Chapter 5
Bill paced in irritation. He knew somewhere in his subconscious that his resentment of the turn of events that had kept him from closing out the deal between the workers of Wastend and the CEO of the company, was the source of this act of immaturity of walking back and forth for no apparent reason. Still, he paced.
His assistant, Cassie, came in carrying a folder, causing him to slow down and stop behind his desk. “Sir,” she began, “Rita is on the phone again. What shall I tell her?”
“I have nothing to tell her,” he said, waving his hand. He wished he did have something to offer the union representative. “Mr. Vellore still won’t see reason. The man is a first rate narcissist if you ask me.”
“What should I tell her? This is her third call.”
“Tell her I’m not in,” he shot back.
Cassie raised one of her pretty eyebrows. “Sir…”
Bill rolled his eyes. Cassie’s impeccable honesty was both a source of refreshment and irritation at times. “Oh very well.” He grabbed his jacket, his briefcase, and the folder from Cassie’s hands. “I’m leaving.”
“Sir?”
“Tell her that I just stepped out of the office. By the time you get to the phone, it will be true.”
She frowned at him, and his own irritation caused him to frown back. “When will you be back?”
“When I step back through that door,” he shot back. Storming out, he closed the main office door none too gently.
At street level, he almost hailed a taxi to take him home, but thought better of it. He needed a different environment to shed his irritation. A popular bar was located a street over and, at this odd time of day, shouldn’t be too crowded. He decided to go there. The brisk walk helped some, and once there, he found the place practically deserted as hoped—except for a few loafers with nothing better to do than waste someone else’s hard earned income on booze and cheap beer.
Bill sauntered up to the bar and sat about two stools away from a pair that looked to be regulars, judging by the way the bartender ignored them and their pleas for additional refills. They were clearly drunk, so Bill decided to ignore them too.
“What’s yer pleasure?” the bartender asked, placing both hands on the bar between them.
“Straight rum,” the lawyer answered.
Shrugging as if to say that it was Bill’s funeral, the bartender pulled a bottle off the rack and poured a shot into a glass. He slid it across to Bill, who caught it deftly in one hand.
“No napkins,” the barkeep mentioned. “No waste.”
Bill nodded his understanding, and silently cursed the Wastend strike. Even here, in his solitude, the blasted thing rose up to haunt him. Deciding to sip the rum instead of downing it, he hunched over the bar and tried to block out every other sight and sound.
Never before had he failed to sort out a problem. He had won every case in his career, including a couple of high profile ones that had gained national recognition, but nothing like this case would have. This case would have been a needed feather in his cap. But that idiot CEO just wouldn’t set aside his own pride and ego for the betterment of his company or the city. He snorted in disgust and shook his head in mock self-pity.
The barkeep noticed. “You good, buddy?”
“Yeah, just getting tired of all the trash lying around.”
“You and everyone else.”
One of the barflies, a seedy looking individual with speckled hair, turned toward him. “I’ll tell you who the trash really is; it’s them blasted lawyers and uppity-ups in Westend that are the real trash. I say we should throw them into the garbage dump. Maybe then they’ll understand what they’re doing to the rest of us.”
At the mention of lawyers, Bill had stiffened, but quickly forced himself to relax. He didn’t need any more pressure. An idea struck him. He looked over at the challenging expression of the bar bum and wondered if the drunk was one of the Wastend employees on strike. He was on the verge of asking when he changed his mind before his mouth could open. He didn’t want any trouble. He turned away, nursing his drink.
“Hey, what do you do?” the barfly demanded of Bill. “All dressed up and looking so important. You important, fellow?”
Just wanting the idiot to leave him alone Bill said, “I’m a lawyer.” It was the wrong thing to say.
The man started to guffaw. “You? A lawyer?” He slapped the top of the bar and stood unsteadily to his feet. “You one of them lawyers that is making this strike last so long?”
Sighing, Bill shook his head. “Go back to your drink, friend.”
The man turned a bit redder. “You telling me what to do, shyster?”
