Cone of Uncertainty Part I
Synopsis: "The hustlers, homeless, and late-night lawyers are swept up within and collide inside a 'CAT 5' hurricane."
Cone of Uncertainty
“Welcome to ‘Klepto-Kate’s bar and cantina. What’ll you have?”
“Tom Collins.”
“It’s my pleasure to mix a sophisticated drink for a change.”
“Where am I?”
“Did you get off the cruise ship that just landed in port?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re in Ensenada, Mexico.
“About an hour’s drive south from the international border with San Diego.
“Close enough to California but far enough away to live outside the fast-lane.”
“What goes on here?”
“We’re a sleepy town known mostly for sport-fishing.”
“We jump to life when a cruise ship sets anchor and like a giant whale spits up its load of cash-laden tourists onto shore, friend.”
“Who’s that?”
“My ‘ol buddy from San Diego, Jonny.
“Here’s his card,
BLACK STAR LIVERY & SPORT FISHING TOURS
“Turn the card over,
PICK-UP AND DELIVERY OF ANYBODY, ANYTHING, ANYTIME
“Slide down here and join us, Jonny.”
“I’ve got a special full-day Marlin fishing trip.
“Interested, friend?”
“I get seasick on small boats.
“What does ‘anything’ mean?”
“My ‘anything’ services include ‘don’t know, don’t want to know’ deliveries anywhere, anytime including to the depths of hell for the ‘right price’.
“Interested, friend?”
“Let the man finish his drink, Jonny.”
“Hit me again.”
“Mr. Tom Collins comin’ up.
“I’m the owner, Stuey.”
“Who comes in here?”
“Don’t let tonight fool you. Monday nights are always slow.
“On weekends I have a dozen strippers dancing and I’m up to my elbows pouring cervezas, Tequila shots, mixin’ Margarita’s and cocktails for the tourists, locals, expats, or ‘villains’ in town.”
“What’s with the name of this joint?”
“Kate’s my ex-wife.
“This place was formerly a high-class piano bar named ‘La Chica Bonita’ frequented by sport fisherman from all over the world. It was also a favorite of Hollywood stars back in the day.
“Kate was the piano player.
“I was in town trackin’ the whereabouts of some dudes who ‘jumped ship’ and stumbled upon this joint.
“I saw her from across the room. Kate looked like Ava Gardner and devoured me with her eyes while busting-out of a skin-tight revealing silk dress.
“Kate’s fingers skipped up and down the keyboard like Shirley Temple in a thirty’s movie musical.
“She was a big hit with the crowd and was belting “High Ball’s” like water which should have been my warning to stay the hell away from her.
“It was love at first sight and we married in Tijuana.”
“You still married?”
“Kate’s fingers may have ‘skipped’ across the keyboard but ‘jumped’ about department store display cases and clothing racks.
“Her closet was filled with the finest women’s apparel and accessories money could buy which I couldn’t afford.”
“She was a pro.
“A real pro, Stuey.
“I told you she shoulda’ focused those fingers on lifting expensive jewelry.”
“You’re correct, Jonny.
“Her fingers were like Velcro and like merchandise, wouldn’t let go of me. It took me years to divorce her.
“Kate was mentally ill. A bona-fide Kleptomaniac committed to mental hospitals.
“I heard she’s doin’ a ‘dime’ in the federal lockup for credit card fraud.”
“Any children?”
“We ‘dogged a bullet’ and never conceived. Our kid would have been the After Christ.
“I prefer not to speak any more about Kate. She’s a sick girl.
“I’m a sucker for backstabbers, pickpockets and thieves.
“Leave it at that.”
“What’s your story, Stuey?”
“Like Kate, I prefer to let ‘sleeping deranged dogs lie’.”
“Tell the horror story, Stuey.
“I’ve got a juicy role in it and I’ll brace him as we walk the death march down ‘Bad Memories Lane’.”
“If you insist on wading through feces-laden winds of a ‘Cat 5’ tornado named, ‘Misery’, allow me to lay out three shot glasses, pour my bottle of premium Tequila, and put some ‘mood’ music on. Dylan’s ‘Ballad of a Thin Man’ seems appropriate.
“Drink up gents and hold on tight!
“It’s a whacked-out, winding road of ‘what if’s, wrong-way’s, the wretched and warn out.”
'Cause something is happening and you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?
I met Jonny at the “Water Charm” tribal gaming joint about an hour east of San Diego. He was using the casino lounge as an office, of sorts, running limousines from the airport to the casino while I was “running” out of luck playin’ Blackjack.
