“I’ve joined a new gym and my class runs from six-thirty to seven-thirty. I need time to run home and shower and such.”

  In her desperate search for a toned and pliant body, she had changed gyms several times, with no success. “Okay, we’ll give it a try,” he said without agreeing or disagreeing. For a second she wanted to assert herself and establish her own boundaries, but it was Monday morning, not the best time for a quarrel. She bit her tongue and managed a fake smile, then turned and left his office. As she was leaving, Simon, out of habit, checked her out. Was the asparagus juice working? The new gym? Was it his imagination, or was Tillie actually shedding a few pounds? Or was it that, since he now had the green light from home, he would quite naturally look at women with a different eye.

  One thing was certain: On the top-ten list of ways to thoroughly screw up your life, having sex with an employee was somewhere in the first three slots. The laws on sexual harassment were brutal.

  Where was gambling on the list?

  His thoughts returned to the Final Four, but the phone was ringing now. Wounded and angry people out there needed lawyers.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Tillie stuck her head through the crack of his door and said, “Simon, got a minute?”

  “Sure.” He wasn’t working yet, still pondering free online tips from Vegas oddsmakers.

  She took a step in and said, “I still have an open file on Eleanor Barnett. She hasn’t called in some time. You want to close it?”

  Simon thought for a moment as if he really had to make a decision. “Give it a week or so. I doubt she’ll be back.”

  Tillie nodded and disappeared. She returned to her desk and typed notes on her iPad, for personal use only. She had just caught her boss in a lie, one that was probably of some significance, though she didn’t know for sure. A friend who worked in a realtor’s office had seen Simon in the deli last Friday when Matilda took the day off. He was having lunch with Tony and Mary Beth Larson and an older lady. She called Mary Beth to chat about an insurance matter for one of their clients. They talked all the time and enjoyed the local gossip. Out of the blue, Matilda asked if Mary Beth and Tony had witnessed the execution of a will last Friday. Mary Beth hesitated, just long enough to arouse suspicion, and said yes, they had. For a Ms. Eleanor Barnett, a lovely lady.

  Matilda took it in stride as if she was on top of things and ended the call. If Eleanor Barnett signed a will, who typed it? In her twelve years with Simon they had prepared and executed hundreds of wills, and, to her recollection, he had never typed a single one. Nor had he presided over the signing without involving Matilda.

  Simon could be a complicated soul and had his flaws, but he was not a liar. When telling stories and spinning yarns he could embellish with the best of them, but on serious matters he would never lie.

  Until now.

  * * *

  During the lunch with Tony and Mary Beth Larson, Simon could not help but notice that Netty was easily impressed with a grilled chicken Caesar that did not appear to be fresh. He suspected her diet was the typical bland fare of an old widow who seldom cooked and ate from a can.

  Simon invited her to another lunch. She accepted with great enthusiasm, which was not surprising. He suggested Chinese, then Afghan kabobs, then falafel. She had never heard of the last two and was suspicious of the first. With great patience, he explained that he enjoyed foods from everywhere and wanted her to have the same experience. If they tried something they didn’t like, no big deal. They would simply go somewhere else next time. Game on. She couldn’t wait to get out of the house. He offered to pick her up at home, primarily because he was curious to see where and how she lived. If her Lincoln was fifteen years old, how about her furniture and rugs? He assumed she had simple tastes, but was it all an act to fake out family and friends and keep prying eyes away from her fortune? Simon spent far too much time pondering these things.

  Netty stiff-armed him by insisting that they meet at the restaurant. She was proud that she was still able to drive while most of her friends had had their keys confiscated. Who were these friends? He had so much to learn.

  They met at a Greek restaurant Simon had visited before and liked. It was on the edge of town, on the main highway headed toward Washington, far enough from Main Street. He desperately wanted to avoid any chance of bumping into Wally Thackerman at lunch, something that happened maybe once a year. The odds were slim, but weird things happen and he could not imagine the aftershocks of such an encounter. There would be suspicions, then accusations, then fights and so on. Wally would automatically assume Simon was poaching a client, and a wealthy one at that.

  They ordered lamb stew with kabobs, rather heavy dishes, with pita bread and water to drink. She wanted to know about his family. She didn’t have much of her own and was curious about his. Simon tried to shift the conversation back to her side of the table. He certainly didn’t want to brag on his children, nor would he dare discuss the broken marriage. He painted a pleasant portrait of things at home and figured he could be more truthful later. He asked about her stepsons, Clyde and Jerry Korsak, and realized immediately that was out of bounds. Her niece and nephew remained a mystery. It had been at least forty years since the entire family had been together for a summer weekend in the Catskills, a disastrous gathering that ended badly and sent everyone scurrying in different directions, evidently for good.

  She had been married to Vince Barnett back then. Vince had clearly been her favorite husband, her first love. They had married young, tried desperately to have a family, traveled a lot because they were childless, and she was devastated when he died suddenly at the age of forty.

  After about forty-five minutes, the lunch grew tiresome. Netty seemed to have few interests and seldom left the house. She spent hours watching daytime television as she pieced together jigsaw puzzles. They said goodbye in the parking lot and Simon watched her weave away, one foot on the brake, straddling lanes, oblivious to the angry horns behind her.