“I’m asking you to leave me alone,” Bill snapped, growing irritated.
“You ambulance chasers are all the same. You milk situations like this Wastend mess just to line your pockets off the pain and troubles of others.” The man moved closer, jabbing a finger towards Bill. “This wouldn’t be a problem except for people like you!”
“What?” the lawyer demanded incredulously.
“You hear me, you—” the barfly started to poke a finger towards Bill’s face.
Without thinking, and irritated beyond normal limits, Bill’s old military training reared up and took control of his body. His hand flashed upward with the speed of a viper, snatching the foolish barfly’s finger in a vice-like grip. Bill twisted violently, sending the man spinning to slam into the bar face first. Exerting excruciating pressure on the man’s hand to keep him from moving, Bill bent over and whispered. “Return to your drink, foolish man. You have no clue what you are talking about.”
Shoving the man away so that he fell heavily to the floor between two of the stools, Bill returned to his drink. That should have ended it, but the barfly’s friend, a portly man with red cheeks and two chins, took exception to the rough handling of his drinking partner. “Hey now,” he bellowed, standing up and starting towards the lawyer. “You don’t mess with Mickey or his friends!”
The burly man took a giant swing at Bill, who saw it coming from so far away that he figured he could finish most of his drink before the larger barfly could actually deliver the punch. With another sigh, he leaned away and watched in fascination as the meaty fist swung past his eyes. His attacker grunted when he didn’t make any contact, his swing turning him partially around.
It was too good of an opportunity to pass up. With a well-placed kick, Bill sent the portly man stumbling forward to fall head over heels when his body got all tangled up in one of the tables.
“Hey!” the bartender protested. “Don’t break anything!”
Bill grinned, suddenly feeling good. The bartender was more on his side than the two bums attacking him. The lawyer just needed to be considerate enough not to break anything. Well, he could do that.
Standing up for himself, Bill delivered a powerful punch to the first barfly - who had just regained his feet. The blow lifted the man several inches straight up off the floor. He came down, eyes crossed and swaying dangerously. Bill shoved him onto one of the stools, from which the barfly proceeded to slowly slip off.
By then, the bigger friend had regained his feet. With a bellow that seemed more bull than man, he charged Bill, lowering his head as if he would ram the lawyer right through the bar. Bill waited until the last second and then spun away, catching one of the fellow’s arms as he barreled by. He waited for the man to slam painfully into the bar—which held against the impact, thank God—and then with a deft twist, pinned it painfully behind the man’s back. Using leverage and pain to control the larger man, Bill had him laid out on the floor in a choke hold.
“Now,” Bill said in a jovial tone of voice. “You have a choice. I could break this arm, and then continue breaking bones until you decide to quit, or you can quit now. What will it be, my friend?”
For a moment longer, the portly man struggled against the lawyer’s grip. Finally he relaxed and chuckled. “You ain’t no lawyer man.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Mickey knock lawyer good. You ain’t no lawyer. You knock Mickey good.”
Shaking his head at the absurd logic, Bill said, “So what will it be? You want to go back to your drink?”
“Yeah. But what about Harold there? You knock him good too. He out.”
“He would have drunk himself unconscious anyway. I just helped him to it faster.”
The portly man chuckled. “That’s the truth of it! Okay, we have a deal.”
Bill let him up and the big man ambled back to his spot, still chuckling and talking to his oblivious friend, who had slumped down unconscious between two of the stools. Well, whatever makes one happy.
The bartender nodded at the lawyer. “Thanks for not breaking anything.”
“My pleasure.” Bill looked around. “But, I should probably still leave.”
“That you should, friend. When Harold wakes up, he’ll be out for blood. The fool could never control his temper.”
“Thanks for not calling the cops,” the lawyer said as he started for the door.
“They both needed a good spanking, anyways.”
Feeling better, Bill walked out of the bar. He didn’t know what he should do, but an idea brought on by his impromptu fight crept into his mind. Smiling, he hurried towards his office.