away the plate and pointed at the specials board. Russo’s never has a regular dessert menu. It’s just whatever Mama Russo decides to make that day, and today she had bread pudding and bourbon pecan pie. I opted for the pie, and the waiter returned with a slab that could have been a meal unto itself. I told myself I was going to have to put in extra time at the gym tomorrow morning, and then dove in. It was crunchy, and chewy, and full of flavor, and I snarfed it down like I hadn’t eaten in weeks.

  I sighed in contentment when I finally sat back. The waiter brought a cup of coffee, and I sipped slowly, letting the food digest while I decided how much work I really needed to finish tonight. Feeling more than a little full, I paid the bill and rolled out to the sidewalk. The air still had a burnt smell, but I could almost swear that the smog had lifted somewhat. I risked a deep breath, and decided that it wasn’t as bad as it had been.

  “Hey, ese,” a voice called out. I glanced around, not sure who the voice was calling.

  “Yeah, you,” a second voice replied. I turned around slowly, and saw two men step out of the shadows. One was tall and lean, with a scar running along the hairline on the right side of his face. He had small eyes, spaced too far apart in his long face. His partner was maybe an inch or two shorter than me, and he had his black hair pulled back into a ponytail. He was still wearing sunglasses, despite the darkness.

  “We have some questions for you,” the first voice insisted, and I realized that it was the taller of the two men. His eyes had narrowed even more, and his right hand closed over something hidden under his leather jacket.

  “What kind of questions?” I asked as I balanced myself on the balls of my feet. I slipped into a fighter’s posture, and waited for the two men to make their move.

  “We know a woman named Gloria Burke came to see you,” the tall man replied. “Why’d she do that?”

  “That’s none of your concern,” I replied. The two men were still standing together, no doubt imagining they looked more threatening that way. It also made it easier for me to keep track of them, so I wasn’t about to complain.

  “It is our business,” the shorter man insisted.

  “How so?” I demanded.

  “Come on, homes,” the taller one cajoled. “It’s a simple question, right? Why you wanna get in a fight about it?”

  “I don’t,” I assured him. “But I can’t violate attorney-client privilege, even if a pair of thugs do try to threaten me.”

  We stared at each other for several moments, and the tall one even took a step back. I think he would have left then, but the shorter one made a dismissive sound, then pulled a knife from under his jacket.

  “Just answer the question and no one gets hurt,” the short one barked, like some bad actor in a really cheesy gangster movie.

  The tall one shot a nasty look toward his partner, but apparently the bad behavior wasn’t enough to make him abandon his partner. The tall one drew a knife out as well, and I dropped my chin to my chest, ready to go on the offensive.

  The short one moved first, jumping forward with his knife pointed somewhere in the area of my midsection. I landed a kick to his knee that dropped him into a squat position, and followed up with a hard right jab to the chin. He toppled backward, and his knife went skidding off into the darkness.

  The tall one had moved off to my left, putting space between the two, and making it harder for me to track both targets. I caught something glinting out of the corner of my eye, and threw my arm up just in time. I heard the sound of fabric tearing, and then something warm spread along my bicep. I realized the bastard had just cut me in the arm, and I threw another punch as he tried to close in. I caught him in the shoulder, just as he took another swing at me.

  Done with playing nice, I jabbed a finger into his eye. He stepped back, and I kicked him in the groin, and finished with an uppercut to the jaw. He
slumped over and laid sprawled on the sidewalk. I stepped back, trying to catch my breath, and realized that most of the people from Russo’s had stepped outside. Several were recording the fight, and at least one was talking on the phone.

  “We’ve called the cops,” someone in the growing crowd said. I wasn’t sure if that was meant as reassurance or as a warning, but I could hear sirens in the distance now. Someone stepped forward, and led me back inside. I sat down on one of the barstools and one of the patrons pressed an old dish towel against my arm.

  “Damn, son,” the patron murmured. “You sure took care of those idiots.”

  “Sort of,” I amended as I glanced down at my arm. Blood was still flowing, and the towel was slowly turning red.