“Stuey was a cop in the Navy.”
I was a Shore Patrolman trackin’ down sailors who went “AWOL”. I learned a lot about manhunting in the Navy. I was good at it. I retired as a Chief Petty Officer.
I had too much time on my hands spending night and day including my small pension on losing at Blackjack.
Jonny had a client who was president of an insurance company. He hired me as a workers compensation insurance investigator taking video of deadbeats out havin’ fun despite their insurance claims reporting they were injured. My videos put many a fraudster behind bars! I’d receive a tidy pension after ten years with the company. Hell, after doin’ twenty in the Navy, ten years was a breeze.
My supervisor resented having the president of the company order him to hire me. He was a retired Marine who ran the “Brig” at Camp Pendleton named “Sergeant Head”. He was jealous of my marriage to foxy Kate and hated sailors. He was runnin’ a surveillance on me and compiling a devious dossier to screw me. I know ‘cause he always sniped about Kate being picked up on a shoplifting beef.
I was six months from the ten-year vesting on my retirement pension and was given a urine test which revealed “Adderall” in my system.
“Ain’t that the drug for kids, Stuey?”
“Ya, Jonny, but Wall Street traders take it to increase their attention and focus in high velocity trading. I took it to better my Blackjack game and stay awake.”
I was fired when Kate’s arrest record and my drug test were presented to the president by Head. I was only one month away from a second pension which would have placed me on “easy street”.
“We showed Head a thing or two, Stuey.”
Jonny met dubious dudes running “Black Star”. He asked me for Head’s military identification information which I obtained from friends in the Shore Patrol. Jonny sold Head’s data to “Dark Web” devils who hacked into Head’s credit file. Last I heard, he’s is still working to salvage his credit history.
“Turn to the chapter titled, ‘Sassy Cassy’, Stuey.”
I’ll pour each of us another shot before we take the treacherous turn onto “Badass Babe Boulevard”.
Weeknights at the Water Charm card tables included tourists but mostly degenerate gamblers looking like zombies hoping fate would flip us a winning hand instead of the “finger”. Cassy McClintock, Attorney at Law, sat beside me most nights.
“Like birds of prey sitting atop a sagging high-voltage wire hung from termite ravaged telephone poles strung across ‘Desolation Row’.”
“Who is this guy, Stuey?
“Some kind of writer?”
“Cool it, Jonny. No need to alienate a payin’ customer.”
“After five nights on a barge of deep-fried buffets, warm wilting salad bars, and sour booze, I’m looking for dose of alienation.”
“We’ll throw in a heavy dose of abuse, complimentary, friend.”
“Hit, me again.”
“Here’s a double. ‘Anchors aweigh’!”
“Hit him fast and hard with our story, Stuey.
“Before the nights over, he’ll beg for more booze like a junkie seeking another ‘fix’ to erase this nightmare of debauchery, degeneracy, and dead bodies found only on ‘Desolation Row’.”
“Not a bad Dylan reference, Jonny.
“Drink up fellas while I change the tune.”
…They’ve got him in a trance…
…They're restless…
They need somewhere to go…
And I look out tonight
From Desolation Row…
Cassy was a “brand” going by the slogan,
“You’ve tried the rest, retain the best!
Don’t get mad, sue!
Sassy Cassy will slay your opponent before he slays you.”
She was a “slip and fall” shyster fighting for market share with the lawyer boy’s purchasing cut-rate advertising time on late-night television appealing to the unemployed, inebriated, insomniacs, and iconoclasts.
She ran a clever ad campaign depicting herself as a cartoon conquistador vindicating the injured in car and motorcycle accidents. She was a thirty-something voluptuous blond who used her bodacious bustline and killer-curves like a “Venus’s flytrap”.
Sassy Cassy’s caricature wore silver armor, a Tartan Kilt, and shiny black boots. She sat atop a white steed named “Justice” holding a glistening sword marked “Victory” as her blond hair blew in the wind as she trampled over fictitious insurance adjustors.
She put herself through some no-name, part-time, law school and passed the California Bar Examination while playing cards to earn a living. She was smart and scrappy earning her a reputation as a shrewd legal competitor to the ego-maniac male shysters fighting for the title,
“King Ambulance-Chaser.”
I never spoke so much as “hello” or “goodbye” to Cassy but one evening, we both drew our last losing hands. Like a drug pusher, the casino manager offered us complimentary breakfasts to keep us coming back for more financial self-flagellation.
