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  His Honor’s stomach rumbles audibly. He casts a furtive glance toward the lunch bag resting on the corner of the couch by the large picture window. Inside will be yet another tomato-and-sprouts sandwich on her homemade high-fiber special—two dense slices of bread bristling with those damn wheat flakes that look and taste like burlap.

  Rahsan glances at his judge and stands.

  “Come on, Norman,” he says. “We got work to do.”

  Out in the hall, Feigelberg says, “But what about lunch?”

  Rahsan shakes his head. “Forget about lunch, Norman. We don’t have time for that shit. I’ll go downstairs to the clerk’s office and check the federal dockets. I can’t leave the building ’cause I got to be here when court resumes. That means you going to have to get your ass over to the Circuit Court and sweet-talk one of them clerks to run his name through every docket in the fucking building. Every single one, Norman. Anybody got a suit against Leonard Pitt in the Circuit Court of the City of St. Louis, I want to know about it. You understand me?”

  Feigelberg nods with resignation. “Yeah, yeah.”

  Rahsan checks his watch. “We be starting up again at one-thirty. I’m guessing they be putting on evidence ’til three. You make sure you back here before then, Norman.”

  “What’s the rush?”

  Rahsan’s eyes widen. “What you smoking, son? This here is an emergency motion. They want our judge to freeze the man’s assets. Every last penny.”

  “So?”

  “I got a feeling our judge gonna wanna to do that.” Rahsan pauses. “For some reason, our judge got himself a big ol’ hard-on for Mr. Leonard M. Pitt, Esquire.”

  Rahsan shakes his head. “’Fore I let him enjoin the man, I gotta know if there’s something out there in the weeds gonna jump up and bite us in the ass. So get a move on, Norman. Time’s a wastin’”

  ***

  Neither Rahsan nor Norman found anything of import. Pitt had been a plaintiff a few times, and a defendant twice, but the disputes had all been over alleged breaches of contract having absolutely no bearing on the case before them.

  Judge Stubbs turns to Stan Budgah. “What about defendant?”

  Budgah turns to Pitt, who shakes his head.

  Budgah heaves himself out of his chair and faces the bench. “Defendant has nothing further, Judge.”

  “Very well,” Judge Stubbs says, pausing to close his notebook and put down his pen. “Will the defendant rise?”

  Down below, Rahsan Ahmed clears his throat.

  Leonard Pitt stands, his expression almost serene.

  “Mr. Pitt,” Judge Stubbs begins in a God-of-the-Old-Testament voice, “this court is profoundly disturbed by the evidence presented this afternoon.”

  He pauses.

  Pitt gazes at him, unruffled, his eyes distant, as if he is listening to a piano concerto instead of the preamble to a federal injunction.

  Judge Stubbs frowns.

  “Yes,” His Honor finally says, aiming for a stern tone, “profoundly disturbed.”

  Rahsan Ahmed clears his throat louder this time.

  Judge Stubbs pauses and glances down at his docket clerk. The two exchange a silent look.

  “Ah, yes,” Judge Stubbs says, turning toward the lawyers with a slightly perplexed expression. “The court, uh, will be in recess, gentlemen.”

  He checks his watch. “It’s three-twenty. We will reconvene shortly.”

  ***

  They are alone in chambers, just the judge and Rahsan. Norman Feigelberg stands at the door, waiting. He isn’t trying to eavesdrop, but he can’t help but hear.

  The judge crosses his arms defiantly over his chest. “I’m gonna burn his ass.”

  Rahsan nods calmly. He walks slowly, pensively, toward the picture window.

  Judge Stubbs turns in his chair, following his enormous docket clerk with his eyes. Rahsan tugs on his goatee as he meditates on the view of the Mississippi River. He knows his judge. He knows enough to let this silence linger a bit longer. When enough time has passed, he turns toward Judge Stubbs.

  “I’m worried the man is using you,” he says in a quiet voice.

  “Using me?” Judge Stubbs gives him an incredulous stare. “Using me for what?”

