Alez Kava - One False Move

He buttoned his collar and straightened his tie. He took one more swat at the flies then knocked on the door of apartment 615. The number six clung by a loose nail and had swung upside down so that it looked like apartment 915.

A grumble came from the other side of the door. He stepped back and waited for the succession of clicks as the locks were undone. The door opened a couple of inches, limited by the chain that held it. Max wanted to shake his head and restrained himself from rolling his eyes. In this building a door chain was about as worthless as a flyswatter. "Whadya want?"

Max recognized the woman's raspy voice and knew that it was, no doubt, the result of her prolonged usage of crack cocaine, not cigarettes.

"I'm Max Kramer. Are you Carrie Ann Comstock?" "Yeah, so whadya want?" "Actually, Carrie Ann, you called me." "I did?" She shoved one eye to the crack and gave him a once-over.

"You said your friend Heather Fischer recommended me to represent you."

"She did?"

"I just spoke to you on the phone last week. I told you I'd stop by on Wednesday. Today's Wednesday."

"Oh, right. You're the lawyer guy. Geez! Where's my fuckin' brain today?" She slammed the door. He heard the rattle of the chain, then she opened the door. "Come on in."

Max stepped in slowly, but the apartment wasn't bad. If he hadn't had to endure the hot, smelly, fly-infested climb, he might have called it cozy.

She offered him a seat in what had to be her favorite chair. It faced the TV set and had a small fan blowing directly on it. He declined, insisting she sit, letting her think that he was being polite when he simply liked the feeling of control standing gave him.

"I checked all the charges, Ms. Comstock. With the crack cocaine charge alone you're in some pretty serious trouble."

Her head went down as though she was ready to be punished. He tried to determine how old she was. Sometimes with crack whores it was difficult to tell. If the crack didn't whither their skin, their horrendous nutritional habits did. He decided she might actually be pretty if she cleaned up and put on ten pounds. As for her age, he guessed that Carrie Ann was maybe twenty-five or twenty-six. Her rap sheet had only estimated it. He wondered if Carrie Ann even remembered how old she was.

"I can help you, but we need something you can bargain with. You understand what I'm saying?"

He knew if she was a friend of Heather's she would understand. She looked up at him, and yes, there was already a look of recognition and relief in her bloodshot eyes. That was one thing he liked about his clientele. They could be very grateful to anyone who offered help. They were so used to everyone giving up on them-family, friends, even the justice system.

"When the time comes you'll need to listen and pay close attention to what I tell you. And you'll need to stay clean through the end of the week. If you want to stay out of jail, you'll need to do exactly as I say. Do you understand?"

She nodded, sitting on the edge of the chair as if ready to do whatever was necessary right now. "I know I'm in big trouble. If I just could have one more chance. That's all I need."

"I know. That's why I'm going to help you." Max wiped his forehead again. God! It was hot in the small apartment and yet Carrie Ann didn't seem at all affected by the heat. She didn't even have any of the windows opened. He wondered again why the hell he bothered to come to his clients' homes. This was ridiculous.

"I really appreciate this, Mr. Kramer. I don't know what I'd do if you couldn't help me. I really can't go to jail."

"And you shouldn't have to. But like I said you'll have to be able to do and say what I tell you. Okay?"

Another nod.

"I know you'll want partial payment today," she said as she slid off the chair onto her knees. "Right?" Without looking up at him she reached up and began pulling down his zipper.

In a matter of seconds Max Kramer remembered exactly why he came to his clients' homes.

10:45 a.m.

Melanie watched the waitress's frustration grow. It wasn't her fault the cook kept getting Jared's order wrong. But the woman shouldn't be taking it out on Jared, either. How could she expect him to eat runny eggs when he'd ordered them fried and well done? Okay, maybe not the first time. Melanie thought she had heard him say sunny side up, too, although she didn't dare say so. Besides, Jared insisted he hadn't, and Charlie backed him up, saying Jared should know how he ordered his own eggs. Here they were, arguing with the waitress for the third time, the entire Cracker Barrel dining room watching them.

Melanie wanted to squirm her way out of the booth. Instead she looked out the window, wishing they weren't the center of attention. She had spent a lifetime trying to blend in, trying to be like everyone else. That's how she had survived her childhood, and as an adult that's how she had become so good at lifting the things she did. She strived to be seen as ordinary as she possibly could, never drawing unnecessary attention to herself, It allowed her to blend in whether she was shoplifting at Lowe's or Dillard's or even Borsheim's.

Jared, however, seemed to want everyone to notice him, to see what injustices had been done to him. Had he always been like this? Or had his time in prison changed him? He usually didn't waste so much time with the small crap. Mostly he just focused on the things or people who pissed him off. Why get so pissed about some fucking eggs and whether they were firm enough? Or was it really about eggs? Hard to tell with Jared these days.

"I'm beginning to think you don't like me, Rita," Jared was saying in that same tone Melanie had thought earlier was sarcasm.

"No, not at all," the waitress said. "I'm just wondering why it took you several bites to figure out they still weren't to your liking."

Melanie's eyes went back to the window and the parking lot outside. This waitress was only making matters worse.

"I guess I was just in shock, Rita. I couldn't believe that you could screw it up for a third time."

Jared's voice had that singsong tone that made Melanie cringe. Outside in the parking lot she concentrated on a KKAR-news station wagon whose driver had a map spread out on the hood, holding it down with the palms of his hands to keep the wind from blowing it away. But he wasn't looking at the map. Instead, he was scanning the sky, and that's when Melanie noticed how dark the clouds had grown. Several pole lights that lined the lot had automatically started blinking, as if trying to decide whether or not to come on. Up on Interstate 80 she could see headlights.

"Forget about it, Rita." Jared was responding to something Melanie had missed. "I don't want any more eggs. What might make me happy-"

"Let me guess," Rita interrupted him. "You'd like me to not charge you for the eggs."

"Actually, considering how many times you and your friend back in the kitchen screwed up…" He lifted his hands, palms up in a hopeless gesture, allowing her to fill in the blanks.

"You'd like me not to charge you for your entire breakfast. Is that it?"

"If you insist."

"Jesus," Rita muttered, scratching out a new ticket. "It's no skin off my nose. I get paid this afternoon, cash my check, pick up my daughter, and we're off for a whole week in Vegas."

"Really? Vegas?" Jared sounded so interested that Mel-anie glanced at him from her perch at the window. Was he finally cutting the poor waitress some slack? "Well, you have a good time, Rita."

"I'll pick this up whenever you're ready. No hurry, of course."

Melanie wondered if the poor waitress would be back. She stared at Jared, trying to decide whether he meant what he said. Did he respect that the woman stood up to him? Hard to tell. He sat back in the booth, grabbing his fork, wiping off leftover eggs with the napkin and then finishing his manicure.