It was six in the morning when we agreed to have breakfast together. Cassy was due in court at nine and I was due for “nothing”. Cassy ordered a “bloody” T-Bone steak and two raw eggs dumped inside a double “Screwdriver”. “Pigs in a blanket” felt appropriate for me accompanied by a “Bloody Mary”.
Cassy received a call and quickly answered saying,
“Excuse, me. Could be the next big case!”
She began yelling into the phone,
“What do you mean you can’t serve the defendant? You’re a professional process server! The fence and dogs are your problem. I need that Writ of Attachment served today, understand?”
She hung up and gulped down the Screwdriver motioning to the waitress to bring another.
“I’d throw those hounds poisoned meat, climb the fence, and serve the ‘SOB’ myself if I had the time!
“You’d think a quick five-hundred-dollar fee would motivate the prick to show some balls!”
“I need a job, Cassy. I chased AWOL sailors for twenty years and I can track down anybody. I’ll get your legal papers properly and promptly served. For five-hundred bucks a clip, I travel to hell and serve your legal papers!”
“Come by my office ‘round six tonight. We’ll talk. It’s above the ‘Baron of Bail Bonds’ office near the court house.”
Cassy worked out of a cramped one room office filled to the ceiling with file folders and storage boxes. The walls were adorned with her advertising campaigns and framed copies of six and seven figure settlement checks from insurance carriers.
“I don’t meet clients here. I have travelling paralegals who go to prospective clients’ homes and get ‘em to sign my retainer agreement before they talk to my competitors.
“It’s been a long day and I need a stiff-drink. Let’s talk over cocktails. I’ll drive.”
Cassy was a self-promoter who’d put Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey to shame. She drove a Jaguar shrink wrapped with her cartoon alter ego. She had the upholstery upgraded into tiger stripped leather. The hubcaps were painted to resemble tiger paws with claws and the license plate read, “I SUEEM”.
We pulled up to a dive bar named, “Barristers Brawl”. It was located several alleys and a galaxy away from the hallowed marble hallways of the courthouse.
We entered and Cassy was met by a chorus of greetings from inebriated attorneys; some kind, others vulgar. A waiter approached and asked,
“The usual ‘Death in the Afternoon’, Cassy?”
“Yes, Jerome. I’ll be ready for my second in about fifteen minutes.”
“And for the gentleman?”
“Bring him a ‘Zombie’ and ready a second.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Jerome was a topflight attorney who got disbarred by stealing from his clients. He owns this dive.
“I apologize for ordering your drink. It must feel emasculating but I hate to waste time.
“I had you checked out. You were a magnificent manhunter in the Navy and an insidious insurance fraud investigator.
“You seem like the kind of guy who never allows himself to get screwed.”
“How’s that, Cassy?”
“Your former boss at the insurance company was fired because he had too many creditors phoning him at work. He screwed you, you screwed him back, harder. I like your grit. That’s what it takes to win!
“The job is to pick-up legal filings from me day or night when I text. You’ll track down the ‘mark’, personally serve the papers, record the date and time of service, and get paid.”
“Five-hundred per service?”
“Yes.
“Most are easy service of process called ‘jelly donuts’. The others will make you earn every penny.”
“I’m all in.”
“You start tonight with a few jelly donuts. A late night and early morning door knock always get the marks to answer thinking somebody died!
“Jerome, bring us our second round and get Bob Dylan off the playlist!”
She wears an iron vest
Her profession’s her religion
Her sin is her lifelessness
“It looks like we’re just about to “kill” this fine bottle of Tequila, fellas.
“You guys ready for another round or want to call it a night?”
“I’m ready for that ‘Cat 5’ storm, Stuey.”
“What do you think, Jonny?”
“I think he’s ready for the ballad of ‘Stealthy Stuey’.
“No umbrella will protect you from the feces flying your way, friend.”
“I’ll wear a hazmat suit.”
I became quite proficient at process serving and earned the nickname, “Stealthy Stuey” because the mark never saw me coming until it was too late.
Cassy remained a client but I broke off and formed my own firm. I specialized in finding evasive marks hiding out in the remote mountains, deserts, and farmlands east of San Diego. I purchased a four-wheel drive pick-up with a camper bed permitting me to sleep, if necessary, and wait out a mark.
