When Vicki fled and moved in with the Liquidator, a professor friend recommended Axel Sullivan as a divorce specialist. Axel proved to be a fine lawyer, but there wasn't much he could do on the legal front. Vicki was gone, she wasn't coming back, and she didn't want anything from Ray. Axel supervised the paperwork, recommended a good shrink, and did a commendable job of getting Ray through the ordeal. According to Axel, the best private investigator in town was Corey Crawford, a black ex-cop who'd pulled time for a beating.
Crawford's office was above a bar his brother owned near the campus. It was a nice bar, with a menu and unpainted windows, live music on the weekends, no unseemly traffic other than a bookie who worked the college crowd. But Ray parked three blocks away just the same. He did not want to be seen entering the premises. A sign that read
Crawford Investigations
pointed to stairs on one side of the building.
There was no secretary, or at least none was present. He was ten minutes early but Crawford was waiting. He was in his late thirties with a shaved head and handsome face, no smile whatsoever. He was tall and lean and his expensive clothes were well fitted. A large pistol was strapped to his waist in a black leather holster.
"I think I'm being followed," Ray began.
"This is not a divorce?" They were on opposite sides of a small table in a small office that overlooked the street.
"No."
"Who would want to follow you?"
He had rehearsed a story about family trouble back in Mississippi, a dead father, some inheritances that may or may not happen, jealous siblings, a rather vague tale that Crawford seemed to buy none of. Before he could ask questions, Ray told him about Dolph at the airport and gave him his description.
"Sounds like Rusty Wattle," Crawford said.
'And who's that?"
"Private eye from Richmond, not very good. Does some work around here. Based on what you've said, I don't think your family would hire someone from Charlottesville. It's a small town."
The name of Rusty Wattle was duly recorded and locked away forever in Ray's memory.
"Is there a chance that these bad guys back in Mississippi would want you to know that you're being followed?" Crawford asked.
Ray looked completely baffled, so Crawford continued. "Sometimes we get hired to intimidate, to frighten. Sounds like Wattle or whoever it was wanted your buddies at the airport to give you a good description. Maybe he left a trail."
"I guess it's possible."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Determine if someone is following me. If so, who is it, and who's paying for it."
"The first two might be easy. The third might be impossible."
"Let's give it a try."
Crawford opened a thin file. "I charge a hundred bucks an hour," he said, his eyes staring right through Ray's, looking for indecision. "Plus expenses. And a retainer of two thousand."
"I prefer to deal in cash," Ray said, staring right back. "If that's acceptable."
The first hint of a smile. "In my business, cash is always preferred."
Crawford filled in some blanks in a contract.
"Would they tap my phones, stuff like that?" Ray asked.
"We'll search everything. Get another cell phone, digital, and don't register it in your name. Most of our correspondence will be by cell phone."
"What a surprise," Ray mumbled, taking the contract, scanning it, then signing.
Crawford put it back in the file and returned to his notepad. "For the first week, we'll coordinate your movements. Everything will be planned. Go about your normal routine, just give us notice so we can have people in place."
I'll have a traffic jam behind me, Ray thought. "It's a pretty dull life," Ray said. "I jog, I go to work, sometimes I go fly an airplane, I go home, alone, no family."
"Other places
"Sometimes I do lunch, dinner, not a breakfast guy though."
"You're putting me to sleep," Crawford said and almost smiled. "Women?"
"I wish. Maybe a prospect or two, nothing serious. If you find one, give her my name."
"These bad guys in Mississippi, they're looking for something. What is it?"
"It's an old family with lots of stuff handed down. Jewelry, rare books, crystal, and silver." It sounded natural and this time Craw-ford bought it.
"Now we're getting somewhere. And you have possession of the family heirloom?"
"That's right."
"It's here?"
"Tucked away in Chaney's Self-Storage, on Berkshire Road."
"What's it worth?"
"Not nearly as much as my relatives think."
"Gimme a ballpark."
"Half a million, on the high side."
"And you have a legitimate claim to it?"
"Let's say the answer is yes. Otherwise, I'll be forced to give you the family history, which could take the next eight hours and give us both a migraine."
"Fair enough."
Crawford finished a lengthy paragraph and was ready to wrap things up. "When can you get a new cell phone?"
"I'll go now."
"Great. And when can we check your apartment?"
"Anytime."
Three hours later, Crawford and a sidekick he called Booty finished what was known as a sweep. Ray's phones were clear, no taps or bugs. The air vents hid no secret cameras. In the cramped attic they found no receivers or monitors hidden behind boxes.
"You're clean," Crawford said as he left.
He didn't feel very clean as he sat on his balcony. You open up your life to complete strangers, albeit some selected and paid by you, and you feel compromised.
The phone was ringing.
Forrest sounded sober - strong voice, clear words. As soon as he said "Hello, Bro," Ray listened to see what kind of shape he was in. It was instinctive now, after years of phone calls at all hours, from all places, many of which he, Forrest, never remembered. He said he was fine, which meant he was sober and clean, no booze or drugs, but he did not say for how long. Ray was not about to ask.
Before either could mention the Judge or his estate or the house or Harry Rex, Forrest blurted out, "I got a new racket."
"Tell me about it," Ray said, settling into his recliner. The voice on the other end was full of excitement. Ray had plenty of time to listen.
"Ever heard of Benalatofix?"
"No."
"Me neither. The nickname is Skinny Ben. Ring a bell?"
"No, sorry."
