Dick By Law
By
Robert T. Jeschonek
*****
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Copyright © 2012 by Robert T. Jeschonek
www.thefictioneer.com
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
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*****
Also by Robert T. Jeschonek
More Twisted Tales With A Sense of Humor
The Love Quest of Smidgen the Snack Cake
Tommy Puke and the Boy with the Golden Barf
Tommy Puke and the World's Grossest Grown-Up
*****
Dick By Law
Chapter 1
Tucker County Courthouse
Melville, Pennsylvania, 9:31 a.m.
"You guys have made my day!" Judge Jonah Bartlebaugh's rich, resonant voice boomed from the judge's bench in the vast main courtroom of the Tucker County courthouse. "Thank you for this!"
Simon Bellerophon, who was sitting at the plaintiff's table near the front of the courtroom, smiled. The happier the judge, the better, right?
Then why wasn't Simon's lawyer smiling, too?
Simon frowned as he looked up at Quinn Keegan, his attorney. Quinn was standing beside him, eyes fixed on the judge, face unreadable. He was doing a great job of keeping his feelings under wraps, hiding them even from Simon, who knew him better than anyone.
Because Quinn, after all, was his foster brother. Who better to help launch his mad quest for revenge?
"Your Honor?" Quinn's flinty brown features were silhouetted in the sunlight streaming in from the big arched windows ringing the courtroom walls. Swirling dust formed a halo in the multicolored shaft from the stained glass dome in the cupola overhead.
Judge Bartlebaugh chuckled and flapped a sheet of paper in the air. The crackling flap echoed through the giant, ornate courtroom, which was a remnant of the county's long-gone glory days. Tucker County had been a booming place twenty years ago, before the steel companies had pulled out of Melville, the big-money heart of the region, and shut down all the mills. "You do know this is a first-of-its-kind lawsuit, don't you?"
"Yes, your honor." Quinn spoke gracefully, as he always did in court...or anywhere else, for that matter.
"Well, thank you for cutting through the boredom!" Judge Bartlebaugh ran a hand up over his smooth, bare scalp and down the back of his silver fringe of hair. "So what's the gist of your argument?"
"We see this as a case of truth in advertising," said Quinn. "Dangers to society should be labeled as such."
Simon straightened in his chair, heart pounding as his brother made the case. There they were, going into battle side by side, kicking ass and taking names.
And the enemy himself sat thirty feet away.
Leaning back in his chair, Simon looked across the courtroom at the defense table. The enemy's enormous, beer-bellied attorney, Delroy Swope, blocked the view...all three hundred ice-cream-suited pounds of him.
As Simon watched, the enemy himself leaned back and met his gaze. With his curly black hair, ruddy, pockmarked face, and wild eyes, he looked like a crazed pirate or a member of the Manson family. His glare caught Simon like hot metal catching skin, radiating waves of pure cherry-red fury. He silently mouthed two unmistakable words in Simon's direction: Fuck you.
Ladies and gentlemen, the one and only Horne Shaw, so-called claims adjustor for the 5G5 delivery company.
Just then, Judge Jonah Bartlebaugh's voice snapped Simon's attention back to the front of the courtroom. "Oh, this is good." He chuckled as he stroked his impeccably trimmed silver mustache and beard with his thumb and forefinger. "How can you not love this case?"
Swope waved his thick arms and shook his head. "First of all, it's pure defamation, Your Honor..."
"The question was rhetorical." Judge Bartlebaugh chuckled. "But hey, great reaction time!"
Without another word, Swope dropped into his chair.
"Mr. Fluff-and-Fold!" Suddenly, Judge Bartlebaugh swung his gaze back to Simon. "This started over a washing machine, right?"
"Yes, Your Honor," said Simon.
"So what if Strayer-Roland gives you a new washing machine?" said Judge Bartlebaugh. "Could we make this case go away?"
"No, Your Honor." Simon said it without hesitation. "There's a principle involved."
"Oh, good." Judge Bartlebaugh rubbed his hands together briskly. "And what principle is that?"
"People should have the right to know when they're dealing with someone like him." Simon hiked a thumb in Horne's direction. "They shouldn't have to find out the hard way, after the fact."
"'Caveat emptor,' Your Honor." Swope wobbled to his feet. "'Let the buyer beware.' That's what we say."
Judge Bartlebaugh rolled his eyes. "I never would have guessed."
"Motion to dismiss this frivolous lawsuit, Your Honor," said Swope.
"Is it frivolous?" Judge Bartlebaugh raised his eyebrows at Simon. "You don't want a new washing machine. You don't want money. You don't want any form of compensation for the damages you've suffered."
"Correct, Your Honor," said Simon.
Judge Bartlebaugh grinned and shook his head. "You just want the court to acknowledge officially that the defendant, Horne Shaw..."
"...is a dick." Simon nodded. "Yes, Your Honor."
*****
Chapter Two
Ten Weeks Earlier
Melville, Pennsylvania, 10:15 a.m.
The old woman in a purple dress stood on the customer side of the counter in the musty antique shop. She watched expectantly as an overweight middle-aged man on the other side of the counter flipped through a stack of ancient comic books.
The overweight man had the comics propped on his ample gut, which stretched his lime green polo shirt to the limits of elasticity. Flipping to the last comic, he took a good long look at it, then flicked it forward to the bottom of the stack and shook his head. "I'm so sorry these aren't worth more, ma'am." The man, who owned the shop, dropped the stack of comic books on the counter. "Some comics just aren't as collectible as others, you understand."
The old woman in the purple dress sighed. "Just because something's old doesn't always mean it's valuable, I suppose."
"Sorry I can't help you." The man turned and started toward the rear of the cluttered, cramped antique shop...then stopped. "Okay, look." He reached into a pocket of his khaki trousers and tugged out a single twenty-dollar bill. "I'll take the lot of them. At least you won't leave empty-handed."
The old woman smiled. "Oh, thank you, young man." She reached for the twenty...
And someone leaped out from between the merchandise racks and swatted it away.
"Don't do it!" The person doing the swatting was in his thirties, with short black hair and a slender build. He wore bluejeans and a black t-shirt with the letters "LA" splashed across the chest in a bold font straight out of a comic book. "He's ripping you off, ma'am!" His tone was melodramatic, as if he were playing the role of a hero in a radio drama.
His name was Simon Bellerophon.