Jonny introduced me to a friend who operated a vehicle repossession company who needed help. I outfitted my truck with a license plate scanner which alerted me to any vehicle registered by the creditor as delinquent, and a retractable hoist which permitted me speedy towing away of the
vehicle. Each repossession earned me five-hundred to a thousand dollars depending upon the type of vehicle and creditor.
At times, I was confronted by a single mom or a student pleading with me not to tow their “lifeline” to a job or school. I’d settle for whatever cash they could raise on the spot, pocket the money, and never notify the creditor.
I was making money “hand over fist”. Life was good. After a night of serving papers or prowling for repo’s, I’d meet up with Jonny at a beach town diner named, “The Sunshyne Shak”. It was a vintage coffee shop with red-leather clad seats at the counter and booths serving generous portions of favorite breakfast staples at reasonable prices.
It was opened with a “dime” and a “prayer” by Zondra who immigrated from some hellhole in the Balkans. She retired proudly as one of only a few women prison guards assigned to male maximum security prisons. She was a no-nonsense woman and her prison guard baton hung from the wall behind the register letting all know “the score”. She opened the joint with her life savings and considered the misspelled sign a good omen.
The regulars knew they could get a shot of booze in their coffee or juice although Zondra didn’t have a liquor license.
It was frequented by surfers, locals, and hookers “clocking off” from their evening strolls. It was a place for Jonny and me to commiserate about our “day at the office”. Jonny looked wrung out one morning.
“I picked up a cash ride from the Tijuana airport named Heidi. She was the daughter of a high-roller client and accompanied by her boyfriend from the Caribbean. I figured it was legit knowing Heidi was the daughter of a trusted client.
“We hit the international border and CBP checked our passports. We were all cuffed and I spent the night shackled to a bench while my car was opened up and inspected like a can of rotting tuna.
“I was released just a few hours ago. Heidi’s boyfriend was a known drug trafficker with an outstanding warrant thinkin’ he could sneak past CBP at the border so we all got detained.
“Heidi cost me a seven hundred dollar impound fee and the interior of my limousine was shredded by the drug inspection.”
“Sounds like you misplayed your hand, Jonny.”
“My electronic bug planted in the back seat scanned their smart phones for ‘tap and pay’ bank account information. I’ve already whacked their accounts to compensate me for the aggravation. They’re likely blaming each other for the rip-off.”
Jonny was a favorite of Zondra boasting a super-size “hour-glass” figure barely navigating around the booths and tables. She had “eyes in the back of her head” and could feel Jonny’s laser-like stare on her huge buttocks and hipline. She returned to fill his coffee cup and chastise him,
“Here’s your coffee, boys. I included a shot of your favorite ‘kick in the ass’ in each cup.
“If you insist upon staring at my big ass, Jonny, why don’t you stay on after I close and I’ll teach you a thing or two about prison matrons pulling ‘wide trailers’.”
They had a “dynamic” between them I chose never to broach.
We all have our “kinks”. Mine would become, “Sassy Cassy”; the Queen of the late-night legal litter box. She’d beat me like a “junkyard dog” and I’d lose the “game” of my life. When I felt her tap on my shoulder after placing my last losing bet, I knew I was “all in” on her deal.
“I need to talk a business proposition with you, Stuey.
“Get that handsome pirate Jonny to join us in the cocktail lounge off the casino floor near the back entrance named, ‘Played Out’”.
Cassy didn’t come to play cards and the pitcher of Margaritas she ordered told me she had another “game” to play with me and Jonny.
“I’m going to file a lawsuit which will rock this town with statewide implications. The press stemming from this case will put me on the national stage.
“We’re talkin’ legal fees placing ‘Sassy Cassy’ into a retirement fit for a queen.”
“You suing another trucking company for running over an old lady in the crosswalk?”
“I’d think you were tryin’ to be funny if I didn’t know you were just a naughty tiger needing taming, Jonny.
“Keep it up and I’ll have you growling for mercy.
“You fellas every hear of ‘patient-dumping’?
“Here’s the ‘hand’ we’ve been dealt setting us up for a ‘purrrfect’ putt placing us below Par on the eighteenth hole in the championship final-game of our lifetimes.
“Four of the largest hospitals in town are releasing indigent, homeless patients into the streets during the dead of night after collecting inflated fees from the local government Social Services Agency for their care.
“I’m going to file a ‘class action’ law suit against the four hospitals who’ll settle after being shamed by my lawsuit and the putrid ‘PR’.
“This suit is just the beginning. Hospitals up and down the state will shake in their boots when they’re served with process on forthcoming class action suits filed by me.”
