Business was slow; that was the problem. He longed for the crazed adrenal rush of his spadework in the Upper Peninsula; the great dark forests and solitary nights, not to speak of the steaming Aurora. Memory played tricks when bogged down in paperwork. The kitchen table seemed to buckle under the piles of audits, and he dreaded the phone calls from Feingold. Rabun was deep in the creation of some new gizmo and didn’t want to be bothered, other than to complain about the spending habits of his wife and son. There had been the promise of a foray against a Chrysler dealership in Kansas, jointly owned by Rabun and a cousin; plane tickets had been purchased, a suitcase carefully packed. Warlock had always heard that Sweden was the Kansas of Europe, which he translated as meaning that Kansas was the Sweden of United States, missing the joke. Feingold had called at the last minute to say that it had been decided to bankrupt the dealership. Warlock hated the idea that Feingold had his phone number but Rabun had insisted. This temporarily gave the lawyer the upper hand.

“Never call me during dinner hour, Feingold.”

“I will if the matter is sufficiently important. In the city we eat at a more sophisticated hour.”

“You eat shit, kiddo. So does Detroit. Restaurantwise, the whole city sucks shit through a dirty sock.”

“My god, what a repulsive remark. How about the London Chop House?”

“The exception proves the rule.” Warlock had always considered this idea to be fatuous. “All I’m saying is don’t call during dinner or you might find yourself out of work.”

“I doubt you would have that much pull with my law firm. It’s a big operation.”

“I’m good at digging up the dirt, buster. I can tell by your voice you’re into weird sex, double dealings, probably hard drugs like cocaine which is a big thing with you legal jet setters.”

“I won’t be threatened, you hick,” Feingold interrupted. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Never said you did. I’ll frame you. Say stuff some coke in your wife’s purse at Hudson’s, then tip the police. Think of the embarassment….”

“I’m not married!” Feingold yelled triumphantly.

“Calm down. Then what I’ll do is hire a boy to testify to the police that you sodomized him so badly he couldn’t play basketball for a week. Get the picture?”

“Why would you do such an awful thing? You’re crazy.”

“To get you to stop calling while I’m eating dinner. Do we have a deal?”

“Okay, okay. Are you some sort of a gourmet cook?”

“You might say that.”