Rough Trade

they’d never believe it anyway.
    “Even if you were out of town on another matter,” broke in Myron Schap, the brindle-haired partner who was widely held to be both Tillman’s Iago and his successor, “you were not only out of town but unreachable.”
    “Accept my explanation or ask for my resignation, but never, never, call me a liar—especially to my face.”
    “You realize that Avco has categorically refused to pay one penny of our fee,” sputtered Edwin Margolis, the head of the tax department.
    “Avery and Colin Brandt, who are the principals in Avco, are complete scumbags. If you recall, I believe that those were the exact words I used when Stuart Eisenstadt first suggested that we represent them in this matter. As far as I’m concerned, there was never any guarantee that they were going to pay us in any event. Besides, they won’t be the first client that we’ve had to sue in order to collect and I guarantee that they won’t be the last.”
    “It’s easy enough for you to be flip about a quarter of a million dollars,” snorted Gus Rolle hypocritically. His wife was a dog food heiress and if her family’s company weren’t one of the firm’s biggest clients, Callahan Ross wouldn’t have even hired him as a paralegal.
    “Oh, I think I have an idea of how many zeros we’re talking about,” I assured him. “What I don’t know is what all of you want. Is this conversation enough for you? Would you feel better if I broke down and cried?” I looked around the table and felt every inch the bratty teenager. “Because what you see is what you get. This is all the satisfaction I’m prepared to offer. If it’s not enough, you can try to fire me.”
    I looked around the table, standing my ground. In the background the grandfather clock could be heard ticking ominously. “In that case I’m going back to my office,” I announced. “I have work to do.”
    Then I marched out of the room and smiled to myself. No matter what else, I’d reduced five lawyers to complete speechlessness, which, when all was said and done, was no small feat.
     
    By the time I got back to my office, my breathing had returned to something very close to normal. As I turned the corner I was pleased to see Sherman Whitehead waiting for me. He was wearing a light blue golf shirt buttoned all the way up to the neck and a pair of plaid high-water
    pants.
    “How did it go this morning?” he asked.
    “I remain bloody but unbowed,” I reported.
    “Gregson said that they were going to try to can you.” Tim Gregson made partner the same year I did. He was a money-hungry deal lawyer with the face of a choirboy and the ethics of a crack dealer. I had no doubt he’d be managing partner someday.
    “It’s early in the day yet, but so far I’m still here.”
    “Then do you have a minute?”
    “As long as it doesn’t have anything to do with Avco. I am officially off the case.”
    “No. It’s about the Monarchs. I stayed up last night going over their balance sheet.”
    “Pretty scary. No wonder you couldn’t sleep.”
    “The bank is trying to force them to go under, aren’t they?”
    “Wouldn’t you if you were in their shoes? Not only will they get the franchise for ten cents on the dollar, but now that some asshole’s leaked the possibility of the team moving to L.A., instead of being the heartless bankers that took the Monarchs away from the Rendells, they’re going to be the heroes that keep the team in Milwaukee.”
    “I take it you think they were the ones who leaked it to the press.”
    “First they had to know it to be able to leak it. My guess is that either Harald Feiss told them or he leaked it himself.”
    “Why would the minority owner want to do that?”
    “I don’t know, maybe he’s cooked up some kind of side deal with the bank. He claims that Beau was planning on making a deal to move the team out to the suburbs to anchor a planned sports/entertainment/retail complex.”
    “Where?”
    “Someplace out in the boonies called Wauwatosa.”
    “That’s what I came to talk to you about. Last night, going through the financials, I came upon a hefty line item for real estate taxes for an unidentified parcel of land. I looked up the plat numbers this morning and it’s all in Wauwatosa—-an enormous tract, at least a couple of hundred acres. The real estate taxes alone are something like seventy grand a year.”
    “Are they delinquent on the taxes?”
    “Nope. They’re current.”
    “Are