“How do we figure into all this?”
“Here’s how you ‘figure’, Stuey.
“I’m representing the ‘class’ which is comprised of every indigent and homeless patient ‘dumped’ by the four hospitals. I sue each of the hospitals and obtain a ‘pot’ of money paid to the indigents who register as a member of the class.
“My legal fees will be awarded by the judge overseeing the case and will be likely around twenty-five percent of the settlement pot approved by the judge.
“We’re talking about a pot potentially in the tens of millions of dollars!
“Do the math, fellas.”
“That’s just terrific for you Cassy but what about us?”
“Your friend Jonny has a laser-like focus on the financial fleecing of the hospitals I’m putting together.
“I’ll get to your “cut” of the proceeds shortly.
“I need you two to go out and find me a plaintiff who’ll be the ‘Class Representative’ in the lawsuit against each of the four hospitals.
“Round up as many homeless indigents as you can find for me to interview as most won’t be lucid enough to participate. I just one from each hospital.”
“I’m a process server not a mental health counselor, Cassy.”
“It will be ‘easy peasy’, Stuey.
“I’ll have one of my limo driver’s parked outside each of the four hospitals when the patients are dumped and we’ll deliver them to Cassy.”
“Precisely, Jonny.
“Most of these patients are released late Friday evenings.
“I’ll have a discrete hotel ballroom near skid row booked with a buffet and a crisp, new, one-hundred-dollar bill for you to entice them into your limousine.
“Me and my paralegal team will be inside the ballroom to interview them. They get paid just for showing up and completing the interview.
“I want coherent indigents!
“Forget the psychotics, drug addicts, and alcoholics. I don’t want to my waste time on Class Rep’s who can’t participate in the litigation.”
“This class action law seems ‘out of your league’.
“You’re ‘Sassy Cassy’ not ‘Perry Mason’.”
“Point well-taken, Stuey.
“I’m teamin’ up with the lawyer using the moniker ‘Potentate of Personal Injury’.”
“Ain’t he your primary competitor in the ‘slip ‘n fall’ shyster racket advertising on late-night TV?”
“Yes, Stuey but even lethal competitors ‘team up’ when they see ‘blood in the water’.”
“That dude loves sport fishing.
“He owns one of the largest boats in the marina, Stuey.”
“He’s going to help me ‘hook’ and ‘reel in’ the hospitals, fellas.
“He won a class action suit against a city representing bicyclists butchered by cars within negligently prepared bicycle lanes.
“He’ll guide me every step of the way but it’s ‘Sassy Cassy’ riding atop my steed Justice coming to the defense of those ‘poor indigents’ dumped into the cold night air.
“I’ll have the ad campaign and press releases ready to go upon filing the lawsuit.”
“What’s in it for us, Cassy?”
“10% of my cut after I split with Potentate.
“Assume the settlement pot is ten million dollars. If the judge awards two and a half million in legal fees, and my cut after paying Potentate is two million dollars, your cut is two hundred thousand dollars!
“That’s conservative, darlings.”
“We want our cut tax free, paid in cash, Cassy.”
“You seem like a dull knife but razor-sharp when it involves money, Jonny. I’ll pay you both in cash but I want results, fast!”
“We’re all in, Cassy.”
“Jonny’s right.
“We’re ‘all in’, all right.”
“If you both ‘play your cards right’, we’ll ride the ‘gravy train’ together to ‘Serendipity Station’.”
It was a busy week for me servin’ up process and repossessing cars like a card dealer of disaster dealing out “losing hands” to everybody I met. I didn’t hear from Cassy. I presumed she was busy slaying insurance companies and preparing her big class action suit.
I was worried about Jonny. He’s the kind of guy carrying around a lotta baggage filled with revenge minded maniacs who’d love to take him “out”. Even Zondra was concerned about Jonny,
“You tell that bad boy to get his skinny ass back to Mama before she comes lookin’ for him!”
It was a late Friday afternoon when I received a text message to meet Sassy within the parking lot at the corner of “Home Run” and “No Hitter” streets; the “Stadium Village” neighborhood of downtown known for a paradoxical marriage of million-dollar high-rise condos and homeless people calling a tent “home” situated on both sides of the street in the shadow of a beautiful ballpark.
I spied Cassy’s Jaguar and to my surprise, she was with Jonny studying the neighborhood like location scouts for a motion picture. Even a tough old Shore Patrolman was concerned for his safety when I parked and exited my truck.