  “We got it all on video,” one of the other patrons told me. “No way they’ll arrest you.”

  The cop car finally arrived, and the restaurant goers were more than happy to describe what they had seen. My assailants had tried to stand up, but had been unceremoniously shoved back down by the pack. One woman handed the officer her phone, and I guessed she was showing him the video of our fight. He returned the phone to her just as a second cruiser and an ambulance arrived. The woman was pointing toward the restaurant, and the officer now strode in my direction.

  “You want to explain what that was about?” the cop asked.

  “I don’t know,” I replied truthfully.

  “They talked to you,” the cop pointed out. The woman must have started filming almost as soon as they approached me.

  “They asked about a woman who came to my office,” I admitted. “They wanted to know why she hired me.”

  “And you are?” the policeman asked.

  “Vincent Creed,” I replied. “I’m an attorney.”

  “Creed,” he said speculatively. “Yeah, I know you. You’ve been getting into everyone’s business. So what did this client of yours do to piss off the Chuchos Locos?”

  “Chuchos Locos?” I asked.

  “Street gang,” the cop said with a shrug. “Those two idiots you took down are members.”

  “Oh,” I replied. I felt myself blink several times, but I was having a hard time coming up with anything to say.

  “Officer,” the patron sitting next to me interrupted. “I think he needs to go to the emergency room. He got sliced pretty bad.”

  The cop seemed to notice the bloody towel for the first time, and he rocked on his feet, as if trying to decide if I was really in need of medical care or if I was just trying to get out of answering his questions. He finally gave in and stepped back outside. He was replaced a few moments later by an EMT, a superefficient black woman who took my vitals in record time. Satisfied that I wasn’t about to die on the spot, she examined the wound, made a few disapproving sounds, and then tied the arm with a tourniquet.

  “You’ll need stitches,” she warned me. “Can you stand?”

  “I think so,” I replied. She helped me to my feet, and I managed to navigate toward the back of the ambulance without faceplanting. The shorter Chucho Loco was there already, though his hands were in cuffs, and one of the officers was telling the EMT to hurry up so they could haul him down to the precinct. The EMT gave up when we arrived, and the cop hauled the pony-tailed man toward one of the cruisers. I was helped into the back of the ambulance, and we set off for the hospital.

  I was seen pretty quickly, despite the fact that this appeared to be a busy night at the ER. My doctor was almost as quick as the EMT, barely glancing at my file. He cleaned the wound, injected a local anesthetic, and then stitched my arm. He then offered me a pill and a cup of water, which I dutifully took.

  “Try to minimize usage for a few days,” he said as he placed my arm into a sling. He spoke in a rapid-fire manner, barely giving you time to register each statement before he moved on to the next one. “You don’t want to reopen those stitches. You should go home and rest. You’ll probably feel a bit woozy. Do you have someone who can drive you home?”

  “Yes,” I replied when I realized he had finally stopped talking and was expecting an answer.

  “Good,” he said. He handed me a prescription as well as two small packages. “Those will get you through tonight. Pain pills and antibiotics. You’ll need to get more in the morning when the pharmacies open. Remember to change the dressing regularly. Keep an eye on the wound. If it starts to look infected, come back.”

  And with that, he was gone. I stood up slowly, and made my way back to the waiting room. I debated whom to call, and finally settled on Ari. Ari wouldn’t ask too many questions, and he might even let me crash at his place tonight. Sofia would come, but then there would be a ton of questions that I didn’t feel like thinking about just yet. Not to mention Mother Calderon, who would be very disappointed that I had managed to get in another fight.

  Ari arrived, looking only slightly ruffled. I clambered into his Wrangler, and I’m sure I looked as ungainly as I felt.

  “You look like hell,” he commented as he watched me try to pull the seatbelt on.

  “In the morning,” I sighed, “all will be revealed. Can I stay at your place tonight?”

  “Of course,” he agreed quickly.