"What on Earth?" said the old woman.
The shop owner made a grab for the comics on the counter...but Simon was too fast for him. "Hands off, thou blackguard!" Scooping the comics away from the shop owner, Simon whirled and held them out to the old woman. "He would have given you a pittance for this treasure, milady."
"Treasure?" said the old woman.
"You hold a small fortune in your hands." Simon bowed as he gave her the comics. "And I am here to ensure that you get it."
"Get the hell out of here!" The shop owner sounded furious. "You're interfering with a business transaction!"
"Highway robbery is more like it!" Simon winked at the old woman. "Each one of those comics is worth thousands of dollars, ma'am."
The old woman looked at the shop owner. "Is that true?"
The shop owner locked eyes with her and shook his head. "He's a nutcase. Don't believe him."
The old woman nodded decisively. "You're a liar."
"How perceptive of you," said Simon. "What an excellent judge of character you are."
With a howl of rage, the shop owner reached under the counter and came up with a baseball bat. "Get out of here. Both of you. And don't come back, Bellerophon! I told you last time."
"And the time before that." Simon waggled his brows like Groucho Marx, and the old woman laughed.
The shop owner cracked the ball bat on the counter. "What part of 'banned for life' don't you understand, Bellerophon?"
"I'll stop coming back here," said Simon, "when you stop ripping off innocent civilians for fortunes in collectibles!"
"Get out!" Bat in hand, the shop owner started around the counter.
"Shall we, milady?" Simon hooked his elbow, and the old woman threaded her arm through the loop. "Allow me to tell you of a most scrupulous appraiser who will ensure that you receive more than fair value for yon comical booklets."
"And who might that be, o' knight in shining armor?" said the old woman as they headed for the door.
Simon opened the door and waved her through with a bow. "To tell the truth," he said, "in some ways, he reminds me a great deal of myself."
"In what ways?" said the old woman.
"In all ways." Simon grinned and squinted. The sun was in his eyes, glinting from the windows of the shuttered steel mill across the street. "For I myself am that man." He pointed at the big letters "LA" on the chest of his t-shirt. "I am the Lone Appraiser."
Then, laughing, he led her down the street past the mill, flipping through the stack of comics along the way.
*****
Chapter 3
Two hours later, Simon burst into the offices of In¢entive$, Incorporated...in other words, the living room of his house on the outskirts of Melville.
The living room, as usual, was a disaster area. The In¢entive$ crew--heavyset brunette Josie Coleman, green-haired Taiwanese Chip Maple, and slinky angel of darkness Ankha Fedalla--sprawled on the couch and floor amid piles of paper, pizza boxes, and crushed soda cans. It was like staring at the aftermath of a collision between an office supply store and a pizza place. In other words, home sweet home to Simon.
When Simon walked in carrying a brown paper sack, he barely got a reaction from the team. They'd been together too long; they knew each other too well.
Simon took a good look at his makeshift family, then cleared his throat loudly. He was glad they were all hard at work, but he needed their attention now. "He-e-e-e-ere's Johnny!" He said it like Ed McMahon on the old Tonight Show. "Who wants gobs?"
"Where from?" Josie, dominating the couch in her bright orange t-shirt and green shorts like a giant pumpkin, kept typing and clicking on her laptop. She was in her mid-thirties, the same age as Simon, and had known him since college. She'd been with In¢entive$ from the start, five years ago; she'd taken on the role of the big sister he'd never had. "Saint Stephen's, Amish Maid, or Fike's?"
"Only the best for my loyal staff." Simon scooped one out of the paper sack he carried and held it out like a bar of purest gold. "Glosser's Deli!"
Josie slid the laptop aside, jumped off the sofa, and snatched the wax-paper-wrapped gob from Simon's hand. "And the Lord said, 'Let there be light!'"
"You look like you could use some help with that." Chip, who'd been lying on his back on the beige shag carpet, threw aside the sheet of figures he'd been reading and popped up from the floor. The youngest of the group at 22, he was all about everything indie--indie music, indie movies, indie comics, indie clothes. Fresh out of college, he'd started at In¢entive$ as an unpaid intern and had never left; Simon joked that he couldn't remember ever actually hiring him. If Josie was Simon's older sister, Chip was his beloved kid brother.
"Allow me." Chip wiped his hands on his neon blue and black bowling shirt, then grabbed the sack of gobs from Simon's grip. Chortling, he marched the sack over to the coffee table, whose glass surface was buried in paperwork and fast food debris.
When Chip dumped the contents of the sack on top of the other junk on the table, Ankha shot out spidery fingers capped with black nail polish and snagged a gob without hesitation. Tucking the phone between ear and shoulder, she unwrapped the wax paper, exposing the gob--a clamshell of dark chocolate cake with a thick layer of creamy white frosting sandwiched in the middle.
If Josie was Simon's surrogate older sister, and Chip was his little brother, Ankha was his weirdo cousin. Always dressed in black, she was either 29 or 29,000 years old, depending on which Goth personality she was channeling on a given day. She'd joined In¢entive$ two years ago, after a fender bender with Simon; instead of wracking her for the damage she'd caused, Mr. Good Samaritan had hired her for the team.
"So, Simon." Chip took a bite of gob and talked with his mouth full. "What are you gonna eat? Tofu shreds on a bed of lettuce?"
"The sweet taste of victory is all I need." Simon opened the front door and leaned out to pluck mail from the mailbox. "I just saved another civilian from the clutches of Screw Lou."
"Oh, Simon." Josie shook her head, making the brown pigtails on either side bounce and flounce emphatically. "You didn't sneak into FesterTreasures again, did you?"
"It's a free country." Simon shrugged. "If YesterTreasures is where some son of a bitch is scamming little old ladies, then that is where the Lone Appraiser will go!"
"Just so's you stuck it to 'im good, Boss," Chip said around a mouthful of gob.
"Did he get out the baseball bat?" said Josie.
Simon laughed as he sorted the mail. "Of course he did! Sadly, he didn't get around to swinging it."
"Aw, gee." Josie slumped and stuck out her bottom lip. "Dat's my favorite part."
"Enough about me!" Simon slipped one white envelope in the back pocket of his jeans and tossed the rest of the mail on the coffee table. "Tell me what trouble you've been up to, loyal minions...and it better be good!"
