Serving Papers 1-4

Chapter 1
         In the desert, you sweat.  I was soaked through.  I was running, hoping to catch him before he made the door.  I tried calling his name but my voice sounded muffled.  I saw him pause to clear the door before he went in.  I tried calling again, screaming his name, but it couldn’t penetrate the air. I reached the door in slow motion as gunfire erupted from inside.  I made the turn and saw nothing immediate.  Moving in, I swept left to right, seeing no targets or any sign of my partner.  I squeezed the Glock tighter, trying to wring the grip of my perspiration.  I tried calling out again.
“Frank!”
No response.  Must be sweat in my eyes, everything was blurry.  I wiped them clear with no improvement.  More gunfire erupted from behind a door further into the apartment as I cleared the living area.  I picked up the pace heading into the hallway toward the gunfire.  Motion flashed in a doorway to my left.  I turned toward it and saw a silver automatic materialize. I reach out with my left hand and slap the gun upward as I pull the trigger twice on the Glock.  The silver auto dropped and I watched as the silhouette that held it disappeared. I turned back into the hallway to feel my body slammed into the frame of the door.  I felt my wrist break and the Glock fall away.  I shoved myself off the wall and into the mass that hit me.  Something hard and metallic was between me and the mass, the shape of tells me it is an AK. 
We broke through a door, and fell onto a bed wrestling over the assault rifle.  I smashed the face of my attacker over and over, trying to get him to let go.  Sweat released my own grip on the AK.  I reached down to find it again, but found the man’s belt line instead. My fingers traced the outline of a pistol in the man’s pants and grabbed it as the stock hammered into to my face, sending me sprawling against a wall.  The AK exploded twice and fire seared in my chest.  I pulled the trigger as I fell, the room starting to turn black on my descent.  I caught myself and forced my way back into the hall, trying to make to the outside.  I heard the action of an automatic behind me.  I turned to see a Glock pointed at me, followed by a muzzle flash.  I fell backward, firing toward the Glock and I pulled the trigger until unconsciousness robbed me of strength. 
The world dropped away.  It felt as if I was falling down a flight of stairs a hundred miles long, finally hitting the bottom with an agonizing crash.  As I lay on my back, drifting through the realities, the blackness gave way to a dim light.  I heard a voice; a female voice that was familiar.  The light grew brighter and the voice grew louder.
         “Zeke,” my name came through the cloud and fog of booze and pain. 
         “Zeke!” my name was reinforced with a hard punch to the gut.  The punch ignited my sour stomach which sent me tripping and reeling from the bed to the bathroom.  I vomited heavily; my eyes strained and my muscles knotted.  Most of it ended up in the toilet.  I spat the left over foul from my mouth into the bowl and I shook for a moment trying to get my bearings.  My mind fought what my eyes were telling me, until Tucson faded from the setting and home returned.  The bathroom slowly regained its familiarity as I sat on the tile locking my desert nightmare back into the box I kept it in.
I cursed and made myself move.  I got a towel from the cabinet, watered it, and cleaned the up putrid fluid on the floor. Acid burned my throat and tears stung my eyes as I rinsed and washed the area again. I tossed the fouled towel into the hamper and sprayed the area with Lysol.  Penance paid, I showered and brushed my teeth. The bile flavored slime succumbed to the brush and toothpaste.  I felt almost human.  I stepped back into the bedroom and my assailant was missing.  The scent of coffee told me where they were hiding.  I dressed in a tattered polo and worn cargo pants and headed for the kitchen.  I was starting to think that coming home to Port Rishile was not the best idea.
         “I thought I ordered a private room,” I said as I broke the kitchen threshold.
         “Wrong, Jackass,” she said, “this is my guest house that you are crashing.”
         I ignored her, took one of the two mugs she had set out and poured coffee.  I saw a handful of pills lay revealed from removing the mug.  I ignored them, too. 
“Zeke, you are starting to worry me.”
“Joey, I’m fine.”
“Bullshit.  I can’t remember a time that you drank like this.  Not before… “
“…I got shot,” I finished her sentence.  She made a face, reached over, took the remaining mug, and poured some coffee.  There was a boulder rolling around my head, hitting every pain receptor onto its journey. I drank the scalding liquid; the inner demon inside delighted at the pain inflicted by the brew.  Joey rarely swore, so her dropping two curses inside of three sentences meant she was on the warpath. She continued her speech, which I guessed she had been planning for a while.
         “No, I think you handled that part.  For all your faults and quirks, physical injury has been something you have always dealt with the easiest,” she said, “You do, however, have this crazy personal standard that you hold yourself to.  How you blame yourself for things outside your control.  I think you haven’t forgiven yourself.”
         “For Frank?” I asked
         “For Frank,” she said.
         “You weren’t there,” I said.