"It's a diet pill put out by a company called Luray Products, out of California, a big private outfit that no one's ever heard of. For the last five years doctors have been prescribing Skinny Bens like crazy because the drug works. It's not for the woman who needs to drop twenty pounds, but it does wonders for the really obese, talking linebackers, defensive ends. You there?"
"I'm listening."
"Trouble is, after a year or two these poor women develop leaky heart valves. Tens of thousands of them have been treated, and Luray is getting sued like crazy in California and Florida. Food and Drug stepped in eight months ago, and last month Luray yanked Skinny Bens off the market."
"Where, exactly, do you come in, Forrest?"
"I am now a medical screener."
"And what does a medical screener do?"
"Thanks for asking. Today, for example, I was in 'a hotel suite in Dyersburg, Tennessee, helping these hefty darlings on to a treadmill. The doctor, paid by the lawyers who pay me, checks their heart capacity, and if they're not up to snuff, guess what?"
"You have a new client."
"Absolutely. Signed up forty today."
"What's the average case worth?"
"About ten thousand bucks. The lawyers I'm now working with have eight hundred cases. That's eight million bucks, the lawyers get half, the women get screwed again. Welcome to the world of mass torts."
"What's in it for you?"
"A base salary, a bonus for new clients, and a piece of the back end. There could be a half a million cases out there, so we're scrambling to round them up."
"That's five billion dollars in claims."
"Luray's got eight in cash. Every plaintiff's lawyer in the country is talking about Skinny Bens."
"Aren't there some ethical problems?"
"There are no ethics anymore, Bro. You're in la-la land. Ethics are only for people like you to teach to students who'll never use them. I hate to be the one to break it to you."
"I've heard it before."
"Anyway, I'm mining for gold. Just thought you'd want to know."
"That's good to hear."
"Is anybody up there doing Skinny Bens?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Keep your eyes open. These lawyers are teaming up with other lawyers around the country. That's how mass tort stuff works, as I'm learning. The more cases you have in a class, the bigger the settlement."
"I'll put out the word."
"See you, Bro."
"Be careful, Forrest."
The next call came shortly after 2:30 A.M., and like every call at such an hour the phone seemed to ring forever, both during sleep and afterward. Ray finally managed to grab it and switch on a light.
"Ray, this is Harry Rex, sorry to call."
"What is it?" he said, knowing too well that it was not good.
"Forrest. I've spent the last hour talking to him and some nurse at Baptist Hospital in Memphis. They've got him there, I think with a broken nose."
"Back up, Harry Rex."
"He went to a bar, got drunk, got in a fight, the usual. Looks like he picked on the wrong guy, now he's getting his face stitched up. They want to keep him overnight. I had to talk to the staff there and guarantee payment. I also asked them not to give him painkillers and drugs. They have no idea who they've got there."
"I'm sorry you're in the middle of this, Harry Rex."
"I've been here before, and I don't mind. But he's crazy, Ray. He started again about the estate and how he's getting screwed out of his rightful share, all that crap. I know he's drunk and all, but he just won't leave it alone."
"I talked to him five hours ago. He was fine."
"Well, he must've been headed for the bar. They finally had to sedate him to reset his nose, otherwise it would've been impossible. I'm just worried about all the drugs and stuff. What a mess."
"I'm sorry, Harry Rex," Ray said again because he could think of nothing else to say. There was a pause as Ray tried to collect his thoughts. "He was fine, just a few hours ago, clean, sober, seemed so anyway."
"Did he call you?" Harry Rex asked.
"Yeah, he was excited about a new job."
"That Skinny Ben crap?"
"Yeah, is it a real job?"
"I think so. There are a bunch of lawyers down here chasing those cases. Quantity's crucial. They hire guys like Forrest to go out and round 'em up."
"They ought to be disbarred."
"Half of us should. I think you need to come home. The sooner we can open the estate the sooner we can get Forrest calmed down. I hate these accusations."
"Do you have a court date?"
"We can do it Wednesday of next week. I think you ought to stay for a few days."
"I was planning on it. Book it, I'll be there."
"I'll notify Forrest in a day or so, try to catch him sober."
"Sorry, Harry Rex."
Not surprisingly, Ray couldn't sleep. He was reading a biography when his new cell phone rang. Had to be a wrong number. "Hello," he said suspiciously.
"Why are you awake?" asked the deep voice of Corey Crawford.
"Because my phone keeps ringing. Where are you?"
"We're watching. You okay?"
"I'm fine. It's almost four in the morning. You guys ever sleep?"
"We nap a lot. I'd keep the lights out if I were you."
"Thank you. Anybody else watching my lights?"
"Not yet."
"That's good."
"Just checking in."
Ray turned off the lights in the front of his apartment and retreated to his bedroom, where he read with aid of a small lamp. Sleep was made even more difficult with the knowledge that he was being billed a hundred dollars an hour through the night.
It's a wise investment, he kept telling himself.
At exactly 5 A.M. he sneaked down his hallway as if someone on the ground down there might see him, and he brewed coffee in the dark. Waiting for the first cup, he called Crawford, who, not surprisingly, sounded groggy. i
"I'm brewing coffee, you want some?" Ray asked.
"Not a good idea, but thanks."
"Look, I'm flying to Atlantic City this afternoon. You got a pen:
"Yeah, let's have it."
"I'm leaving from general aviation in a white Beech Bonanza, tail number eight-one-five-romeo, at three P.M., with a flight instructor named Fog Newton. We'll stay tonight at the Canyon Casino, and return around noon tomorrow. I'll leave my car at the airport, locked as usual. Anything else?"
"You want us in Atlantic City?"
"No, that's not necessary. I'll move around a lot up there and try to watch my rear."