Chip popped a last bite of gob in his mouth and rubbed his hands together like a mad scientist. "Oh, it's good, isn't it, Josie?"
"What if we told you..." Josie leered and cackled. "What if we told you we gave away money to teenagers for volunteering at the nursing home?"
Simon gasped and clutched his chest. "No!"
"And then," said Chip, "we got a verbal commitment on a sizeable donation from a major corporation."
Simon shook his head in mock disgust, though he was secretly proud of his team. It wasn't always easy finding sponsors for a non-profit based in a struggling Rust Belt mill town. "I knew I shouldn't have left you three to your own evil devices!" He shook his fist at Josie and Chip.
"Do you know what we did after that?" said Chip.
"We gave more money to another bunch of teenagers," said Josie, "for setting up a homeless shelter!"
"How dare you!" said Simon. "How dare you fulfill the mission of this community-minded not-for-profit organization!"
Suddenly, Ankha spoke up. "Keep it down!" She shook the phone handset overhead. "I'm on the phone, in case you hadn't noticed!"
"Sorry, Mistress of Darkness." Simon tiptoed into the kitchen.
Chip followed. "It's almost W-M time, Sime." He reached up and scrubbed his spiky hair, a pincushion of black roots and bright green highlights.
"What time is that, Chip?" Simon opened the fridge and drew out a pitcher of lemonade. "W-M as in Whack-a-Mole time? Water Making time? Whipping Mutton time?"
"W-M as in washing machine," said Chip. "As in they're delivering your new Apex front-loader from Strayer Roland in one hour."
"You weenie." Josie laughed in Simon's face as she squeezed past him. "You don't know how lucky you are. You'd be such a mess if it wasn't for us."
"That reminds me," said Chip. "I need a raise."
"Me, too," said Josie.
"Me, three!" Ankha said from the living room.
"One raise, coming right up." Simon smiled as he pulled four glasses from the cupboard and filled them with lemonade. The truth was, he did know how lucky he was; other than his foster brother Quinn Keegan, the In¢entive$ threesome were his best friends in the world. Josie, Chip, and Ankha knew him better than almost anyone.
"So how does it feel?" said Josie.
Simon handed her a glass of lemonade. "How does what feel?"
"This is a big day for you." Josie put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "You don't realize it yet, but today will change the rest of your life."
"Why's that?" said Simon as he handed Chip a glass.
"Switching from a top loader to a front loader." Josie nodded and winked. "Who knows where that could lead."
"All I know is, I can't wait to find out." Simon raised his glass. "To the start of a wonderful new adventure!"
Chip clinked his glass against Simon's. "Laundry...the final frontier!"
"You're entering a whole new cycle." Josie clinked her glass against Simon's and Chip's. "From this day on, you will never be the same."
"I knew I did the right thing, buying this washer." Simon sipped his lemonade. "I am so glad I didn't spend the money on something boring and non-life-changing like a trip around the world."
Josie squinted and bowed her head. "You'd be surprised how far a washer can take you. They don't call it the 'spin cycle' for nothing."
*****
Chapter 4
Hours later, Simon gazed at the mint-condition front-loader washing machine newly installed in the laundry room, a converted sun porch at the back of his house. The white skin of the washer gleamed and sparkled in the sunlight streaming into the room, and Simon's pulse quickened. He felt a rush of pride.
Then, he stared down at the beat-to-hell pedestal that had come with it.
Josie nudged the pedestal with her toe, as if it were a pile of road kill. "Did they let a gorilla loose on that thing or what?"
Zeke, one of the two grungy delivery guys who'd hauled in the washer and pedestal, scratched the back of his tattoo-slathered neck. If his neck and arms (left bare by his sleeveless black Harley Davidson t-shirt) were any indication, a high percentage of his body was covered in tattoo ink. "I wouldn't even put that in my house, man."
Zeke and his partner, Greg, had just carted the pedestal off the truck, but it looked as if they'd tied it to the rear fender and dragged it all the way from the warehouse.
The pedestal was a two-foot-high box, a metal platform on which the front-loader was meant to sit. It matched the washer in color and shape, but its condition was as battered as the washer's was pristine.
Three of the pedestal's four sides were severely dented. The mounting brackets were gone from two corners, and the remaining two brackets were twisted and cracked. The top surface of the pedestal was smeared with black grease, and the whole thing was coated with some kind of brownish film.
Simon shook his head in amazement. "But I ordered a new pedestal."
Zeke checked his clipboard and snorted. "You sure did, dude. That's exactly what it says here."
"You call this new?" Simon laughed, though he wasn't amused. He looked at Zeke, and Zeke just shrugged.
"New in some mirror universe, maybe." Chip scrubbed his fingers through his spiky green hair. "Some alternate reality where everything sucks."
"New in that we've never actually seen it before," said Josie. "It's new to us."
"New in the sense that when it comes to palming off junk on paying customers, this is a new low." Ankha folded her slim arms over her chest and glared at Zeke.
"Well, I think it's just beautiful." Simon smiled and hunkered down beside the pedestal. "It sets off the new washing machine perfectly." He lovingly ran his hands over the dents and black smears. "Really ties together the whole laundry room."
"For real?" said Zeke's partner, Greg, an emaciated specimen with a dull gold nose ring and ratty ponytail. Simon stared at Greg in disbelief. He couldn't tell if he and Zeke were in their forties or just in their twenties with wear and tear beyond their years.
Simon got to his feet. "Nope. Please take it away now."
"Are you sure?" Josie tipped her head to one side and tapped her lower lip with a fingertip. "I kind of feel sorry for it."
"I'm sure," said Simon. "When can you bring me a new one?"
"Hold on a minute." Zeke grabbed the cell phone off his belt clip and flipped it open. He dialed a number and waited. "Hello, Leila?"
As Zeke stepped outside with his phone, and Greg followed, Simon leaned against his new washer. "What I want to know is, where'd they get that thing? A junkyard?"
"I can't believe they had the nerve to send it out here," said Ankha. "Did they actually think you'd take it?"
"You might be surprised," said Chip. "People trust Strayer-Roland."
"'We're family.'" Josie quoted the Strayer-Roland slogan.
"But not in a good way," said Chip.
"Okay, here's the deal." Zeke flipped his phone shut as he ambled back in. "We'll take this pedestal away, but you'll have to go to the store to order a new one."
