between Mendel and his two echoes. No problems they know of.
"I'm unaware of any problem," he says. "The grand jury," I tell him.
"Ah, that," he says. "On hold." He says it as if this has been arranged with all the difficulty of punching a button on his phone.
Which is probably how he arranged it. Whether or not Mendel is behind the Coconut's latest legal misfortunes is not clear. But it is crystalline that he would have the world believe he is. The powers of illusion.
"On hold maybe for the time being," I tell him.
"Yeah. While they scrape the judge off the wall." This from Mendel. There's a lot of sniggering and slinking around by the two slugs behind him, moving and feinting like college jocks who just fed a ball for a slam dunk.
"Wonder what he wears under his robes?" says one of them. Mendel looks down at his own crotch. "Whoa, it shrunk." A lot of laughter. There's some dribble down Mendel's chin as his tongue searches to recover it.
Harry and I could join in this frivolity, but it might be unseemly.
Somehow to have a common enemy with Phil Mendel makes me feel unclean. "How is it that Tony ended up doing the union's books?" I ask him.
"You guys couldn't afford a CPA?"
"Why pay when it's free?" he says. "We trust Tony. Don't we?" Looking up, a chorus of nods.
"I'm sure," I say. "And besides, that way it's all in the family. No inconvenient audit trails, or messy reports." The thought is not lost on Mendel. He makes a face. "If you like.
Tony did a real good job," he says.
So professional that their books are now inscribed in fading ink on the back of barroom napkins. Just the sort of records of account Mendel would favor.
"I don't think you have to worry," he says. "The grand jury is off on a giant circle jerk. They've got nothing. On this skimming thing--the union dues." He waves a hand, loose-wristed across the surface of his desk, as if to sweep the allegations off the edge.
You sound like the voice of experience," I say. "Have you talked with the grand jury in their little room?" He gives me a look like "Yeah, right. And I'm gonna tell you." He leans forward in his chair, his eyes little slits, some moment of truth in the offing.
"Tell me, Counselor, what kind of a deal were you trying to cut with the judge--for Tony's testimony?" My moment of truth, not his.
"What kind of a platter were you serving us up on?"
"Chef's secret," I tell him. "Client privilege," which Tony seems to have already waived by unburdening himself on Mendel's shoulder.
"Sounds to me like the blue plate special," he says. "Fricasseed friends." He looks up at his associates. "Lucky for us Tony has a higher sense of loyalty."
"As you say, lucky for you," I tell him.
"You're getting into very deep water," he says. "Much deeper than you realize."
"Good thing I can swim."
"Dog-paddling in a stream of shit can get awfully tiresome," he says. "I hadn't noticed," I tell him.
"Most people don't until they drown." Death by immersion in fecal matter, just the sort of lofty allegory Mendel would aspire to.
"I might be concerned, but in this place of your visions, I'm sure you're the lifeguard," I tell him.
One of the guys behind him actually catches himself laughing, until he looks at his boss and notices that Mendel is not.
"Hey, why do we have to throw rocks?" he says.
Suddenly there's a lot of grace here, a change of tone, like a break in the clouds on a stormy day. Broad sunshine expressions and gestures with the hands, as if he would pump this light up my skirts if he could.
"Paul. Can I call you Paul?" he says. He doesn't wait for me to answer.
"Listen, Paul. Why not a truce? I think if you take the time you'll find that we have a great deal in common." He tries to intone the wisdom of age in his voice.
This makes me want to search for a shower and a bar of soap. "We can be friends," he says.
He glances at Harry, the way he is dressed, something from the Goodwill. He must figure that
"I'm unaware of any problem," he says. "The grand jury," I tell him.
"Ah, that," he says. "On hold." He says it as if this has been arranged with all the difficulty of punching a button on his phone.
Which is probably how he arranged it. Whether or not Mendel is behind the Coconut's latest legal misfortunes is not clear. But it is crystalline that he would have the world believe he is. The powers of illusion.
"On hold maybe for the time being," I tell him.
"Yeah. While they scrape the judge off the wall." This from Mendel. There's a lot of sniggering and slinking around by the two slugs behind him, moving and feinting like college jocks who just fed a ball for a slam dunk.
"Wonder what he wears under his robes?" says one of them. Mendel looks down at his own crotch. "Whoa, it shrunk." A lot of laughter. There's some dribble down Mendel's chin as his tongue searches to recover it.
Harry and I could join in this frivolity, but it might be unseemly.
Somehow to have a common enemy with Phil Mendel makes me feel unclean. "How is it that Tony ended up doing the union's books?" I ask him.
"You guys couldn't afford a CPA?"
"Why pay when it's free?" he says. "We trust Tony. Don't we?" Looking up, a chorus of nods.
"I'm sure," I say. "And besides, that way it's all in the family. No inconvenient audit trails, or messy reports." The thought is not lost on Mendel. He makes a face. "If you like.
Tony did a real good job," he says.
So professional that their books are now inscribed in fading ink on the back of barroom napkins. Just the sort of records of account Mendel would favor.
"I don't think you have to worry," he says. "The grand jury is off on a giant circle jerk. They've got nothing. On this skimming thing--the union dues." He waves a hand, loose-wristed across the surface of his desk, as if to sweep the allegations off the edge.
You sound like the voice of experience," I say. "Have you talked with the grand jury in their little room?" He gives me a look like "Yeah, right. And I'm gonna tell you." He leans forward in his chair, his eyes little slits, some moment of truth in the offing.
"Tell me, Counselor, what kind of a deal were you trying to cut with the judge--for Tony's testimony?" My moment of truth, not his.
"What kind of a platter were you serving us up on?"
"Chef's secret," I tell him. "Client privilege," which Tony seems to have already waived by unburdening himself on Mendel's shoulder.
"Sounds to me like the blue plate special," he says. "Fricasseed friends." He looks up at his associates. "Lucky for us Tony has a higher sense of loyalty."
"As you say, lucky for you," I tell him.
"You're getting into very deep water," he says. "Much deeper than you realize."
"Good thing I can swim."
"Dog-paddling in a stream of shit can get awfully tiresome," he says. "I hadn't noticed," I tell him.
"Most people don't until they drown." Death by immersion in fecal matter, just the sort of lofty allegory Mendel would aspire to.
"I might be concerned, but in this place of your visions, I'm sure you're the lifeguard," I tell him.
One of the guys behind him actually catches himself laughing, until he looks at his boss and notices that Mendel is not.
"Hey, why do we have to throw rocks?" he says.
Suddenly there's a lot of grace here, a change of tone, like a break in the clouds on a stormy day. Broad sunshine expressions and gestures with the hands, as if he would pump this light up my skirts if he could.
"Paul. Can I call you Paul?" he says. He doesn't wait for me to answer.
"Listen, Paul. Why not a truce? I think if you take the time you'll find that we have a great deal in common." He tries to intone the wisdom of age in his voice.
This makes me want to search for a shower and a bar of soap. "We can be friends," he says.
He glances at Harry, the way he is dressed, something from the Goodwill. He must figure that
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