Sinister Shorts

“No.”

“Huh.” Colby rubbed his chin and looked down, as if deciding something.

“Court at ten tomorrow. Be there on time?”

“Sure,” Colby agreed.

The next morning, O'Shay dressed carefully. He wore a silk navy suit paired with an Hermès tie. He wanted to look subdued but successful. He had three doctors he ordinarily would never use who would testify about Colby's dire injuries. He had a rolling cart in the trunk of his car full of medical reports, job descriptions, legal pleadings, and law books. He had things on Dunkirk Enterprises Jerome Castile knew he would spill to the press, if necessary. He had the requisite chutzpah.

Diana handed him his laptop at the door, refusing to kiss him. “Don't sell out,” she whispered, and he heard it, too, as he opened the garage door and left.

At the courthouse, early, O'Shay met with Castile one last time. He went to work on the insurance defense attorney, trying to reach an agreement that would set the Colby family up for life. They haggled; they fought; they got tough; they compromised; nobody gave enough. He tried again and lost. Bottom line was, the guy said he just didn't believe O'Shay would do what he was threatening to do. “You have a reputation to protect,” Castile said smugly, “in spite of this recent, definite lapse in judgment.”

“We're due in court,” O'Shay told Colby on the telephone. “I'm on my way.”

Something in Colby's voice screamed sirens.

Jeff Colby made a special effort with Sandra and the kids before leaving that morning, hugs and kisses all around, lots of positive words. “I'm stopping by the job site for a quick howdy before heading to the courthouse,” he said.

“Are you sure you don't want us to go with you? Your attorney said it might be good for us to be there with you in court.”

“No need, sweetheart.” He kissed her again, holding her around her narrow waist, marveling that his childhood girlfriend had been so steadfast and true for so many years, and had stood by him through so much. He felt himself flinching at the thought of the next few hours. And he felt righteous.

“What's in the duffel?” his son asked as he walked out the door.

“Stuff and nonsense,” he replied, smiling. “Good-bye, son.”

“It's me, Patrick O'Shay. Is Jeff there?”

“He's gone.”

“Where is he?”

“On his way?”

“You sound unsure.”

“He was stopping by Dunkirk on the way to court.”

“Oh, no.”

“He won't be late,” she said. “He's never late.”

O'Shay got the insurance lawyer on line one. He had a new case just decided by the California Supreme Court to talk about.

“I'll call you back,” Castile said. “Give me ten minutes.”

O'Shay shot into traffic and headed toward Romie Lane, toward the scene of Jeff Colby's latest humiliation. He drove through the construction on Main Street like a man possessed. Somehow, he was not ticketed for turning illegally.

O'Shay thought about the list of people Jeff hated: the receptionist who mocked him; the stock boy who played malicious tricks; the boss who fired him…

Twenty minutes, and their case would be called. Barring a miracle, he couldn't make it back in time at this point. He pulled into the parking lot, frantically sca

O'Shay's phone rang.

“Jerome Castile here,” the insurance lawyer a

A few minutes later, Jeff Colby pulled up three cars away, stopping to park directly in front of a bland stucco building sporting a boldly lettered sign which read “Dunkirk Enterprises.” If he was surprised to see O'Shay sitting in his car so close by, he didn't show it. “Had a flat,” he said.

“You should have gone straight to court,” said O'Shay.

“Maybe.”

Colby opened the trunk of his car, revealing a canvas duffel. “Why are you here?” he asked, tugging at the bag, bringing it out.

“It's over.”

“What's over?” Colby, distracted, looked toward the entrance of the building, peered through the glass doors.

“Your case, Jeff. You beat them.”

“I-what?”

“You beat them,” O'Shay repeated. Since Colby seemed suddenly incapable of speaking, O'Shay outlined the details of the deal he had finally struck with the insurance company. They would pay for Colby's medical. They would provide a steady flow of income, a pension.

Colby fingered the duffel. “You wouldn't try to con me.”

“No, I wouldn't.”

Finally convinced, Colby was jubilant, ecstatic. He jabbered at O'Shay: he had pulled a fast one, showing them he could work the system just like the best of them! They would be buying his farm, his retirement, his security. They would dig him out of this hellhole. He could start fresh somewhere new. He finally had a stake. He couldn't wait to tell everyone, see their faces. They were stuck in that dump without windows, while he would be breathing the fresh air. Maybe he would spring for a trip to the Caribbean, just to check things out. He'd forgotten all about the duffel.

O'Shay drove away. He had won the biggest settlement he ever had but he'd had to cheat and lie to get it. He had gotten others involved in his tricks. He had disappointed Rosa, Diana, and other professionals who had once respected him. Maybe he had compromised his good name forever.

But he, Patrick O'Shay, knew a special case when he saw one.

He shrugged, turned the ball game on the sportsradio cha

House Afire

She cherished a picture of him at sixteen in summertime, grimy, wet with sweat, leaning insolently on the door of a Chevy. Every Sunday when she called him to talk, she would hold the picture in her hands, remembering the sun of that day, the baked smell of his skin, but she never mentioned it to him. Such intimacy would embarrass him. Their relationship, once so close that he was physically part of her, was now delicate, limited. When she got too sentimental, he rebuffed her. Every week, she vowed to herself that she would not pester him again with her chatter, and every week, craving his warm voice and recalling the concord of their heartbeats, she broke down and called him.

He was the kind of boy who had a list of safe topics ready for Mother.

She had raised him alone. For almost a year after separating from her husband, she suffered from a painful amazement that he could just walk away from their relationship the way he had. How could you give up on other people? How could he abandon his home like that? Then for a long time she contemplated his rejection, wondering if there was some important conclusion to draw, but, in time, a very green spring came along. She revived her morning walks, only now she walked with the boy in a carriage in front of her. As the boy grew older, she clenched his cold, tiny hand in her own and they walked together.

Over the years, determined his father wouldn't miss out on his son's life, she had written letters. Her ex-husband answered a few times, at long intervals. One night when her son was three years old, after a movie that had left her crying, she wrote. “We are doing very well. They put balloons up all over the city to celebrate the Fourth this year. We got up early, before the children carried all the balloons off.” He wrote back, “I miss you and the little one.” Emboldened by this show of interest, she invited him to visit them. He wrote back quickly for once. He needed more time to sort things out.