Chapter 5

            They parked in the alley behind the shop. Darius climbed out and shuffled his way inside, wiping the sweat from his face and neck as he walked. Herbert remained behind the wheel, clutching his cell phone in one hand and Blackjack's scrap of paper in the other. He exhaled and dialed the number.

            It rang for a long time, entire lifetimes passing between each electric chime. Herbert closed his eyes and tried to figure out what he was going to say. This was poker, not boxing. It was all about playing cool and keeping your cards to your chest. There was no need to come out swinging.

            A woman answered. Her voice was cheerful and friendly. “Trotman and Associates, this is Tina. How may I help you today?”

            Herbert pulled his phone from his ear and looked at it as if it were something he had just seen fall from the sky. Tina's voice mumbled into his hand. He considered hanging up. Then he raised the phone to his ear.

            “Hello?” Tina groped, her voice losing its happy bounce.

            “Yes, hello.”

            “What can I do for you today?”

            “This is a lawyer's office, right?”

            “Yes.”

            “All right. This...Trotman, does he have any openings today?”

            “It depends.” Tina's voice was as stiff and hard as steel. “What would this meeting be in regard to?”

            “I think I'm going to need a defense attorney. I need a consultation.”

            The woman's voice slackened slightly. “I see. We have a slot open at three this afternoon. Does that work for you?”

            “I think I can manage that.”

            The day crawled by. Herbert tried to busy himself with some of the things he had been putting off around the shop but found himself looking at the clock every fifteen minutes.

            “What's the matter with you?” Darius finally said after throwing a carpet into the steamer. “You've been staring at the clock all day. Got a date or something?”

            “You could say that.”

            “Wait, really?” Darius smiled. “I was jus' makin' jokes, but do you actually have a date?”

            “It's an appointment.”

            “Goin' to a cathouse or somethin? Gonna go get a quick BJ?”

            Herbert closed his eyes. “I know you think you're funny, D, but I've actually got an appointment with an oncologist.”

            “What's that? Some kind of butt doctor?”

            “An oncologist is a cancer doctor.”

            Herbert kept his eyes closed. He knew from the silence that the color had drained from Darius’ face.

            “W-what?”

            “An oncologist is a doctor who treats cancer.”

            “Cancer?”

            Herbert opened his eyes. Darius stared at him, pale, eyes wet and wide with shock.

            “You got cancer, Herbie? I mean, I know you haven't been lookin' so good these past few weeks, but I never thought...”

            “What do you mean I haven't been lookin' good?” Herbert snapped. “I don't have cancer. But you need to mind your own goddamn business. I got an appointment is all.”

            Darius rubbed his eyes. “Wait, what? Now you don't have cancer? You had me over here feelin' sorry for your ass and you was just fuckin' with me?”

            “That's what happens when you ask too many questions, D.”

            Darius clicked his tongue and looked away.

            “I'm gonna head out now. You keep an eye on the shop til I get back.”

            “Yeah, yeah.” Darius answered with a sullen wave of his hand.

            Trotman and Associates was in the North Rim on the twentieth floor of a high rise in the dead center of downtown. The building stabbed upward, a shimmering tower of glass piercing the sky. It was in the throbbing heart of the city, full of people and luxury cars and taxis zipping from place to place. Finding parking was a nightmare. When Herbert finally secured a meter, he exhaled a deep breath and sat behind the wheel as the engine clicked and fell silent.

            He reached under the driver's seat and felt around the trash and dust until he found what he was looking for. He pulled the heavy piece of black metal out of its hiding place. The revolver was dusty, but Herbert knew it worked. Once every few weeks he and Darius would fire off rounds in the desert to blow off steam after burying a stiff. He popped out the six chambers and looked at the six brass bullet casings gleaming in the afternoon sun. Outside the window, several blocks from his parking space, was the office building. He felt the weight of the gun in his hand and slid it back under the seat. There was no need to light up an office building in broad daylight. There were laws in the North Rim.

            The elevator moved too fast for Hebert's liking. His stomach lurched as the box of metal and glass whipped skyward, coming to an abrupt soundless halt on the twentieth floor. He staggered through the doors and briefly considered taking the stairs back down.