  As he drove back to the office, he was stuck with the nagging thought that she might live another ten years. Then he was angry with himself for once again dwelling on her demise. It was imperative that he stop thinking about her last will and testament and focus on simply being her friend.

  Chapter 11

  After grappling with a dozen lame excuses to delay the imperative, Simon and Paula finally reached an agreement, a rarity. They would tell the children at the same time, then somehow survive the aftermath. Inflict the pain, have a good cry, then pick up the pieces. They steadied themselves by reminding each other that many of their friends had managed to survive the same dreadful conversations, and then moved on. The kids would be all right.

  On a Friday night, Simon took Buck and Danny to a mall to watch a movie, and afterward they ate ice cream in a food court that overlooked a cheesy waterfall. How does one broach the subject? There was no easy way. He cleared his throat and said, “I guess you guys know that Mom and I are not getting along too well.”

  The boys glanced at each other and their eyes said it all. They knew the inevitable but did not want this conversation. The moment they had been dreading had arrived.

  “Is that why you’re sleeping at the office?” Buck asked.

  “Yes it is.” Paula had told the children the truth when it had become obvious. “We have decided to get a divorce.”

  He let the word hang in the air for a few seconds as he watched their reactions. Danny, the younger, was more emotional and his eyes moistened, though he seemed determined to be tough. Buck would be the harder case.

  He said, “Mom says you don’t love her anymore.”

  “I’ll always love your mom. We created you guys and Janie and we are extremely proud of you.” He had practiced these words many times and they sounded flat and too rehearsed. “But just because you love someone doesn’t mean you can get along. Mom and I simply cannot get along anymore.” To a sixteen-year-old and a fourteen-year-old, or to any kid for that matter, this sounded like impenetrable crap. All kids want their parents to be together and happy.

  “Why can’t you get along?” Danny asked.

  “Because sometimes people fall in love, get married, have kids, and then grow apart. We got busy with our lives, and, well, things changed.”

  Buck said, “So you’re blaming us?”

  “I am not, Buck. I’m blaming no one but myself. Let’s make that clear. Your mother has done nothing wrong, neither have I. There’s no bad behavior here. We love you guys and Janie and we’re determined to support you in every way. We just don’t enjoy being around each other anymore.”

  To put it mildly. Truth was, he and Paula couldn’t stand each other. And on the subject of bad behavior, he could only fantasize about who she was seeing on the side. He, certainly, was on the prowl, now that he had the green light, but so far had struck out.

  The boys went silent, thoroughly confused. Simon had several boxes yet to check, so he rattled them off: “I’m not going to move away, or marry someone else, or miss a ball game or a practice or a birthday or Christmas. I’ll be there for you guys, same as always. And I’m very sorry for what’s happening. Your mother and I are both sorry for this. When we got married seventeen years ago we never dreamed this would happen.”

  A group of girls settled around a table nearby and Buck recognized them. After a long silence, he said, “Can we just go home?”

  “Sure.”

  * * *

  At home, things were just as complicated. Janie sat on one end of the sofa, Paula the other. Both had been crying for an hour. Janie was heartbroken at the news. Paula felt rotten for breaking it to her and then watching her melt into a puddle of tears. Her eyes were still red and puffy when Simon and the boys returned. Danny ignored his mother and sister and went straight to his room and slammed the door. Buck fell into a big chair by the television. Simon kissed Janie on the top of her head but said nothing. He ignored his wife and she returned the favor. They sat for a long time without speaking, each one staring at the floor or a cushion or anything that didn’t stare back. It was a dreadful, painful moment for the family, but Simon knew they would all recover and move on. Paula was certainly eager to gut it out for another hour or so, then go to bed and wake up with a major hurdle behind them.

  They could get counseling for the kids. Life had stopped for the moment, but each day would get better. The parents were determined to smother them with love and attention and help them grow up and mature. Or that’s what they kept telling themselves.

  The parents were equally determined to get away from each other.

  Paula finally broke the ice with “How was the movie?”

  Buck shrugged and said, “Okay.”

  “You want to watch another one?”

  Another shrug, another “Okay.”

  Simon stood and said, “I’ll make the popcorn.”

  * * *

  Chub’s was rocking that night. A local pool shark had a big game going in one corner as gamblers looked on, offering no shortage of commentary. Three widescreens were carrying NBA games and the refs were getting cursed by the regulars. A jukebox was blaring in another corner. Simon found a spot at the bar and settled down in front of a video poker screen. Across the way, Valerie nodded at him and soon appeared with a bourbon and ginger ale.

  “Who you suing, Latch?” she asked, one of her usual greetings.

  “Everybody,” he said with a smile. She sauntered away to insult another customer.

  Simon needed the alcohol and took a long sip. He glanced at a television above the rows of bottles of booze. Heat versus Rockets, not much of a game and he had almost put $500 on the Rockets and taken the points.

  It was important to drop by Chub’s at least once a week. He had to give the impression that life was good, that he was still in the game and unfazed by the fact that he was down $6,300. He owed that much to Chub, plus another $1,400 to an online site based offshore and theoretically illegal. His great comeback during the Final Four did not materialize.