  The docket clerk shakes his head. “Don’t know the answer yet.”

  “Come on, Rahsan. He’s the defendant here. He’s the one who got hauled into court.”

  Rahsan shrugs, keeping his posture non-confrontational, “The man’s an opportunist, Yo’ Honor. He didn’t set up the lawsuit, but look what he done so far: got this hearin’ switched to you, hired that tub of lard to represent him—all to make sure he gonna lose this motion.”

  Judge Stubbs scratches his neck. “I appreciate your concern, Rahsan. But this is bigger than all that. Don’t you see? Leonard Pitt is defrauding that insurance company, and he’s stealing from his clients. Good God, man, he’s violating federal laws. What am I supposed to do? Look the other way? Let him continue to prey on the public?”

  Rahsan shrugs. “Man been preying on the public for twenty-five years. Couple mo’ weeks ain’t gonna destroy the country.”

  “Oh, come on, Rahsan. We can’t take that attitude. This is a court of law.”

  Rahsan walks slowly back across the room and stops in front of the desk. He places his massive fists on the desk and leans forward, towering over Judge Stubbs. Rahsan stares down at his judge, his dark eyes as focused as laser beams. “I’m just worried that man is using you.”

  Stubbs smiles. “Don’t worry about me, Rahsan. I’m a big boy. I’ve been waiting a long time for this moment. And I’m going to enjoy it.”

  ***

  With a flourish, Judge Stubbs signs three copies of the order he’s just read aloud. He hands them down to his docket clerk and watches as Rahsan gives one to Stan Budgah and one to Milton Bernstein. Bernstein remains at the podium, rereading the last two paragraphs of the order. Budgah returns to the defendant’s table, where Pitt snatches the two-page order from him.

  “Gentlemen,” Judge Stubbs says, “Judge Weinstock will be back from vacation in two weeks. The injunction will remain in effect until his return. If any procedural issues should arise before then, you can contact Judge Weinstock’s docket clerk.”

  He pauses, his eyes on Milton Bernstein. “Any questions?”

  Bernstein is grinning. “None, Your Honor.”

  Judge Stubbs turns toward defendant’s table. “Mr. Budgah?”

  Budgah looks at the judge, glances warily at his client, and then back at the judge. “Uh, I think we’re okay.”

  “Very good.” Judge Stubbs closes his notebook and stands up. “We’ll be in recess.”

  Rahsan bangs the gavel. “All rise!”

  Judge Stubbs pauses at the door, his hand on the knob, and turns back. Pitt is still seated at defendant’s table, the order clenched in his hands.

  Pitt looks up. Their eyes meet, and for that moment there is no one else in the room. All of those intervening years vanish, but this time it is Pitt seated at counsel’s table. He glares at Judge Stubbs, who gazes back serenely. And this time it is Pitt who breaks the stare. He looks down at the order. Judge Stubbs waits a beat, wishing only that he had a cigar, and then he pushes through the door and disappears.

  Oh-yeah, Oh-yeah, Oh-yeah.

  ***

  Two hours later, we are inside Lawrence Armstrong’s office at Abbott & Windsor. It’s crowded with celebrants—several from the firm, two executives from Mid-Continent Casualty Insurance Company. Lawrence is sipping on a glass of champagne, shaking hands, slapping backs, feeling good.

  Milton Bernstein strides into the room, a triumphant grin on his face.

  “Ah,” Lawrence announces, “the man of the hour. Well, Milton? Fill us in.”

  Milton nods, still grinning. “We ser
ved the final bank with notice at four-forty-three this afternoon. As of the close of business today, all liquid assets of Leonard Pitt are frozen. Mission accomplished!”

  Cheers and applause. High fives.

  Milton clenches his fist over his head and starts chanting, “Attica! Attica! Attica!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The following morning, Leonard Pitt is seated at his desk, the phone cradled between his shoulder and his ear. He calmly puffs on a Montecristo No. 2 cigar. Yes, the Cuban version.

  Harvey Abrams is on the other end of the call. Harvey is a senior vice president at Merchant’s Bank, and he is clearly agitated.