  He turned the radio up, and we made the trip to his apartment talk-free, with just the sound of nineties grunge to set the mood. I managed to climb out of the Wrangler without too much fuss, and Ari guided me to the apartment. I dropped onto the couch like a stone, and realized that the meds the doctor had given me at the hospital must be kicking in. I had assumed they were pain meds, but now I was starting to think they were more than just tylenol. I felt my eyes flutter, and someone placed a blanket over me, and that was it. I was out like a light for the duration.

  Chapter 3

  Ari woke me up the next morning with a quick shake to my uninjured arm and a steaming mug of coffee under my nose. I sipped while he showered, and when I felt more human, I texted Sofia to tell her I would be a little bit late. I received a giant question mark in return, and I promised to explain when I finally made it in.

  We stopped at the fast food joint on the corner and picked up sausage biscuits and hash browns that we could eat in the Wrangler before heading back to my place. I told Ari what I could remember, which drew a shake of the head from my long-time friend.

  “Where do you find these clients?” Ari asked. “Most lawyers can go their entire careers without ever running into a gang member or a mafioso, but you, how many does this make now?”

  “I’m not counting,” I replied with a wince. I was definitely going to drop off those prescriptions on the way into the office.

  “Well, I don’t know much about this Chuchos Locos gang,” he said as he cut off a slow-moving Prius. “They don’t sound very bright to me.”

  “I don’t think the two that attacked me were up for any Nobel prizes,” I pointed out. “And I don’t think they were supposed to be the brains of the operation either.”

  “I’m telling you, bro,” Ari sighed, “You need to come work with me. The worst thing you’d have to worry about is some CEO who decided to add a little extra to his year-end bonus.”

  “That’s still criminal law,” I pointed out.

  “Yes, but most CEO’s don’t run around with knives trying to stab people,” Ari replied.

  “Where’s the fun in that?” I asked as Ari pulled up in front of my building.

  “The fun is what you do after, with all the money they pay you,” Ari laughed. I gave him a playful jab, then hopped out of the jeep. He waved, and then pulled back into traffic, cutting off a city bus.

  I made it back to my apartment without drawing too many stares, and I even managed to get cleaned up and into a suit without too much wincing. There was a drugstore on the next block, and I decided that filling the prescriptions now would save me some pain later.

  I doubted the wisdom of that decision when I walked to the pharmacy at the back of the store. There was a large group of people already waiting, and nearly that same number still in line to tur
n in their prescriptions. I thought about coming back after work, but the man in front of me started hacking into a much abused tissue, and I decided that the antibiotics were at least necessary.

  The woman manning the register was efficient, and the line moved quickly. She processed prescriptions, payments, and insurance cards with ease. The pack of pharmacists I could see working in the room behind her moved just as quickly, and I was soon back at the counter, picking up my pills and handing over my credit card. The whole transaction took less than twenty minutes.

  Despite the speed of the pharmacy crew, I was still nearly half an hour late to the office. On the upside, I didn’t have meetings scheduled until lunchtime when I was supposed to meet an old friend of my parents for lunch. I don’t think he really needed any legal work done, but it was his way of offering me money without offering me money. Apparently, not everyone was convinced that I was a successful lawyer, no matter how many times my name appeared in the paper.

  “You look terrible,” Sofia said as I stepped into the office. She studied my face for a moment, then stood up from her own desk and walked over to examine me more closely.

  “I had a close encounter with a pair of idiots from the Chuchos Lobos last night,” I replied

  “What?” she exclaimed. “Where did you run into them?”

  “As I was coming out of Russo’s,” I explained. “They wanted to know why Gloria Burke had come to talk to me.”

  “Gloria Burke,” Sofia repeated as she took the prescription bag from my hand and studied the contents. “What on earth would a pair of Chuchos Lobos know about Gloria Burke?”

  “Hell if I know,” I sighed. “And apparently, the two geniuses last night didn’t either. They wanted to know what we had talked about it.”

  “That’s a bad gang to have asking questions about you,” Sofia commented.

  “What do you know about them?” I asked.

  “They’ve been around for a while,” she replied with a shrug. “That says something, that they’ve been able to survive this long. Most of these smaller gangs either get broken up by the police, absorbed by bigger gangs, or wiped out in a turf war.”