            Sunlight poured into the lobby and made everything glow. Bolted to the wall in polished silver letters were the words Trotman and Associates. Chairs were arranged around the room accompanied by strategically placed coffee tables cluttered with magazines. A long pearl white desk stretched along the far wall. A receptionist sat behind it and typed at a computer. She was young and beautiful and dressed to the nines in a silk blouse garnished with glittering gold accents. Herbert felt a nostalgic twinge in his chest as he looked at her, a face bubbling up to the forefront of his memory. He pushed it down and crossed the floor.

            The receptionist turned an eye from her screen to the old man in a jumpsuit standing before her. Her face was a mask of professionalism, though Herbert felt a hint of judgment at his blue-collar uniform. “How can I help you today?”

            Herbert cleared his throat. “I have an appointment for three.”

            “You're a little early. Would you mind having a seat?” She smiled.

            “Sure.” Herbert nodded and dropped himself into one of the chairs. He picked up one of the magazines and leafed through them but couldn’t focus on the words. They were just smears on the page. He was too preoccupied with his meeting. The office's austere opulence made him uncomfortable. It was an alienating glimpse into a world that he would never be a part of. More than that even, it confirmed his fears that whatever it was he found himself tangled up in went all the way up to the highest echelons of society. Herbert knew he was not a man in the eyes of these people, just a disposable tool to further their own bids for more wealth and power. He crossed and uncrossed his legs.

            He looked over at the receptionist to find that she had abandoned her post. Herbert rubbed his eyes. There were no clocks in sight, so all he had to guide him was his own distorted instinct for time. It could've been hours. He looked at a golden beam of light slicing through the window and decided that it had realistically only been five minutes.

            A previously unnoticed door swung open behind the desk and the receptionist glided back to her seat. “Mr. Trotman will see you now.” She motioned toward the door. “His office is at the end of the hall.”

            Herbert stood and crossed the room, muttering thanks as he passed by her.

            Trotman's office was at the end of a narrow hallway lined with doors. The door was made of dark wood and looked very heavy. Herbert paused and wondered if he should knock, then decided against it and let himself in.

            The office was large, nearly as large as the lobby, but maintained a much more friendly atmosphere. The air was warm and smelled of tobacco, brandy, and old money. The walls were lined with mammoth bookcases stuffed with leather-bound legal tomes of all shapes and sizes. Floor to ceiling windows lined the back wall, though little sunlight came in due to the direction they faced. Placed a few feet in front of these windows was a boat-like desk made of varnished walnut and mahogany.

            Seated behind the desk in an overstuffed leather chair was a silver-haired man. His corpulent form was shoved into in a pressed black suit with a sky colored tie wrapped around his neck. A matching pocket square adorned his left breast pocket. His face was pale and smooth without hair or wrinkle, save for some minor creases around his wet green eyes. His lips were fat pink worms spread into a smile, showing off square yellowed teeth.

            “Welcome,” Trotman said, heaving his girth up from his chair. He held out a hand to shake. “Mister...?”

            Herbert took the attorney's clammy hand and gave it a firm shake. “Winslow, Herb Winslow.”

            “Adrian Trotman, pleasure to meet you.” He motioned to one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat. Would you like something to drink? Water? Coffee?”

            “No, thank you.” Herbert shook his head and sat down.

            Trotman dropped himself back into his chair. “So. Mr. Winslow. You wanted my counsel, correct?” He picked up a bullet-like pen and twirled it in his fingers.

            “Yes.” Herbert nodded and watched the stainless-steel pen catch the light, flashing between the lawyer's stubby fingers. “I've run into some trouble.”

            Trotman clucked his tongue. “Well, we all run into some trouble every now and again. Tell me to the best of your ability what kind of trouble we're dealing with and I'll let you know if I'll be of any use to you.” He sank back in his chair and smiled, still twirling the pen.

            Herbert cleared his throat and stared at the lawyer. He was struck by an immediate disdain for Trotman. There was something in his easy smile and well-fed form that was off-putting. Herbert chose his words carefully. “You see, I'm a carpet cleaner. Me and this kid I hired go to people's houses, pick up their dirty carpets, and clean them. Usually, we'll have clients come pick them up, but sometimes we'll drop them off for an extra fee.”