  “I just don’t know what to say, Mr. Pitt.”

  “But what about that wire transfer, Harvey? I’m going to need to transfer that money this afternoon. It’s literally a matter of life and death, Harvey. No bullshit.”

  “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Pitt. Our paperwork is all done, we are ready to go, but the bank’s hands are tied by that darn court order. We can’t do a thing about it. I feel so bad about this whole thing. I just don’t know what to say.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Harvey. You and your bank.”

  “But Mr. Pitt—”

  Pitt hangs up. He turns toward the picture window behind his desk and surveys the Arch from twenty stories up. He takes another puff of his cigar and presses a button on the phone console. A moment later, Belinda walks in. Pitt eyes her with appreciation. She looks particularly sexy this morning in her tight sweater, short leather skirt, and spike heels.

  “What’s up, Len?”

  Pitt takes the cigar out of his mouth, studies it for a moment, and then swivels his chair toward the window. “Get Captain O’Brien on the phone.”

  “Okay.”

  She doesn’t move.

  “Now,” Pitt says, still gazing out the window. “Get him now.”

  “Len?”

  “What?”

  “I was just wondering.”

  Pitt swivels his chair back toward her. “Wondering what?”

  “That darn lawsuit. I mean, what are you going to do? The money’s all tied up?

  “Don’t worry. I’ve already fired Budgah. I’ll have a new lawyer by tomorrow. I’ll have that order lifted next week.”

  “But aren’t you worried?”

  Pitt nods. “I’m concerned. But I have more important matters on my mind now. That’s why I asked you to get Captain O’Brien on the phone. Now.”

  Belinda turns to leave but pauses at the door.”

  “Len?”

  Pitt sighs. “What now?”

  “You want me to come in after the call? It’s Thursday, you know.” She raises her eyebrows. “I wore your favorite panties.”

  “Not today. For chrissake, Belinda, get O’Brien on the goddamn telephone. Now.”

  Belinda flounces out of the room. Pitt turns back to the window and puffs on his cigar.

  A minute later, there’s a buzz on his intercom line.

  Pitt presses the speaker button. “Yes?”

  “Captain O’Brien,” Belinda says, her voice twenty degrees colder than before. “Line three.”

  Pitt lifts the receiver. “Jim?”

  “Hey there, Leonard, how’s tricks?

  “Not good, pal. You’re not going to believe this.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Some bastard kidnapped my wife.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Ten miles to the west, Hal is seated on the bed in his apartment. He’s on his cell phone, a sheet of notes on his lap.

  On the other end of the phone, a male voice with a Swiss accent says, “Okay. And now I will need the personal identification number, please.”

  “Sure. Let’s see…that would be five-six-seven-five-nine-nine.”

  “One moment please.” A pause. “Okay. Your inquiry, sir?”

  “Yeah, uh, give me the account balance, okay? In U.S. dollars.”

  “One moment, please…Current balance in account one-one-three-five-two-eight-six in U.S. dollars is eleven-thousand-two-hundred-three dollars and sixty-seven cents.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes, sir. That is accurate.”

  “No deposits today?”

  “No, sir. No account activity.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Pardon, sir?”

  “Nothing. Thanks, dude.”

  “You are must welcome, sir.”

  Hal ends the call and drops the phone onto the bed. “Damn.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The next morning—Friday—Hal and Patty are at the pool area entrance checking membership cards.

  “Your brother looks nothing like you,” she says.

  “Huh?”

  “Your brother. Milton, right? He looks nothing like you.”

  “My brother? Where’d you see my brother?”

  “On TV, silly.”

  “When?”

  “Last night.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Didn’t you watch the news?”

  “Oh, my God. What happened to him?”

  “Nothing bad, Hal. It’s all good. He won some big lawsuit. They filmed him coming out of the courthouse. They asked him a question or something. I can’t believe you didn’t watch your brother on TV. Maybe you can find the clip on the Internet.”

  “What kind of lawsuit?”