"Wait, what?" Simon frowned. "It wasn't my mistake."
"Right," said Zeke. "Some kind of mix-up at the warehouse...but you'll still have to go to the store. Bring your receipt, and they'll cancel your order, issue a refund, and place a new order for a new pedestal."
"That's just crazy talk," said Chip.
Zeke shrugged. "It's how they do things now."
Simon shook his head. His sense of humor was fading. "This is ridiculous. Can't you call a manager or something?"
"Wouldn't do any good," said Zeke. "5G5 is just the delivery company. We didn't sell you the pedestal, and we can't exchange it for a new one."
"But you're acting as representatives of Strayer-Roland in the field," said Simon.
"I'm not even an employee of 5G5," said Zeke. "I'm an independent contractor working freelance for a subcontractor. I barely represent myself, dude."
Simon sighed. "So if I go to the store right now, I could still resolve this today?"
"It's worth a shot." Zeke handed over his clipboard and pen. "Now just initial by the red X's, and we can get that hunk of shit out of your house."
Simon signed where he was told. "This is all gonna work out, right? I don't need to worry?"
"All I'm saying, dude," said Zeke, "is there's no need to make a federal case out of it."
*****
Chapter 5
One week later, after Simon had jumped through the right hoops at the Strayer-Roland department store, Zeke and Greg returned to his house. They brought him a brand new washing machine pedestal, a vast improvement over the wreckage they'd delivered the first time around.
Everything seemed to be squared away, and everyone was happy. But then it happened.
One minute, Simon was admiring the new pedestal on the laundry room floor, all gleaming white and perfect in every way. He was feeling good now that Strayer-Roland had finally sent him what he'd ordered.
The next minute, Greg the emaciated delivery guy was screaming his lungs out.
"The fuck?" Tattooed Zeke, who'd been fussing with some paperwork, whipped around with clipboard in hand.
At first, Simon couldn't see what the problem was. Greg was hunkered down behind the washing machine, disconnecting the hookups in preparation for installing the pedestal.
But the problem soon became clear. Still screaming, Greg leaped out from behind the washer, clutching his left arm. Blood poured from his left wrist, streaming onto the floor.
"What the fuck did you do?" said Zeke.
"I was...using a box cutter...to slice off those zip ties." Greg clenched his teeth, sucking back another scream. "Fuckin' thing got away from me!"
Suddenly, Josie loomed in the kitchen doorway in her blinding pink t-shirt du jour. "Holy shit!"
"Call nine one one!" said Simon.
"Fuck that!" said Zeke. "I'm drivin' him to the emergency room!"
Greg stood in the middle of the room, dripping blood on the new white pedestal. "Finish the installation. I'll drive myself." He choked back another scream and headed for the back door.
"Just wait for the ambulance." Simon saw Josie in the doorway, pulling her cell phone from a front pocket of her bright yellow shorts. "And hurry up with that nine-one-one call, Jo!"
"Forget it!" Zeke shook his head. "This isn't your problem."
Simon pushed past him and scooped a towel from a laundry basket in the corner. "Too late for that." He wrapped the towel as tight as he could around Greg's arm. "Now hold this in place."
"It fuckin' hurts!" Greg let loose a piercing cry and fell against the side of the washing machine.
"Boss!" Josie flipped her cell phone shut. "Ambulance is on its way!"
"Hang in there." Simon tied a shirt around Greg's upper arm and cinched it tight.
Greg sank to his knees. Tears were flowing from his eyes. "I don't wanna die! Please God, don't kill me!"
Simon heard the ambulance siren in the distance. He turned to look out the window...and Zeke thrust his clipboard in front of him.
"Before we go," said Zeke, "could you just initial beside the red X's?"
"What?" Simon was distracted by Greg's latest round of screams.
Zeke raised a black pen and clicked the button with his thumb, popping out the tip. "Beside the red X's, please. Just acknowledging we were here."
Greg was still wailing. Simon took the pen.
"Just a formality, dude," said Zeke. "CYA makes the world go round."
*****
Two hours later, Greg and Zeke were gone. So was most of the bloody mess, thanks to the In¢entive$ crew.
Josie, Chip, and Ankha had all pitched in to help Simon mop and wipe up the blood Greg had left behind. By the time they'd finished, the only trace of the incident was the heap of bloody towels in the drum of the washing machine.
"Awesome work, you guys." Simon closed the washer's glass door and set the controls on the digital front panel. "I can't thank you enough."
"A raise is the perfect gift for any occasion, you know." Chip clinked the neck of his beer bottle against Josie's, then Ankha's. He took a swig, then snagged a fresh bottle from the laundry table in the corner, uncapped it, and dropped the cap in the pocket of his red and gold bowling shirt.
"How about an increase in my admiration and gratitude?" Simon pressed the "on" button, and the machine chimed softly. Turning his back, he reached for the open bottle of beer Chip offered him.
"I think we'd settle for less admiration and more money," said Ankha.
"Hear, hear!" Josie pumped her beer bottle in the air, then drained it in one chug.
"Be that as it may," said Simon, "my admiration continues to exceed your paychecks." He raised his bottle high and let his gaze drift over each of them in turn--first Ankha, then Chip, then Josie. "I cannot thank you enough for helping me here today. Once again, you've gone above and beyond the call of duty."
"Yo ho ho, Captain!" Chip raised his bottle to his eye like a telescope. "Yer the scurvy blackguard what keeps this pirate ship of ours afloat!"
Suddenly, Josie gasped and pointed at the floor. "Keeps it sinking, is more like it!"
When Simon looked down, he saw sudsy water rushing around his feet, pouring out from under the washer. "What the hell?"
Chip ducked between the washer and the wall for a look. "Turn it off! Do it now!"
Simon smacked the power button with the flat of his hand. The washer chimed twice and shut off. "What's going on?"
Chip looked out from behind the washer. "The delivery guys didn't hook up the drain hose!"
"Shit!" Simon splashed through the soapy water, which was still pouring out from under the machine. The entire granite gray linoleum tile floor was already swamped, and the tide was moving into the kitchen.
When Simon looked behind the washer, he saw the water's source: it gushed from a black rubber hose that Chip was fighting toward a drain in the wall.
