Hinky (7)

Roscoe’s Chicken & Waffles had been a fixture on Gower in Hollywood for as long as Yates could remember, though the restaurant was a relative newcomer to Los Angeles compared to Philippe’s or Musso & Frank. Its odd juxtaposition of entrees was just the sort of offering that would attract the likes of Clive. When Yates entered the restaurant, the reaction of its mostly black clientele seemed to echo the sentiment of his ex-wife with regard to his uniform.

Yates saw Clive sitting in the corner with his back to the room. He waved off the hostess and made his way to the table.

“You want to step outside?” It was less a question than a command.

The man looked up with an indifference that quickly shifted to panic when he saw Yates’ uniform. Yates was pleased to see the panic but disappointed to see that it wasn’t Clive he was addressing.

“Perhaps, Sergeant, I might have a word with you first.” A black man in an elegant double-breasted suit seated nearby was addressing Yates. “You can speak with the gentleman after we’ve finished, if you like.”

As Yates took a seat at the second man’s table, the first made for the exit without looking back.

“Who the Hell are you?” Yates asked him.

“As far as I can tell, I’m the best thing that ever happened to you. You’d have to argue long and well to convince me otherwise.”

“That has a familiar ring to it.”

“Be that as it may, I am here to inform you of a few things that may be entirely unfamiliar.”

“Such as?”

“You have certain rights, which fair dealing requires you are informed of.”

“That’s usually my job.”

“As your attorney...”

“What?” Yates interrupted him.

“Oh yes, we skipped that part,” the man explained. “I am now your attorney representing you and your interests in all matters current or hypothetical in nature. As a consequence, all of our conversations and correspondence are privileged and I shall be pleased to keep you safe and harmless to the fullest extent of my capabilities.”

“Which are considerable, no doubt.”

“If I may say so,” the attorney confirmed without any hint of modesty. “My first counsel is to advise you to rid yourself of any and all unregistered firearms that may or may not be currently in your possession. I would intend this to include such 9mm handguns that may have recently come under your direction and control.”

The attorney allowed himself a polite smile to acknowledge Yates’ surprise before continuing.

“While I am ready and able to defend you against any and all charges, including homicide, I don’t think it would be in your best interest to murder the benefactor of the trust that engaged my services on your behalf.”

“Who the fuck is Clive and what’s this all about?” Yates was losing patience.

“I have been instructed,” the attorney said ignoring Yates’ question, “to create a portfolio of investments on behalf of a trust that has named you as beneficiary. Though I cannot take instructions from you, I am always interested in whatever opinions you may have as to the activities of the trust.”

“What is it I’m supposed to do?” Though it didn’t occur to Yates, his question signaled the end of the conversation to the attorney.

“As to that, I have no idea.” The attorney stood up to leave.

“You spoke of my rights earlier,” Yates said struggling to get a grasp of the situation.

“Yes.”

“What are they, exactly?”

“Well,” the attorney responded thoughtfully, “you have the right to remain silent.”

More to follow...

(c) 2006 Stephen Mitchell