  Chub eventually appeared, as Simon knew he would, and he worked the crowd as he approached. “What’s up, Lawyer Latch?” he asked with a broad smile.

  “Same ole stuff, Chub, how you doing?”

  “Great. Gamblers are still losing, business is booming. Worried about the Feds, though. If they legalize online betting then I’m up shit creek. You think it’ll happen?”

  “Who knows, Chub? The gaming world is changing, man.”

  “Tell me about it. New rules every year. The Vegas boys are spending a fortune to bribe Congress to protect them, but they’re facing headwinds. The Indians are outta control with their casinos. You okay with your account?”

  Okay with your account? In other words, Do you realize you owe the house $6,300 and it ain’t getting paid? And, Do you realize that you’ve never been in this deep before?

  Simon gave a smile he thought might be comforting but felt as phony as it was. “Sure, Chub, I’m not worried. Are you?”

  “If you’re not worried, Latch, I’m not worried. But let’s make some progress, okay?”

  Or else? Simon had never been squeezed before and didn’t like the pinch. He gave Chub a hard look, then returned to his poker screen. Chub said nothing else and drifted away into the crowd. It was rumored that he had a nasty side, had connections with a crime syndicate in New Jersey, had interests in strip clubs in Florida, and so on. Chub kept things private but the rumors swirled around him nonetheless. Most criminals enjoyed an air of shadiness.

  Frankly, Simon had always scoffed at the speculation that Chub was some sort of ambitious crime boss. He had met him fifteen years earlier when he opened his first bar only three blocks away, and he had been Simon’s bookie ever since. Chub made a lot of money off booking games and video poker, and his clubs were popular. He stayed away from drugs and dabbled in real estate—shopping centers and apartment buildings. Simon knew only the basics because Chub used another lawyer for his legal work. A shady guy Simon avoided.

  Simon left the bar, walked to his office, climbed the rear stairs, and entered The Closet at almost 2 A.M. He stripped to his boxers and stretched out on his bed, a cheap one he’d salvaged from a flea market, and stared at the ceiling. The only light was a dim shadow from a street lamp on Main. Downtown was deathly quiet, no traffic at that hour.

  * * *

  Eighteen years into a legal career and here he was, reduced to a flimsy bed with a thin mattress, no box springs, and sheets he hadn’t washed in weeks. He was hiding in a tiny, makeshift apartment because, well, because he owned it and had no place else to go. Perhaps when the divorce was filed and the gossip was confirmed and the town knew he and Paula were splitting, perhaps then he could find a real apartment and have room for a stove and full-sized refrigerator. Meanwhile, a mile away his family slept in comfort in a nice home he and Paula had purchased eight years earlier, barely qualifying for the hefty mortgage because they were already stretched too thin. Said mortgage had twenty-two years to go, at $2,800 a month, twelve relentless months in a year, and he was about to get stuck with paying every penny of it. He would deed his interest in the house to Paula but continue with the payments because his family was accustomed to such affluence.

  Financially, he was wiped out and things were not about to improve.

  Was it worth it? Was getting away from Paula and leaving the kids worth a life of poverty? He told himself that it was, that he was only forty-two years old and perfectly capable of a major comeback. Comeback to where? He had not exactly become rich in the first eighteen years of his career. Why would the next eighteen be any different?

  He needed another drink. He got up and went downstairs to his office where he kept his bar in a locked cabinet.

  Chapter 12

  Their fourth lunch was at a slightly upscale Korean restaurant that Simon had heard was superb. There were tablecloths and linen napkins and an atmosphere that was more subdued than some of their previous dives. So far they had tasted Greece, Thailand, and Afghanistan, and, though Netty was thoroughly enjoying their lunches, she was not impressed with the wide variety of cuisine. Also, she seemed perfectly willing to allow Simon to pay for all the lunches, which he did while bitching only to himself. Lunch was part of his grand seduction scheme.

  She dutifully looked over the menu, thoroughly overwhelmed by it. Simon took charge again and ordered traditional dishes of mandu, a pan-fried dumping filled with chopped pork; japchae noodles, thin see-through noodles with sliced mushrooms, carrots, and spinach; and, everyone’s favorite, Korean fried chicken, made even crunchier after first being rolled in rice flour. Simon made sure the waiter understood that they wanted the tamest version of the chicken. The spiciest was talked about around town.

  During the second lunch, Eleanor had made it clear that she did not drink alcohol, so no wine. She encouraged Simon to have a glass if he wanted, but he rarely drank at lunch. Booze made the afternoons sluggish.

  When the waiter was gone, Simon decided to get to the point. “We have not discussed your arrangements, have we?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, when Mr. Korsak died suddenly, who stepped up and made the important decisions about his funeral and burial?”

  “Oh my.” Her eyes were moist and she looked away. “Is it really time for that?”

  “I’m afraid so. As the executor of your will, and in the absence of any family members, I’ll have to make those decisions. Unless, of course, you want someone else to do so.”

  “Oh no, Simon. I’m trusting you to do it.”