"It's what Greg was doing when he cut himself!" Chip wrenched the hose hard to the left, then pushed it inside the recessed box cut into the wall three feet up from the floor. Aligning it with the drain hole in the base of the box, he stuffed the hose inside. "He hacked off the zip ties holding it in place, but he never put it back!"
"And I didn't think to check it." Simon winced.
"Which reminds me," said Chip. "Could somebody bring me some zip ties?"
Simon sloshed across the room, heading for the back door. "This floor is ruined. Not to mention the kitchen floor."
"Hey, Boss." Josie handed him a fresh beer. "Were any children hurt?"
Simon sighed. "Nope."
"And the world didn't end, did it?" Josie swept her arm across the doorway, taking in the world outside.
"I guess not." Simon took a swig of beer.
"Then go get your zip ties." Josie pushed him out the door. "And get your ass back here, 'cause there's a mop with your name on it!"
"Because I own it," said Simon as he hiked across the yard.
"Details, details," said Josie.
*****
Chapter 6
Normally, Simon played the role of a caped crusader to help other people, like little old ladies getting conned out of comic book treasure troves. But in the weeks after Greg's slashed wrist and the washing machine mess, Simon had to fight for himself for a change.
All he wanted was a little compensation for the damage from the disconnected washer. It seemed fair that 5G5 should pay him something for the ruined laundry room and kitchen floor.
But getting paid for damages turned out to be harder than he expected. Just filing a damage claim turned out to be an ordeal.
After the accident in the laundry room, Simon called 5G5 and said he wanted to file a claim. The guy at 5G5 told him they'd send someone out right away to assess the damage.
Three weeks and fifteen phone calls later, 5G5 sent out someone Simon thought was a claims adjustor. The guy took a few notes, shot a few photos, and that was that. On the way out the door, the guy said a real claims adjustor would be in touch soon.
But the 5G5 guy was full of shit when he said that. Six weeks went by without a peep from an adjustor. Simon spent the time getting more and more pissed off and making over thirty phone calls to 5G5.
Then, finally, a claims adjustor called him back from the 5G5 claims center in Pittsburgh.
During their conversation, the adjustor seemed like a perfectly nice guy. He had a deep, soothing voice, and he acted polite and concerned and helpful.
His name was Horne Shaw. He went over Simon's claim over the phone, then said it would take a while to process. He told Simon he'd have to call him back.
After which three weeks flew by without contact. Totally fed up, Simon started calling every day, leaving messages on Shaw's voice mail. He didn't hear back for another three weeks.
Just when Simon couldn't stand it another day, just when he thought he was going to lose his mind, Shaw called back. He said he had the results of Simon's damage claim in front of him.
"We have considered your claim carefully, Mr. Bellerophon." Shaw's deep voice was congenial over the phone. "I'm pleased to say we can finally put this regrettable incident behind us."
"Great." Simon shuffled In¢entive$-related paperwork on his kitchen table, phone handset clamped between his ear and shoulder. "So what's the good word?"
"Just a minute," said Horne. "Now where did I put those numbers?" Simon heard the sound of rustling papers over the phone, then a smack, as if Horne had slapped his desk. "Here they are. Now let's see. Dum de dum dum."
Simon sorted more paperwork as he waited. His neck started to ache from keeping the phone clamped against his shoulder.
"All right, okay," said Horne. "Here it is. The word is...you get nothing."
Simon stopped shuffling papers. "Excuse me?"
"That's right," said Horne. "You get absolutely nothing. Your claim is denied."
Simon was in shock. "For what reason?"
"Because you waived the right to sue," said Horne. "Remember that release you signed?"
"Release?" Frowning, Simon slipped the phone from his shoulder. "What release?"
"Our delivery man, Zeke Cutler, handed you a form just before he left for the hospital with his partner, Greg Weyland. Any of that ring a bell?"
Simon's frown darkened. He vaguely remembered initialing a form in the chaos before the ambulance arrived for screaming, bleeding Greg. He hadn't realized at the time that it could lead to this...that Zeke had had the presence of mind, even as his partner was gushing blood from a slashed wrist, to protect the 5G5 company from paying out a damage claim.
"So you won't pay for the buckled linoleum tile or the warped underlayment?" said Simon. "Or the ruined drywall and cabinets, all of which were your delivery men's fault?"
"Not a fucking cent." Horne's tone remained as smooth as ever. "But you already knew that if you signed the release."
"I had no idea it was a release," said Simon.
"It said so clearly at the top of the form," said Horne. "And several other places on the form, too."
"You know damn well I couldn't read it," said Simon.
"The fact that you're illiterate doesn't cancel the agreement you signed."
"I didn't read it because I was too busy dealing with your injured delivery man," said Simon.
"Not mine," said Horne. "He's a subcontractor."
Simon was on the brink of going off...but he caught himself and drew a deep breath. Maybe it was time for a different tactic. "I'd like to speak to a manager."
"No can do," said Horne. "When it comes to damage claims, I do all the talking for 5G5."
"Then send me back to the receptionist," said Simon.
"She won't connect you to a manager, either," said Horne. "We run a tight ship around here."
They sure did. Simon was boxed in, and he knew it. Better to end the call without giving asshole Horne any more satisfaction...then look for a better strategy later. "Well, thanks a lot." He couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "Have a great day."
"Don't mind if I do!" Horne sounded more smug than ever. "You, too, Mr. Bellerophon."
"Yeah, sure," said Simon.
Horne paused a beat...then added one more thing. One more straw on the camel's back. "See you later, alligator," he said, and then he laughed.
And that, of everything he'd said, was what put Simon over the edge.
See you later, alligator.
Horne was still laughing on the other end of the line when Simon clicked off the phone and put down the handset. And that was when he knew.
That was when he knew exactly what he was going to do next.
*****
Chapter 7
Tucker County Courthouse
Melville, Pennsylvania, 9:31 a.m.
Three weeks later, Simon sat at the plaintiff's table near the front of the main courtroom in the Tucker County Courthouse. The first phase of his plan seemed to be going pretty damn well.
He was suing to have Horne Shaw legally declared a dick...and so far, Judge Jonah Bartlebaugh hadn't thrown out the case. In fact, Judge Bartlebaugh actually seemed to be enjoying it. He didn't seem to be in much of a hurry to wrap it up.
Horne's lawyer, the enormous blowhard Delroy Swope, was trying to get the judge to dismiss the lawsuit as frivolous. But Judge Bartlebaugh wasn't rushing to take his side.