“The game is ‘on’ Stuey.
“I have four complaints you’ll serve tomorrow night.
“I’ll brief you before you leave.”
“Where have you been Jonny?”
“Busy getting class reps for Cassy.
“It took over a hundred deliveries of disheveled, delusional, or despondent ‘walking dead’ driven to the hotel just to find four lucid class reps.
“I’m still tryin’ to disinfect the stink out of my limo from those rides.”
“What’s Jonny doing here with you, Cassy?”
“We’re writing the script for the ad campaign we’ll rollout once the class action is filed.
“Picture Sassy Cassy riding her white steed Justice down the center of Home Run Street in full body armor, Kilt, and wavin’ my sword Victory as I chase extras wearing white lab coats with stethoscopes. I’ll include extras wearing business suits and carrying brief cases.
“My voice over to the cutaways to and from the tents and homeless staggering about reads,
‘Sassy Cassy fights for the powerless against the medical establishment releasing the misfortunate onto to the streets to suffer or die.
Call me for a free consultation if you, a loved one, or friend is the victim of Patient Dumping.
Let me slay the hospitals for you, too!
Call Sassy Cassy 24/7 for justice for YOU.’”
“We’ll cut to the horse whinnying,
‘I’m telling all my friends to call Sassy Cassy’”
“That’s a cute touch, Jonny.
“Include it within the script.”
“I’m the writer and producer, Stuey.
“I’m talkin’ to the owners of the ballpark about a scoreboard ad buy including Sassy’s logo.”
“What do you know about shooting commercials, Jonny?”
“I’ve driven’ my share of Hollywood hotshots who told me how famous directors got their start doin’ commercials.
“It’s a learn on the job gig, Stuey.
“My production company is named, ‘Content Pipeline’.
“Cassy promised to incorporate me as compensation for my services.”
“Everybody has a reputation to defend, Jonny.
“Make certain your ‘pipeline’ doesn’t connect to the sewer!”
“Jonny’s script will save me money on the ad campaign.
“Young, local, film crews are inexpensive.
“We’ll get a permit to close down the streets while we shoot. The cops will cooperate for an additional permit fee.”
I looked about the human carnage crawling in and out of tents; stupefied, hapless, inebriated, or delusional people wondering about aimlessly, shouting, and talking to themselves.
“You’re going to include these unfortunates in your commercial?”
“We’ll cover their faces in the editing room for legal purposes but I want to appeal to the emotional triggers of the viewers.
“The sun is setting quickly and I don’t want to be here after dark.
“Here’s the four filings you’ll serve.
“Me and Jonny are leaving. I’ll call you from the car about the papers you’ll serve tomorrow night.”
As I maneuvered slowly so as not to run over any of the homeless approaching me for a handout, I caught a glimpse of several wearing only hospital gowns with their buttocks exposed.
It bothered me to see Cassy and Jonny produce a commercial exploiting the homeless for personal gain but maybe Cassy “tamed” Jonny and it was nice to see his creative spirits provoke him into an endeavor other than his next con job. Despite Cassy’s garish self-promotion, I hoped she’d find justice for these lost souls.
I entered the onramp to the freeway grateful to be leaving purgatory. I knew each homeless person had a novel length story bringing them to the streets. It was disappointing to find American’s living in squalor and conditions I encountered within Third World countries as a sailor.
Me and Jonny could be one of them but for my home in the Navy for twenty years and Jonny’s “Man Candy” good looks. As a young man, Jonny enjoyed the “spoils” of young women with trust funds, and, as he aged, wealthy senior women willing to pay for his company while employing him as a companion or driver until they discovered their purses empty, credit cards tapped out, and returning him like a wardrobe to the department store because it “didn’t fit”.
Me, Cassy, and Jonny were mariners chartering a course away from our stormy ports of the past. I bounced about the bumpers like a ball within a pinball machine from port to port. Jonny’s past was littered with one golden handbag leading to another while age was bearing down on his handsome good looks “meal ticket” like a rogue wave. Cassy was a chick runnin’ from the past necessitating the creation of a superhero alter-ego whose costume masked the scars of her past she never revealed. One thing was certain for us. Our future was leading us into the eye of a hurricane.
Cassy phoned.
“You’ll be serving the founding partner of the most prestigious law firm in town with a reputation of defending corporate clients including the four hospitals.
“His address is on the papers. His mansion sits on a hilltop with a commanding three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the ocean and looking east to the desert. It’s gated with an intercom.”
Continued in Part II