William Bernhardt - Deadly Justice

“I have a long history of not being smart enough to take a hint,” Ben said.

“Don’t softsoap me, Ben. You’re the kind of guy who believes that if a job is going to be done, it should be done right. You’re going to handle this case properly, regardless of who or what gets in the way. I suppose that’s why Crichton thinks you’re such a super litigator.”

“We’ll see what he thinks after today.”

Ben exited off Northwest Expressway. “What’s the name of the place where we’re meeting King?”

“It’s called Knockers.”

“Knockers? What kind of name is that for a restaurant?”

“Beats me. I’ve never been there. Crichton recommends it to everyone going to Oklahoma City.”

A few minutes later, Ben pulled into the Knockers parking lot. The place had to be popular; almost every spot was taken.

“The food must be sensational to attract a crowd like this,” Ben said. “I wonder if I can get some Buffalo chicken wings. That sounds great.”

“Hope springs eternal.” They climbed out of the car and walked to the restaurant.

Knockers probably did have some sort of decor, but whatever it was, Ben didn’t notice. His eyes, like Rob’s and everyone else’s, were immediately drawn to the staff. The entirely and without exception female staff. The entirely and without exception young blond female staff. Bimbo paradise.

The “hostesses” all wore the same uniform: tight white T-shirts and pink spandex short shorts. The T-shirts were tied, quite snugly, around the midriff. The short shorts started low on the hips and ended high on the thigh. And as was immediately apparent, they weren’t wearing anything else.

“Can we help you?” A nubile young hostess looped her arm around Ben’s, giggling. “Can I show you to a table? A booth? Anything you want, I’ll be happy to provide.”

Ben noticed Rob had acquired a similar escort. “A booth will be fine. We’re meeting a man named Bernie King. He may already be here.”

“Oh, Bernie!” Rob’s escort squealed. “We love Bernie. He’s in the back.”

Ben followed her swaying spandex to a boom in the rear. He marveled at how crowded me restaurant was; every office building in Oklahoma City must be feeding the place. He also noticed that every patron, without exception, was male.

Bernie’s booth was in front of the big screen television. Another T-shirted waitress was standing on his table, a hula hoop revolving around her hips.

“All right, Jenny!” Ben’s escort screamed. “Shake ’em!”

Jenny smiled giddily and accelerated her rhythmic revolutions.

Ben ducked under the hula hoop and tried to introduce himself. “Mr. King? I’m Ben Kincaid. This is Rob Fielder.”

King shifted his glazed gaze slightly. “Happy to meet you.” He returned his attention to the waitress on the table, then sighed. “All right, Jenny. That will be enough. I’m afraid we have some business to discuss.”

“Aww!” the women wailed in unison. Jenny grabbed the hoop and stepped off the table. She grabbed Ben by the shoulders. “Can I show you my knockers?”

“What?”

Jenny handed Ben and the others small hand-sized wooden blocks. “These are my knockers. When you decide you’re ready to order, just knock.” She giggled. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

She took the drink orders—Cokes for Ben and Rob, two martinis for Bernie King—and scampered away with her friends.

King appeared utterly relaxed and at peace with the universe. “I try to make it out here at least once a week. Robert Crichton first told me about this place. I consider it one of the few favors he’s ever done for me. What do you think, Kincaid?”

Ben looked down at his silverware. “I don’t think you want to know.”

“If I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t have asked.”

“Well…” Ben inhaled deeply. “Since you asked, I think this place is degrading to women, infantile, sexist, and all-around revolting.”

King smiled. “That’s what I would’ve said, when I was your age. The words would’ve been different, but the sentiment would’ve been the same.” He stretched out, raised his feet onto the booth. “But I’ve mellowed with age. I don’t get upset about the minutiae of political correctness anymore. If someone wants to make me happy, well, who am I to stop them?”

“Joints like this could set women back a hundred years.”

“Perhaps so. And I wonder, would that be so horrible?”

“It would. Especially in the workplace. I’ve already seen behavior at Apollo—”

“Enough, enough. I’m not the CEO.”

“That’s the problem, as far as I can tell. No one wants to take responsibility. We have vice presidents for every conceivable aspect of Apollo’s business policies, but no one is responsible for setting moral policies.”

King smiled again. “Moral policy is not generally a principal concern of the stockholders at the annual meeting.”

“Maybe it should be.”

“Well, enough of this errant philosophizing. I understand you want to talk about the XKL-1 design project.”

“That’s correct.” Ben brought him up-to-date on the litigation, including the discovery that had been conducted thus far. “Andrew Consetti mentioned that you were one of the principal designers on the project.”

“That’s true. Me and Al Austin.”

“Right. That’s one aspect of this affair that seems strange to me. After the completion of that project, you became a corporate VP with your own office in OKC, and Al Austin disappeared from the face of the earth.”

“I like to think my promotion was based upon more than just one project. I’ve been working for Apollo for almost twenty years.”

Ben tried to concentrate on what King was saying, but it was almost impossible with the big screen television flashing in front of his eyes. An exercise program was on, featuring four beautifully formed women in skintight exercise leotards bouncing around under the pretense of physical fitness. Ben liked lovely women as well as the next guy, but this big screen show of sweat and tights was beginning to have a Clockwork Orange effect.

“Can you describe the testing that was performed on the XKL-1?” Ben asked, forcing himself to look away from the screen.

“You name it, we did it. Stress testing, collision testing, front impact, rear impact—every test that could be performed, we performed.”

“Well…I’ve searched the corporate records, as has my legal assistant, and we haven’t found any test reports.”

“Really?” King thought for a moment. “Well, it’s a five-year-old project. They must’ve been thrown out.”

“Hmm.” Ben scrutinized King carefully. “And, you’re certain the design was thoroughly tested?”

“Absolutely certain.”

“And the results were positive?”

He spread his hands across the table. “We put the product on the market, didn’t we?”

“That doesn’t quite answer my question.”

“The quality control department would never intentionally release a product it didn’t believe to be safe.”

“That…still doesn’t answer my question.”

For the first time, King’s dander appeared to be rising. “I’ve answered it several times.”

“No, you haven’t. My question is: did the testing prove the design was safe?”

“Yes, it was safe. It was incredibly, wonderfully safe. God spare me from the persistence of a lawyer.” He leaned back into the corner of the booth. “I thought you were on our side.”

“I am. I just want to know what happened.”

King glanced absently at a group of hostesses building a pyramid with their bodies. “Well, that’s what happened.”

Rob seized the opportunity to jump in and smooth the troubled waters. “Do you have any explanation for what happened to Jason Nelson, Mr. King?”