"Is it frivolous?" Judge Bartlebaugh raised his eyebrows at Simon. "You don't want a new washing machine. You don't want money. You don't want any form of compensation for the damages you've suffered."
"Correct, Your Honor," said Simon.
Judge Bartlebaugh grinned and shook his head. "You just want the court to acknowledge officially that the defendant, Horne Shaw..."
"...is a dick." Simon nodded. "Yes, Your Honor."
"A dick," said Judge Bartlebaugh. "As in a person of low character."
"I see it as doing a service for society," said Simon.
"I think it's our duty to identify people like him."
"Your Honor, I ask again that you dismiss this most frivolous lawsuit." Swope combed pork sausage fingers through his shock of wavy white hair. "Suing to have my client branded a dick is an extraordinary abuse of both the court's time and the county's money."
Judge Bartlebaugh smirked. "You want to talk about abusing time?" He tapped his desk with an index finger. "Try sitting up here day after day dealing with one boring drug arrest or property line beef after another. This dick case is a breath of fresh air!"
"We will demonstrate that this suit has significant merits, Your Honor," said Quinn. "We seek an injunction under the public nuisance statute. We will prove that Mr. Shaw is a nuisance to the public, and as such, deserving of regulation."
Judge Bartlebaugh unwrapped a hunk of pink bubble gum and popped it into his mouth. "The statute was written with other nuisances in mind. Are you comparing Mr. Shaw to a strip mine or hog farm?"
"If the shoe fits." Simon said it just loud enough for Quinn to hear.
But Quinn gave no sign he'd heard. "Mr. Shaw fits the very definition of public nuisance. He is offensive and annoying to the people of this community and others."
"Your Honor..." said Swope.
Quinn wouldn't let him interrupt. "Mr. Shaw actually exceeds the definition under the statute. Not only is he offensive and annoying, but he actively causes pain and suffering on a regular basis."
"Bullshit!" Face flushed, Horne popped up out of his chair.
Swope pushed him back down. "I object to Mr. Keegan's characterization of my client!"
"In ten years as a claims adjustor for 5G5 Delivery," said Quinn, "how many claims has Mr. Shaw paid out?"
"That is not relevant," said Swope.
"Zero." Quinn returned his gaze to Judge Bartlebaugh. "He has never paid one penny to a customer."
"Objection!" Swope's ample jowls jiggled with rage.
"And you know it's not because there weren't any damages in ten years." Quinn spread his arms wide. "It's a furniture and appliance delivery company, for heaven's sake."
Simon got a chill up his spine. Listening to Quinn when he hit his stride was hardcore stirring. He was like a super-hero in a black pinstripe suit and red tie.
"You will see, if you give us the chance," said Quinn, "that Mr. Shaw is at best a nuisance and at worst a genuine threat to the public good."
Judge Bartlebaugh narrowed his eyes. "But the injunction specifically says dick. How do you plan to prove he's not just a nuisance, but a dick?"
Quinn held up a sheaf of papers. "We have signed affidavits from dozens of people supporting our..."
"Yes, but it's subjective." Judge Bartlebaugh rocked back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling, chewing his gum as he spoke. "We might as well call him a fuckwad or a shit-for-brains."
"Hey!" said Shaw.
"Your Honor..." said Quinn.
"Why not change the complaint?" said Judge Bartlebaugh. "Leave out the 'dick' part."
Quinn stared at Simon with special intensity. The truth was, Quinn had hated the "dick" concept from the get-go and had tried many times to talk Simon out of it.
But the answer was still the same.
"That would be missing the point," said Simon.
Quinn stared so hard, he looked like his eyeballs were about to pop out.
"He's a total dick." Simon hiked a thumb toward Horne. "People should know."
Judge Bartlebaugh cracked his gum and got up from his chair. "All right then. The elements of the case are clear to me. It's been fun, but now we're done."
"Thank you, Your Honor." Swope closed his leather-bound notebook with a crack that echoed through the cavernous courtroom and grinned over at Simon and Quinn. "So pleased we could reach this result."
As Judge Bartlebaugh started down the steps behind the bench, Simon slumped. He'd known the lawsuit was a long shot, but he was still disappointed at the outcome. Even without a win, he'd hoped to have a little more time to make his point in a public forum. A little more time to get back at that dick Horne Shaw. But now, all his high hopes for revenge zoomed away at once like pigeons from a gunshot.
And then zoomed right back.
"See you Monday, everyone." Judge Bartlebaugh waved on his way through the door to his chambers.
"Huh?" Startled, Simon turned to Quinn, who looked equally startled.
"But you said we were done here!" said Swope.
"Done for the weekend." Judge Bartlebaugh blew a bubble, then popped it and sucked the gum back into his mouth. "No way am I dismissing this case!"
With that, he slammed the door shut behind him.
*****
Chapter 8
China, 130 Million Years Ago
Cretaceous Period, Mesozoic Era
Repenomamus gigantus: the largest known early mammal, over one meter long. The first fossil evidence of this canine species was found in the Liaoning Province fossil beds of China. Thought to have been a carnivore whose diet included small dinosaurs.
*****
If the doglike creature had had a name, it might have been Grip. Of all the fur-covered, warm-blooded, doglike things roaming that prehistoric forest, his jaws had the most powerful grip by far. Once he got hold of something, he never let go.
It didn't matter if he sunk his teeth into one of the four-winged feathered flyers or one of the furry, ratlike mammals...a long-legged frog in a steaming marsh or the egg of a monstrous dinosaur whose head towered among the tops of the pine and fir trees. He never let go.
On one blistering hot afternoon, for example, Grip's mouth was latched onto the leg of a dinosaur...a small dinosaur, but still twice Grip's size. The gray-and-white striped dino was a runner, upright and skinny, but it wasn't going anywhere fast with Grip clamped onto one leg.
Blood oozed from the punctures Grip's teeth made in the leg. The salty, metallic taste of it stirred his appetite, making his mouth water and his stomach growl. He couldn't wait to eat.
And he'd be eating soon, he knew it. Grip had been holding on a while, and the dino was getting tired. Squawking and squealing, it tried to shake Grip free, but with nowhere near the force it had used moments earlier.
