Parnell Hall - The Underground Man

“So that’s it. If the will is entirely in my own handwriting and signed and dated and revokes all prior wills, I’m home free.” Walsh stood up. “Fine. What do I owe you?”

Steve shook his head. “No charge. I didn’t do anything.”

“I mean for the consultation.”

Steve smiled. “No charge.”

Walsh frowned irritably. “Of course there’s a charge. There’s no such thing as free advice. Free advice ain’t worth taking. If you give me free advice, then you’re a fool, and I’d be a fool to follow it. Here, let me see.”

He pulled his overcoat aside and rummaged in his pants pocket. He pulled out a dirty, crumpled bill and laid it on the desk. “There,” he said. He rummaged in his pocket again, pulled out another crumpled bill, set that on the desk. “And there. Now we’re square. You get what you pay for. Now if you gave me bum advice and it don’t work out, you’ll feel bad. Of course, I’ll be dead, so I won’t know. But you’ll have to live with it.”

Walsh nodded shortly. “Thanks for your time.”

“Now wait a minute,” Steve said. “You can’t just ask for advice and then go running off and try applying it-”

Walsh was already halfway to the door. Over his shoulder he said, “That’s what you think.”

A few more steps and he was gone, slamming the door behind him.

Steve looked after him, shook his head, and grinned at Tracy Garvin. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “What do you make of that?”

Tracy shook her head. “What do I make of it? What do you make of it. Here’s a guy off the street, and you sit here talking to him about specific bequests and residuary beneficiaries as if he were just some normal client. I mean, what can he possibly have that he wants to leave?”

“I have no idea,” Steve said. “Whatever it is, I just hope he doesn’t get into trouble. A person who wants to get his law from a lawyer and then apply it to the facts himself is usually a fool. I just hope in his case it doesn’t make any difference.”

Steve sighed and ran his hand over his head. “Well, Tracy, I’m afraid our two clients didn’t amount to much. The first case was a total washout, and the second earned us a whopping two bucks.”

Tracy got up from her chair. “You want this written up?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Steve said. “And duly reported to the IRS. I can’t wait till they see that one. ‘Consultation fee: two dollars.’”

Tracy walked over to the desk, picked up the bills and smoothed them out. “Oh shit,” she said.

Steve looked up. “What’s the matter?”

“Your two-dollar fee.”

“What about it?”

Tracy smoothed the bills out and handed them over.

They were hundred dollar bills.

Steve Winslow leaned back in his chair, put his feet up on his desk, and opened the New York Times. A former actor, Steve read the paper inside out, starting with the drama section. It was skimpy this morning- no articles, no reviews, mostly only movie ads. Steve moved on to the sports. The Knicks had won again. Not surprising-their first good season in years and they were on a roll. The Yankees were rumored to be about to make a managerial change. That was news? Hell, you could run the same column every six months.

Steve sighed. Shit. Another day with nothing to do but read the paper. And just when he’d thought he had it made.

For a while, Steve Winslow had been the most obscure lawyer in New York City. A lawyer with only one client who’d handled only one case. And handled it in such a way as to make himself look like an incompetent clown. Then the Marilyn Harding case had come along and changed all that. He’d made a splash in that one all right, right on the front page of the Daily News. It was sensational.

Too sensational. He’d made a name for himself all right, and he had a law practice now. But it wasn’t a normal law practice. Because the type of publicity he got wasn’t the type that attracted your standard brand of client. It was the type that attracted mainly the undesirables and the kooks.

And not in great numbers, either. Most days there were none. Some days there was one. Today there’d been two. Mr. Thorngood and Mr. Walsh.

One undesirable and one kook.

Steve sighed again, put the section of the paper down. So much for drama and sports. Time for the hard news. Pro-life protests, terrorists, and the budget deficit. Steve picked up the first section, opened the front page.

Tracy Garvin came in the door. “Someone else to see you.”

Steve folded the paper, kicked his feet off the desk and sat up. “You’re kidding.”

Tracy smiled. “I know. It’s a deluge. Three in one day.”

“Who is it?”

“A Mr. Carl Jenson.”

“What does he want?”

“He wouldn’t say.”

Steve grinned. “Again? You must be getting a complex.”

“Not as long as you keep reading them the riot act when they try to throw me out.”

“Never fear,” Steve said. “So what’s he like?”

“He’s about thirty, medium height and build, brown hair, blue eyes.”

“That’s a police description. How does he strike you?”

“I don’t like him. And not just ’cause he wouldn’t talk to me. He’s got a pleasant enough face-not ugly, not handsome-just ordinary. It’s just his manner. I mean, he’s well dressed. Presentable. There’s nothing I can put my finger on. I just don’t like him.”

Steve grinned. “You’re advising me against taking him on as a client?”

“Of course not. It’s just a feeling, and he may be a nice guy, but you asked me so I told you.”

“All right,” Steve said. “Show the gentleman in.”

Tracy went out and returned moments later ushering in Carl Jenson. She made a show of closing the door behind her, indicating that she intended to stay, before saying, “Mr. Jenson to see you, Mr. Winslow.”

The gesture was wasted. Jenson strode up to the desk. Steve rose to meet him.

“Mr. Winslow?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Carl Jenson.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

They shook hands.

“Sit down, Mr. Jenson,” Steve said. “What can I do for you?”

Jenson sat in the clients’ chair. Steve sat at his desk. Tracy pulled up a chair, opened her notebook. Jenson gave her a look, but said nothing. Tracy frowned slightly. Steve’s eyes twinkled. She’d been hoping Jenson would object to her being there so Steve would dress him down.

“I was hoping we could exchange some information,” Jenson said.

“I beg your pardon?”

Jenson put up his hands. “I know, I know. You’re an attorney. You don’t want to tell me anything. But I think once you understand the situation-” Jenson smiled. “Well, I’m sure we can work something out.”

“I’m not so sure we can,” Steve said. “But what did you have in mind?”

“It’s about Uncle Jack, of course.”

“Uncle Jack?”

“Yes. Perhaps you didn’t catch the name. I’m Carl Jenson.”

“Your name I caught. Your drift is what I’m having problems with.”

“But surely he mentioned me.”

“Who?”

“Uncle Jack.”

“And who is Uncle Jack?”

“Then he didn’t mention me. That’s strange. No wonder you’re confused. I’m sorry. I keep saying Uncle Jack. I mean Jack Walsh, of course.”

Steve’s face was absolutely neutral. “Jack Walsh?”

Jenson smiled and put up his hands. “Sure, sure. Play it safe and conservative. Like you never heard the name. All right. I’ll tell you. I’m referring to Jack Walsh. My uncle. The man who came to your office this morning to consult you.”

Jenson stopped, looked at him. Steve said nothing. Jenson frowned. “Or perhaps he used another name. That would be just like him.” Jenson smiled. “But you couldn’t miss him. I mean the bum.”