         “And you haven’t told me what happened either.  I haven’t pried, but you’ve been here a month…” her words trailed as I turned away. She reached out and took my shoulder and turned me to face her.  She looked at me, searching my eyes for something.  I looked back, but failed to hold her gaze.  Her intensity wasn’t out of anger.  The small piece of rational brain I had left understood that.  It was concern.  Josephine Jakobuski had known me longer than anyone else except my foster family.  We met in middle school where she bounced a kid off the basketball court for punching me in the mouth.  I had my own retribution planned but she was considerably faster.  As we sat in the office that day awaiting her sentence from the hippie throw-back vice principal, we became friends… no more than that—siblings? It was a tighter bond than most people can find.  Neither of us could explain it; it just is how God puts people together I guess.
         “Ezekiel Cain, you did not shoot Frank,” She said.  Again, rational brain heard and craved the concern in her voice, but she was wrong.  How could I tell her?  Words bounced around my head.  Tell her what happened… It’s not her business…  She wants to help…. Leave me alone…  My inner demon kept arguing with my rational side.  The demon finally bypassed the rational by tapping into my need to rebel against authority and giving rise to that need at her next comment.
         “Tough love here, Zeke; your life isn’t over.  You are missing a piece of lung, but you are alive and healthy.  Your boozing and overeating are going to destroy that,” she looked me up and down, “you put… what… twenty pounds on since you’ve been here?”
         “Joey, stop fucking nagging me,” I said, letting the demon to come to the surface, “you are not my wife or mother.  You have no right to tell me anything.”
The line sounded petulant even to me.  The verbal lash struck home, though.  Her eyes became red and wet.  I wouldn’t back down now.  She stared with emotion.  I stared with the triumph of a five year old. 
“Did you finish rehab at least?” she asked.
“None your business,” I said, my inner demon fueling my anger.
“Zeke,” she said, “please let me in.”
“None… of… your… damn… business…” I said.  I saw the anger absorb her features; the eyebrows furrowing, the jaw tightening.  I tried to regret the way I took this conversation, but it was too late. 
“I set up a job for you,” she said, “I have a lawyer friend who needs someone to serve some divorce papers.  I said you were available.”
“I’m a cop, not some fucking jerk off sewer server,” I said.  I wanted to control my voice, but I had already stepped off the cliff.
“You were a cop; you were retired.”
“I don’t need a fucking job.”
“Your insurance and medical pay out won’t last forever, but that’s not why I…”
“I don’t need a fucking job!”
“Zeke, you need help.  I would say counseling…”
“Fuck counseling, I’m fine,” I snarled, cutting her off again.
“…but I know you’re a stubborn asshole right now,” she continued without apparently hearing what I said.
“Look, Joey. I get it.  Your right, I’m wrong.  I’m fucked up and need help.  Here’s the problem—I don’t want help!” I said, struggling to keep a lid on my anger. We returned to staring at each other.  Her voice was heavy, but controlled when she spoke next.
“I know you don’t want help,’ she said, struggling with her own emotions, “I also know that if I don’t push you, I will lose my best friend.  I can’t deal with that.  This job…” she paused and her voice gained strength again, “I think that this job trying to help someone might crack that wall you’ve put up.  Help you remember why you became a cop in the first place.  Maybe, doing something for someone else could bring out the man that went to Tucson, not the drunken slob that returned.”
I turned away from her, gripping the edge of the sink holding in everything.  She was right; I knew it.  A part of me wanted to let it all out, however, my inner demon was more in control and his grip was powerful.
“Let’s make this simple,” she placed a business card she produced on the counter next to me, “You don’t take this gig; you don’t crash here anymore.”
The ultimatum hung in between us.  The balloon popped in my head, spilling rage into my brain.  The coffee cup left my hand at near the speed of sound.  It rocketed through the doorway that connected the kitchen to the living room and embedded itself in the wall opposite.  Paint chips and drywall dust erupted from the impact.  Fortunately, the mug was empty.
Chapter 2
         Hours after my discussion with Joey, I found myself in a bar along the lake.  I was at least six doubles into my bender.  The bartender poured bourbon over the ice remains of six. 
         “Want more ice?” he asked.  I gave him head shake and a hand signal for more bourbon.  He filled the glass to an eighth of inch from its rim.  Two dime sized slivers of ice dissolved on the surface of the bourbon.  The bartender vanished and I lifted the glass to my lips, pulling the spirit in on its arrival.  The numbing sensation killed brain cells and struggled to dull the raw emotional nerve from my argument with Joey… and from the memory of Frank.  I set the glass down waiting for this dose of bourbon to extinguish the ache, but alas, like all my prior attempts it didn’t.
         I tried to hold off longer picking up the glass.  I was able to stop myself for a second or two, and then took up the glass and drained it.  I sat with my forearms resting on the bar; the glass hovered slightly between my thumbs and forefingers over the wooden surface.  How could I tell her? I thought as I tried to see how close I could hold the glass over the bar without touching it, how would she react? The bartender magically appeared in front of me. 