Grip knew it was time to make a move. Red-tipped ears flattened against the mottled brown and white fur of his neck, he twisted his body hard to one side, wrenching the dino's leg out from under it. The dino screeched and flailed, trying to stay erect, but Grip sealed its fate with another twist.
The dino fell thrashing into the thick ferns. It knew one last instant of freedom, when Grip let go of its leg, and it scrambled to try to escape...but the instant passed, and Grip lunged for its throat with a snarl.
Grip's teeth sank into the dino's long, slender neck and tore out a tender strip of flesh. Blood gushed from a shredded artery, and Grip kept ripping.
Ripping and chewing.
By the time Grip was done, the dino's head was almost completely severed from its body. Grip gulped down hunks of meat and lapped up blood, and soon even the last twitches of the dino's pieces had stopped.
With relish, Grip ate his fill. He felt an extra flare of pride for bringing down a dino twice his size, and he felt a ripple of relief for knowing he'd be able to feed his family that night.
Such was life in the Mesozoic Era of the Cretaceous Period in the place that would someday be known as China's Liaoning Province. Kill or be killed, every morning, noon, and night. Survival of the fittest.
Dog eat dinosaur.
When Grip had eaten all he could hold, he latched onto the dino's leg again and began to drag it. What mattered most now was getting the meat back to the burrow before something else stole it or it spoiled...getting good meat into the bellies of his mate and pups.
They were the reason he hunted so hard and never let go. They made him happier than anything in the world.
And nothing could ever make him let go of them.
*****
Chapter 9
130 Million Years Later
Saturday
Near Melville, Pennsylvania
One day after his first victory in court, Simon pulled the trigger, and a fresh round leaped from the barrel of the rifle. One of the bad guys who was sneering at him from across the muddy street flipped backward, crashing to the floorboards.
With a clang.
"Woo-hoo!" Quinn was shouting from the spectator gallery behind Simon. "Great shooting, bro!"
Simon smirked and slid the rifle barrel across the rim of the water trough he was using to steady his shots. A stiff April breeze swept over him as he lined up the next target in his sights--an image of an Old West bad guy in black hat and mustache, stamped on a metal plate the size of a man.
Simon squeezed the trigger, and another round of live ammunition burst across the muddy street. The shot struck the bad guy target dead on, right between the glaring eyes, and it fell with a clang.
As the crowd of twenty or so fellow cowboys and cowgirls in the gallery applauded, Simon put down the rifle and slid a pistol from the holster at his left hip. He cocked the hammer, took aim at a third target, and fired.
He hit that one, too. The third bad guy--a mountain man type with a coonskin cap, bushy beard, and blood-drenched axe--dropped out of sight.
Simon grinned and reached for the shotgun leaning against the trough. On the heels of his great day in court, he was having a kick-ass day of Cowboy Action Shooting. He thought he might even beat Quinn for the first time in ages.
Simon loaded the shotgun, then tipped back his light brown cowboy hat and braced the gunstock against his leather vest. Old West costumes were part of the sport of Cowboy Action Shooting, as were the single-action guns, live ammo, and sets straight out of Dodge City, erected on the property of a sportsmen's club twenty minutes outside Melville.
The nickname "aliases" were part of it, too. "The Lone Appraiser picks up a time of 25:20 on Stage 2!" That was what the announcer said after Simon--otherwise known as the Lone Appraiser--knocked down a fourth target (a wicked-looking dance hall girl dressed in blue, both hands gripping Derringer pistols).
It was corny as hell, and Simon loved it. So did Quinn--Mr. Knight Ranger himself.
"Great job, Sy!" Quinn marched out of the gallery and slapped Simon on the back. "You're giving me a run for my money today!"
Simon grinned as he holstered his revolver and gathered up his rifle and shotgun. "I guess I'm on a roll, man."
"In more ways than one." Quinn took hold of Simon's shoulder and steered him toward the gallery. "There's someone I want you to meet."
A man stepped out of the crowd and waved. He was dressed like Hoss Cartwright from Bonanza--white hat and shirt, brown vest and pants--and built like him, too--tall and broad-shouldered, with a general beefiness and a belly that was ample but not flabby.
"This is Jim Lassiter," said Quinn. "Sarsaparilla Slim in the Cowboy Action Shooting Society."
Cowboy hats bobbing in the sun, the rest of the crowd ambled off to the next event, or stage. But Jim stayed behind. "Good to meet you." He stuck out his hand.
"Jim's visiting from the Kentucky Wildmen," said Quinn.
"Welcome to the Melville Avengers." As Simon shook Jim's hand, he caught a whiff of B.O. and too much cologne. "I'm Simon Bellerophon."
"Great outfit you got here." Jim looked around at the shooting range with its mockups of Old West settings: a saloon, a sheriff's office, a general store, a Boot Hill graveyard. Sunlight gleamed on the metal cutout targets painted with Wild West bad guys that were propped up at every location. "Takes my mind off my problems."
"Jim's in town to settle his aunt's estate," said Quinn. "I'm handling the legal side."
"I could use an appraiser right now, too," said Jim. "Lots of antiques and jewelry in the estate."
"How does your schedule look, Simon?" Quinn raised an eyebrow.
Simon nodded. "I have some time available." He was always happy when Quinn lobbed a business referral his way.
"Fantastic." Jim clapped him on the arm. "I'll call in a week or three."
"Just one problem." Simon patted his pockets and shook his head. "I don't have a business card with me."
In a blink, Quinn whipped a gold-plated business card holder from his coat pocket, flipped it open, and flicked out a card. "Fortunately, I came prepared." Smiling, he handed over the card to Jim.
Jim chuckled and took the card. "Where'd you two learn this kind of teamwork?"
"We're foster brothers," said Quinn. "We grew up together."
"Which one of you was the foster child?" said Jim.
"Both," said Simon. "Neither one of us was raised by our birth parents."
"And now you work together," said Jim.
"And shoot together," said Simon.
"Not that we're always on the same wavelength, of course." Quinn shot Simon a look.
"Still, I wish I got along that well with my brother." Jim sighed and turned to go. "Well, I'll be in touch."
As Jim ambled away, Simon elbowed Quinn in the ribs. "Don't tell me you're still stuck on the dick situation."
Quinn shrugged. "I'm just saying. Who has the deeper pockets--national delivery company 5G5 or two-bit flunky claims adjustor Horne Shaw?"
"Read my lips," said Simon. "I...don't...care."
