William Lashner - Past Due

“What do they do?”

“Everything and nothing.”

“Who owns it?”

“A couple of shell corporations I traced to the Caymans where the traces, they disappear.”

“You’re slipping, Skink.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I am. You want to send me down there for a few days, I could maybe dig a little deeper.”

“And work on your tan in the process.”

“They gots golf courses down there look like brochures.”

“Forget it.”

“Thought to check with the rental agent on the town house. Tough bird, she is. Constant cigarette, voice like a lawn mower. Insisted on a personal guarantee on the lease, and got one too. Signed by a man of substance name of Edward Dean.”

“Edward Dean. Okay. Now we’re getting somewhere. Tell me about our little Miss Blue.”

“Grew up in South Jersey, just over the bridge, Bellmawr. Father ran a liquor store. Cheerleader, no surprise there, right? Graduated this year from Penn. Didn’t have the grades or SATs for an Ivy, but slipped her way in and survived. Was a marketing major, seems that’s what they major in if they don’t know what the hell to major in. Found her current position on a bulletin board at the job office at the school. Lots applied, this bird pulled it down. Good for her, right?”

“How’d she get it?”

“No one knows. There was better-qualified applicants, top of the class, Wharton grads even. But she’s a looker, ain’t she. I had my choice between some little owl with a four-point-oh and our little Kimberly, I’d take Kimberly too. Now she’s living in a walk-up with some of her school chums but she ain’t there much, if you catch the drift. No steady boyfriend since she broke up with a basketball star last year, least not what her flat mates know of.”

“Anything else?”

“She’s an orphan.”

“What?”

“She’s an orphan. Her moms died when she was still in diapers, her pops died last year. And every now and then, ever since her pops died, she just goes off and cries.”

“Come on, Phil. What am I supposed to do with that?”

“I thought you should know, is all.”

“You like her.”

“I been keeping my distance like you wanted, never spoke to her once.”

“But you’re sweet on her all the same.”

“Yeah, maybe I am. But not in the way you’re thinking. I spent some time with her mates. Nice girls, though two beers and they can’t stop their yapping. But Kimberly, she was working that night, like she works almost every night. Like she worked her way through a college that was too hard for her, like she worked her way into this job that ain’t like any job a girl like her should grab hold of. You get a sense of a girl giving her the tail. Our Kimberly, she’s been in over her head every day of her life and she keeps going on, doesn’t she?”

“Except when she’s home crying.”

“There you go. Anything else you want?”

“Not just yet, Phil. But keep your phone on, I sense I’m going to need you sooner rather than later.”

Today Kimberly Blue was wearing a different version of her corporate outfit, this one bright red, with matching pumps and lipstick. Very nice. She smiled when she saw me, but I gestured her to wait for a moment.

Rashard Porter was standing behind my secretary, Ellie, as she typed out his application to the Philadelphia College of Art.

“How’s it going?” I said.

Ellie looked up, seemingly exasperated. “He keeps changing his answers.”

“They got more questions than the probation lady,” said Rashard. “I mean my address and high school stuff is no problem, but like this here. They want to know why I want to go to art school. Should I tell them the truth, Mr. Carl? I don’t think they want to hear the truth, being that the truth is me liking the idea of spending the day staring at naked ladies and needing to get in to keep my butt out of jail.”

“Except that’s not the real truth, is it?”

“It isn’t?”

“If you could do anything with your life, what would you do?”

“Blow dope and play X-Box?”

“Really?”

“Nah, man.”

“So then tell them what you really want to do. And tell them why. Tell them about the newspaper thing you did at the high school. From what I understand, with these places the most important thing is your portfolio.”

“Mine’s like a piece-of-crap cardboard thing.”

“Not what it’s made of, Rashard, what’s inside of it. I’ve seen your stuff. You’ll do all right. Just be sure to show them your best. Keep at it, but I have a meeting.”

With that I nodded at Kimberly Blue and led her into my office.

SHE DROPPED INTOa chair, pulled at the hem of her skirt, straightened the fabric on her lap, removed the stenographic pad from her leather portfolio. We chatted a bit, about the weather, about the city, about law school. She had been thinking about law school, she said, before she got a job as a vice president. “Now, being a lawyer would be a step down, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “So, where were we?”

She glanced at her pad. “You want me to start the whole thing over again, beginning with the card? Have you seen my card?”

“Yes I have. It’s quality, for sure.”

“It is, isn’t it? Did you notice that the printing is raised?”

“Yes, I noticed. Why don’t we begin where we left off in the courthouse. You said you had a case for me.”

“Yes, yes, okay. Okay. Here it is.” She calmed herself, looked at her pad, and then punched her fist in the air like a peewee soccer coach exhorting her troops. “Victor, we need for you, Victor, to collect a debt.”

“Collect a debt?” I said.

“Yes. A debt.”

“That may be a problem, then, Kimberly, because I don’t do collection work anymore.”

She looked at her tablet, riffled through it quickly. “Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. Last collection case I ended up with a bullet in my ribs.”

“Oogly,” she said. “Did it hurt?”

“Oh yes.”

“Why would someone want to shoot you?”

“Well, Kimberly, take away a man’s money, he gets upset. Take away a man’s wife, he gets down right pissy. But take away a man’s car, then you’ve got trouble on your hands.”

“Still, someone has to do this case and we figured you were just the man for the job.” She gave me another exhorting punch.

“What is that, that fist in the air thing you do?” I said.

“You don’t like that?”

“No. It’s something they do to old men before they wheel them off to get their prostates removed.”

“Helloo. TMI. Can we avoid the prostate metaphors? I don’t even want to think about mine. So okay, my bad, no more of the fist thing.” She did it again. “But let me show you what we have.” She reached into her portfolio, pulled out a legal-sized document, handed it to me with great care like it was the Magna Carta itself.

A note, executed by one Derek Manley, promising to pay the First Philadelphia Bank and Trust one hundred thousand dollars, plus interest, plus collection fees, plus court costs if required.

“Is this the Derek Manley who owns the trucking company down by the stadium?”

“Do you know him?”

“Only by reputation, and most of it bad, by the way. But this debt is owed to First Philadelphia.”

“Mr. Manley has already… What’s the word for failing to pay?”

“Defaulted.”

“No, that’s not it. Whatever, my boss bought the note and now wants you to collect it.” She gave me a frozen smile before reaching again into her portfolio. “Here is the transfer document.”

I looked it over. It was dated about a week ago. A firm named Jacopo Financing had bought the note at a steep discount, which probably wasn’t steep enough, considering Manley had already failed to make a number of payments and was probably flat-on-his-back broke. The note allowed the holder to confess judgment without filing a legal case in the event of a default, which meant the only issue facing Jacopo was finding Derek Manley’s assets and seizing them.