Baby Vs. The Bar. M.J. Rodgers
a call from a private pilot way off his course, requesting to land because of fatigue.
David’s face felt so hot, his eyelids were so sore and heavy. He had a hard time sitting up straight. He grabbed the golden flask, unscrewed the top and dumped the remaining sparkling wine over his head.
The alcohol stung his eyes. He fought a sudden whirling white vortex encroaching on his peripheral vision.
Must keep my mind active. Must concentrate on the radio call to Midway. Damn, what do I tell them?
“You don’t have to tell them anything,” a brusque voice said from somewhere inside the cockpit.
David shot up in his seat as his eyes fixed on the owner of that voice. It was a six-inch-high, black-bearded, golden-crowned King Neptune, perched on the instrument panel, sprawled across a black anchor, grasping a silver trident in its right fist.
The hair at the back of David’s neck stood straight up. He shook his head, blinking hard. But the apparition didn’t go away. A part of David’s brain told him this tiny King Neptune wasn’t really there. But another part of his brain, the part that was seeing it, wasn’t so sure. His hands began to shake on the control wheel.
An eerie pink smile cracked the dark beard on King Neptune’s face. “Don’t worry. You’re not going to have to tell those military guys anything. You’ve already crashed, Davy boy. You’re in my domain now. Thirty fathoms deep and descending.”
A flash of icy alarm shot through the still-rational part of David’s brain.
Had he already crashed into the sea? Was he already dead? No! He must not listen! He must not believe!
His reflexes responded to the panic, switching into automatic. He set his transponder at 7700 and squawk indent. That would send a special code to let any monitoring controller know his position and that he was in trouble. He fumbled with the radio dial, trying to find the emergency frequency as the digits on the instrument panel swirled into the whirling white vortex swallowing his vision.
The tiny King Neptune rolled against the barnacled anchor in belly-shaking mirth, mocking David’s efforts, its laughter high and screechy, like static. David grabbed the radio mike. His eyes blurred, his throat burned, his words slurred, as he shoved them through his swollen lips.
“Mayday, Mayday—”
Chapter One
Attorney Marc Truesdale of Justice Inc. looked at the clogged downtown Seattle traffic in front of him, then at his watch, then at the driver of his taxi—all for the seventh time in the last seventy seconds.
Of all days for the monorail to be out of service.
“Isn’t there any way around this mess?” he asked.
“Nope,” his driver said. “You’re looking at the mayor’s downtown renovation project, pal. Pretty soon, all these streets are gonna be torn up. Relax. Lotsa people gonna be late this morning.”
“Not me,” Marc Truesdale said as he pushed open the passenger door.
“Hey, where you going?” the driver asked.
“The courthouse is seven blocks up. I’ll get there quicker by foot.” He threw the full fare onto the front seat and slammed the taxi door behind him.
Marc took off. Runners on the streets of Seattle were not an uncommon sight. But as a rush-hour jogger in a three-piece suit and carrying a briefcase, he got quite a few stares. He ignored the men and smiled at the women. As usual, he got plenty of smiles back.
When he reached the courthouse, he found a floor full of hopefuls waiting for the elevators. He checked his watch. Three minutes to ten. He headed without hesitation for the staircase.
No sooner had the door slammed behind him than he heard the rapidly ascending feet two flights above. Marc’s competitive spirit had him immediately picking up the pace. But the owner of that other pair of feet must have heard him, because their speed increased, too.
Marc smiled. So he wanted to race, did he?
Marc’s long legs skipped every other step in powerful lunges upward. He figured he’d overtake this guy by the next flight. But by the next flight, Marc could still clearly hear the fall of feet on the stairs above him.
Marc increased his already considerable speed, now skipping every two steps in giant lunges, eager to meet the man who could give him such stiff competition. Still, it was a full flight later before he finally closed in on his quarry. And when he did, he couldn’t believe his eyes.
Above him flashed long, shapely feminine legs in luscious black nylons beneath a rustling brown silk dress.
The shock of his discovery threw Marc momentarily off-balance, causing him to misstep. He grabbed the banister and saved himself from a fall. But by the time he had reclaimed his footing and looked up again, he could neither see nor hear the lady with the lovely legs.
Marc lunged up the last staircase and stopped at the landing, listening intently over his labored breath. No footfall resounded on the staircase above. A ladies’ room was on his right; the door to the left led off the stairwell into the courtrooms. Which way did she go?
He snatched open the door to the courthouse floor and searched up and down. The dress and legs were nowhere to be seen. She had to have gone into the ladies’ room.
Should he wait to see the face that went with those fabuous legs? He checked his watch. He had exactly forty-five seconds to make it to court.
“Oh, what the hell,” he muttered beneath his breath as he tore off toward his courtroom. “Probably wouldn’t have been worth it, anyway.”
His client, Louie Demerchant, met him just outside, looking slightly peeved. “I thought you were going to be late.”
“Never,” Marc said, running a quick hand through his thick blond hair to set it obediently back into place. “We’ve waited a long time for this, Mr. Demerchant. Let’s go inside.”
Marc could feel the tension in the packed courtroom minutes later as the tall, thin Stanley Binick slithered up to the witness stand.
“Tear him apart, Truesdale,” Louie Demerchant whispered angrily into Marc’s ear as they sat together at the plaintiff’s table.
Marc nodded, understanding his client’s feelings. This well-publicized suit they had brought against Binick had more to do with revenge than money. What’s more, Marc was happy to be a part of that revenge.
A couple of hundred years ago, Marc would have been acting as second to Louie Demerchant as Demerchant and Binick drew pistols and aimed for each other’s hearts. Today, Marc acted as Louie Demerchant’s lawyer.
Time had changed the mode, but not the emotion. Wounded human hearts cried out for justice in their pain. And justice was Marc Truesdale’s business.
Marc studied Binick as the clerk swore him in. He had gotten to know the man and his attorney, Quon Sato, over the two long years it took to get this case to trial. He respected the dark, compact Sato, who had a quiet manner and considerable knowledge of the law. But whenever the shifty, skin-shedding Binick was around, Marc instinctively kept checking to be sure his wallet was still in his pocket and his watch on his wrist.
Binick had refused to settle. Sato had consistently and competently stalled with every legal trick imaginable. Marc had countered them, overcome them. Now the defense attorney could stall no longer. Finally, Binick was in Marc’s sight.
Marc got to his feet and moved as close as permitted to the witness box. He kept his tone pleasantly neutral. That was how one dispatched an offender in these more civilized times, with indisputable facts and irrefutable logic—a bloodless separation of the incompetent from his professional reputation and financial resources.
A lot of these incompetents, Marc knew, would have preferred