  “I can’t remember. Something about some big-shot lawyer getting sued or something.”

  Hal stands. “I’ll be right back.”

  He heads into the pool area and over to the lifeguard office. One of the other lifeguards—a college kid name Brian—is leaning back on a folding chair listening to music on his iPod.

  Hal taps him on the shoulder. “You got today’s paper?”

  Brian nods toward the desk, where today’s St. Louis Post-Dispatch sits, unopened as usual.

  Hal picks it up, separates the front page section, and spots the story below the fold. His eyes widen.

  “Oh, no!”

  He runs out of the office with the newspaper in his hand.

  ***

  At that same time, Cherry emerges from the motel bathroom, fresh from her shower and wrapped in a white towel. Her face momentarily registers surprise, but she quickly recovers.

  “How long has he known?” she asks.

  “A while.”

  She nods. “He paying you extra for this?”

  A shrug. “We ain’t worked out the details.”

  “I’ll double it. The job’s worth fifty grand.”

  “Fifty? How you figure?”

  “We get out of here. Go somewhere safe. You call him. Tell him you want a hundred to keep quiet. He’ll pay. He has to. We split it fifty-fifty.”

  “A hundred, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  “What about that dumbass lifeguard?

  “Kill him.”

  “Which you was planning to do all along, weren’t ya, Cherry?”

  She just gazes at him. After a moment, she shrugs.

  “Hundred, huh?” he says. “And all I get is fifty.”

  “You get a lot more than that.”

  She takes two steps toward him as she loosens the towel. She lets it drop to the carpet as she gets down on her knees in front of him. She stares up at him and then nods toward his crotch. “More than he ever got.”

  He unzips his fly. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Oh, my. Look at that.”

  “Not bad, eh?”

  “So big! So yummy!”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The traffic on Highway 70 is bumper to bumper, red brake lights as far ahead as Hal can see. Some sort of accident up ahead. He shakes his head, exasperated. Tapping on the steering wheel
, Hal glances down again at the passenger seat, where the Post-Dispatch is open to the front page.

  ST. LOUIS LAWYER SUED FOR FRAUD

  JUDGE FREEZES ASSETS

  A St. Louis federal judge entered an order yesterday afternoon tying up the assets of Leonard Pitt, a prominent St. Louis attorney accused of fraud in a multi-million dollar lawsuit filed by a Chicago insurance company.

  ***

  “I cannot believe this,” Hal says aloud. “I. Cannot. Believe. This.”

  Thirty minutes later, he pulls his car into the motel lot below Cherry’s second-floor room. He turns off the engine, gets out, and takes two deep breaths, trying to figure out exactly how the break the news. He walks up the stairs and down the deck to her room. He pauses, takes a breath, and knocks.

  “It’s me, babe,” he calls. “I got some bad news.”

  No answer.

  He knocks again. “Cherry? It’s Hal. Open up.

  No answer. He presses his ear against the door, tries the handle. He reaches into his pocket for the key.

  “Damn.”

  He goes back downstairs to his car, opens the glove compartment, and takes out the extra room key. As he straightens up a jet passes overhead in its final descent. The ground shudders as the plane screams past. He turns to watch it land, momentarily tempted to bolt, just get the hell out of here, maybe back to California. He turns back to the motel, stares up at Cherry’s door. With a sigh and a shake of his head, he starts back toward the stairway.

  He knocks again at the door. “Cherry? It’s Hal. Open up, babe.”

  The distant roar of another approaching plane can be heard. The sounds of the jet engines grow louder as Hal inserts the key. The metal guardrail begins vibrating from the noise. As the jet passes overhead, its engines screaming, Hal opens the door.

  Stage 2: The Pivot

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Saturday morning.

  Milton wakes to the cooing of a pigeon on the ledge outside the bedroom window. The digital alarm clock on the nightstand reads 7:35 AM. Milton turns to Peggy. She is asleep on her stomach, her head turned away, her left arm resting in the space between their pillows. The bed sheet is below her waist. She is wearing a white cotton nightshirt.