"Because you're not in it for the money." Quinn took off his gray suede ten-gallon hat and batted dust from the crown. "What's the matter with you, Simon? Don't you like money? Because I sure do."
Simon swung his rifle up on one shoulder and his shotgun on the other. "Money won't stop Horne from hurting other people."
"And calling him a dick will?"
"You bet." Simon headed for the next stage of the match--a mockup of an Old West saloon. "If everyone knows what he is up front, they'll be more likely to steer clear of him."
"Here's what I'm saying." Quinn drew one of his revolvers and swung out the cylinder. The spurs on his black boots jingled as he walked. "Horne acts like a total dick, doesn't he? You mean to tell me people don't realize he's bad news the first time they deal with him?"
Just then, Simon heard the announcer call the start of the next stage and quickened his step. "Horne's a menace to society. I want him marked for life."
"I never steer you wrong, bro." Quinn holstered his revolver and reached for the rifle slung on his back. "Promise me you'll think about the deep pockets, okay? We can still amend the complaint."
"Never," said Simon.
Quinn blew out his breath in frustration. "Just sleep on it, will you?"
"Never in a million years." Simon's hands clenched around the rifle and shotgun resting on his shoulders. "No fucking way. Not after what that dick did to me."
*****
Chapter 10
Monday Morning
In Court
"My client is very community-minded, Your Honor." It was first thing Monday morning, Day Two of the "Dick" hearing, and Quinn was singing the praises of Simon's character in the main courtroom of the Tucker County courthouse. "He runs his own charity, In¢entive$, which provides young people with tangible rewards for community service."
Naturally, that drew cheers from Josie and Chip in the gallery. The rest of the audience whispered to each other in the gallery benches and around the courtroom walls.
Simon guessed there were two hundred spectators in the vast courtroom that day...standing room only. His unique case was getting some attention.
"In addition to operating In¢entive$," said Quinn, "Mr. Bellerophon works as an appraiser and authenticator of antiques and collectibles. In this capacity, he frequently assists members of the community in obtaining fair market value for their possessions."
Simon heard Horne mutter something, though he couldn't make out the words. Looking over, he saw Horne's flushed, pitted face in profile, lips curled in a sneer.
"What about you, Mr. Shaw?" Judge Bartlebaugh, looking down from the bench at the front of the room, cupped his chin in his hand and cracked his chewing gum. "Anything in the good deeds column?"
"This is highly irregular, Your Honor," said Swope. "Since when do so-called good deeds have any bearing in a court of law?"
"Too bad I make the rules here." Judge Bartlebaugh rolled his eyes. "Tell me or I'll rule for the plaintiff right now."
Swope smiled and plopped into the chair beside Horne. "One moment please, Your Honor."
The consultation took considerably longer than a moment. Simon couldn't hear what Swope and Horne were saying, but he guessed from their agitated gestures that it wasn't going well. He thought he could smell their flop sweat from across the room.
"Your Honor." Swope huffed to his feet. "Mr. Shaw is a supporter of the Greenpeace organization."
"Greenpeace?" Judge Bartlebaugh frowned. "As in 'save the whales' Greenpeace?"
"One and the same, Your Honor." Swope's jowls jiggled when he nodded.
Judge Bartlebaugh grinned. "Let me see if I've got this straight." He stifled a chuckle. "Mr. Bellerophon is suing to have Mr. Shaw labeled a dick."
"Correct, Your Honor," said Quinn.
"So the man who's being called a dick," said Judge Bartlebaugh, "wants to save Moby Dick." With that, he broke into open laughter.
All two hundred-plus people in the courtroom joined him, except Swope and Horne. Even Quinn, who kept a poker face firmly in place at all times, couldn't hold back some chuckles.
Judge Bartlebaugh wiped tears from his eyes and looked at the court stenographer. "You got that, right?" She nodded briskly. "I love this case."
"Your Honor?" said Swope.
"Just a minute." Judge Bartlebaugh looked across the courtroom at the table where the sketch artist sat. "Ishiko, would you mind sketching a big white whale sitting beside Mr. Shaw at the defense table?"
The artist, a pretty young Japanese woman, glanced up from her work and smiled. "I'll see what I can do." Simon thought her high-pitched voice sounded like the chiming of a bell. She shook wispy black bangs out of her dark eyes and returned her gaze to the sketch pad in front of her.
Simon, however, couldn't look away. He hadn't noticed her much before, but now she made a strong impression. As he watched, she tucked a lock of glossy hair behind her ear, exposing the pale curve of her right cheek and the rose red bud of her lips.
Suddenly, she looked in Simon's direction and met his gaze. Simon's heart raced...and then she looked back down at her work. But as she straightened her top, a floral chiffon blouse with lots of deep blue and indigo, he thought he caught her glancing his way again for a split-second.
Ishiko. The name sifted through his mind like gold dust in a stream. Ishiko.
Judge Bartlebaugh allowed himself a last chuckle and leaned back in his chair. "Greenpeace." He shook his head and cracked his gum. "I can't wait to see what's next."
*****
Chapter 11
130 Million Years Ago
China
The sun was lower in the sky when Grip the dog-thing trudged home, but the wind was still blisteringly hot. Wilted ferns slumped along his rough, dusty path. The usual riot of bugs in the air had calmed to a lazy trickle. The usual cacophony of wailing, shrieking, singing, whistling cries from the forest all around had dropped off to the sluggish croak of a few fading voices. Even the flurry of wild scents always swirling in the air had thinned to a dry, smoky haze. The heat was too much for the lush forest and its countless plant and animal denizens.
After a few more staggering steps through the crackling brush, Grip let go of the dead dinosaur's leg. He hunched for a moment, panting for breath in the heat, the salty, metallic taste of the dino's blood still fresh in his mouth.
Grip's mottled brown and white fur felt heavy against his skin. The journey had taken longer than he'd expected, and he was exhausted...but that wasn't why he let go of the dino. It was something in the air. A scent both familiar and strange, punching through the smoky haze.
Danger.
Crouching low, Grip padded through the ferns and moist loam. Ahead, he could see the mound of his family's den, tucked between the roots of a thick-trunked fir tree.
With every breath, he caught the scent of his beloved mate and pups. He knew them so well, he could single out the scent of each of the six pups and the slightest changes in their furry little bodies.
And the nature of those changes made him shiver.