            “I see.” Trotman nodded.

            “So, we were dropping off a carpet at a client's home, as we sometimes do, and we were then pulled over by an undercover detective.”

            “How can you be so sure that the two incidents are related?” Trotman put down his pen and tented his fingers. He leaned forward and the chair groaned beneath him.

            “Because he showed up at my shop this morning, without a warrant, mind you, and started asking me questions about some...Gideon Roland guy.”

            “I see.” Something changed in Trotman's stare. The affability was gone, replaced with something cold and calculating. He looked at Herbert as if he were a puzzle to be solved.

            “I guess something happened to him. Went missing or something.”

            “It happens every day...” Trotman's voice was soft and sounded as though he were speaking more to himself than his potential client.

            “I'm just trying to make sure that I'm not gonna be stuck with the bill, you know what I mean? I never heard of this guy before and I don't know where he is.”

            “Well,” Trotman cleared his throat. “If you've done nothing wrong, you won't have anything to worry about. The detective is probably just trying to generate a timeline of events. I would say you should cooperate fully with the investigation.”

            “All right.” Herbert nodded. A silence settled between the two men for a moment. Herbert spoke again. “I mean, this Roland guy, he was some kind of hot-shot banker, right?”

            Trotman nodded slowly. “Yes, he's a VP for First Metropolitan.”

            “Do you think something happened to him? Anybody wanted to see him in a hole in the ground?”

            “We all have enemies. A man like Gideon Roland is no exception. But that doesn't mean we should jump straight to the worst-case scenario...”

            “I guess it's possible for him to have flown the coop. Maybe jumped on a plane for a week off with his mistress or something...” Herbert forced himself to smile at the lawyer.

            “Entirely possible.” Trotman smirked and nodded.

            Another pause descended on them like thunderheads across a blue sky. Herbert stared across the desk. Trotman stared back, his eyes shining with otherworldly clarity. “What exactly would you like me to do for you, Mr. Winslow?”

            “I want you to make sure that I don't go to jail.”

            “I don't see any reason why you would, even if brought in for questioning.”

            Herbert felt a red-hot streak of anger pass through him. He exhaled through his nose and closed his eyes, trying to steady himself. Poker wasn't a game of cards; it was a game of people. Trotman was playing stupid. Herbert chose his words carefully. “Well, Mr. Trotman, I've cleaned a lot of…” Herbert cleared his throat, “dirty rugs in my time. Hundreds. Maybe even thousands. This is the first time I've ever had a detective pay my shop a visit. Was I just in the wrong place at the wrong time? It's certainly a possibility. But, don't you think it's reasonable to consider that there might be something more happening here?”

            Something changed in Trotman's stare. It was as though he were examining a machine and suddenly understood its basic mechanics. He folded his hands on the table. “Of course, it's reasonable.” His voice was a soft croak coming from the depths of his hefty form. “A professional… carpet cleaner like you must have strong instincts. They guided you here to me, after all. Didn't they?”

            Herbert nodded, his teeth clenched.

            “If I may ask, how did you get my contact information? I don't mean to offend when I say this, but I rarely get clients...of your means.”

            “I was referred by a friend.” Herbert's voice was tight and low.

            “Yes...I see...”

            “What difference does it make?”

            “Just curious.”

            “Well, you know who else is curious? The police. And if I don't have a decent lawyer backing me, who knows what they might figure out.”

            Again, there was a shift in those eyes. There was something amused and predatory in them. “I am sure a man with your experience has no trouble with speaking to the police.”

            “Who knows? They're a tricky bunch. You never know what they can wheedle out of someone, especially when they don't have proper legal advice.”

            Trotman nodded and plucked a business card from the expanse of his desk. “Yes, well, if you happen to get questioned by the police, feel free to give me a call. I will see what I can do.”

            Herbert took the card and nodded back. “Thank you. I will.”

            Trotman stood and held out a hand. The affability returned to his expression, swirling like a cloud of smoke. “Well, Mr. Winslow, it was a pleasure.”

            Herbert shook the hand again, squeezing the moist flesh with his own callused palm. “I appreciate your help.”