         “Another?” he asked.  Clearly he was not a part of the Temperance Movement.  I slid the glass out to make available for his pour.  He dropped two ice cubes in and filled the glass.
         “Bathroom?” I asked.
         “Hallway at the end of the bar,” the bartender pointed as he replaced the bottle.  My fat ass slid off the stool, checked to see if the bar was moving, and proceeded toward the indicated destination.  Two couples were at a table just beyond the hallway and it sounded like they had consumed more alcohol than I.  I turned into the hallway, finding two doors to my right and an old phone booth embedded in the wall at the end.  On the right, I found the women’s room first, then the men’s next to the phone booth.  As I passed, I saw the form of male gym rat topped in bleached blonde taking up the entire booth.  I followed the form down to see two pairs of legs, one in high heels.
         I went through the men’s room door and finally found a urinal.  The booze was starting to turn my stomach a little which went away with a few handfuls of water as I washed my hands.  I stepped back out in the hallway to a banging sound coming from the phone booth.  I looked to see Bleach Blond grinding his hips into someone I couldn’t see.  The high heels began to kick the door again.
         “Is everyone alright?” I asked, trying to both open the door and not slur my words.
         “We’re fine, Asshole.  Mind your business,” said Bleach Blonde.  I was starting to think I had stumbled into a little public display of affection.  I turned to leave until an audible word came from a strangled voice.
         “H-help…”
         Enough said.  I buried the fingers of my right hand into Bleach Blonde’s pressure point between the neck and shoulder and gripped the well-defined trapezoid muscle with alcohol infused strength.  Bleach Blonde stopped gyrating and stood straight up with the pain coursing through his neck and shoulder.  I kicked the back of his knee, forcing him to fall back toward me while my grip transformed into a chokehold as he fell.  I dragged him through the men’s room door, turned, and flung him across the small room into the urinal.  He slammed into it with a grunt and a flush.  He turned to face me fists balled and looped out with a terrible right punch that I slapped back the way it came. 
My first punch caught him in the stomach, followed by second to his solar plexus.  A third landed on his heart with the fourth rocked his head back.  He hit the urinal again, then crumpled to the floor and started wheezing.  It took me a second reign in the urge to stomp on him. Finally, I dropped my fists and uncoiled my fingers, trying to look sober and relaxed as I turned to leave.
         I stepped back into the hallway.  With the adrenalin rush receding, the booze flooded back.  I tried to focus on the where I could still make out the heels.  A light scent of jasmine hung in the air. 
         “Are you okay, Miss?” I asked, putting my hand out.  I felt her take my hand with a feather-like touch as she pulled herself out of the phone booth.
         “Y-yes,” she said.  I cracked a half grin, which in my drunken state must have been horrifying. 
         “Is he going to be okay?” she asked.  Her answer came in the form of a horrendous and semi-muffled retching as Bleach Blonde regurgitated what was probably his dinner and drinks. 
         “He’s not important right now,” I said, hoping I sounded compassionate; “I just want make sure you are alright.”
         “Yes, yes. Carl just started going a little too far,” She said.  As she spoke the smell of wine began to hide the jasmine.
         “A little too far is copping a feel.  Carl was doing a little more than that,” I said.  She pulled her hand away at my words.  I am such a sensitive guy.  I tried to change the subject.
         “Are you here with just him? Or do you have some other people around?”
         “We were here with some others,” she said, “two of Carl’s friends and their girlfriends.”
         “Will you be ok with them?” I asked, “are they your ride?”
         “I met them here; I drove myself,” she said, “but I…”
         “Look, if you are ok to drive I would suggest leaving.  I don’t know Carl, but in my experience he might blame you for what I did,” I heard a thump and a moan from the bathroom and I guessed Carl was trying to right himself.
         “Go,” I said, “If you need to talk to Carl about this, do it when both you and he are sober.”  I smiled at her crookedly, amazed I sounded so coherent with all the bourbon in my bloodstream, or at least it sounded coherent in my head.  I couldn’t tell because the adrenalin was gone and the alcohol was dulling my senses again—I wish it could do the same for the pain.  I flushed with embarrassment now, feeling that I had stayed well over my welcome and started back to bar stool.  She reached out and took my elbow. 
         “Thank you,” she said.
         “You are welcome,” I said over my shoulder.
         I returned to the bar and drained my glass.  The bartender once again materialized in front of me and started to refill my glass.  I could smell the fresh cigarette odor on him.  I asked for one.  He completed his pour and took his pack out, opened it and offered.  I took one and a book of matches that he produced.
         “Gotta go outside,” he said, “New York law says you can’t smoke inside.”
         “I know, I grew up here,” I said.
         I turned to get off my stool and the two men from the couples at the table strutted over to me.  One was a brown haired gentleman with a Syracuse basketball shirt on and jeans that were probably more expensive then my truck.  The second was wearing a military style haircut, polo shirt with some name on it that I couldn’t make out, and khakis.  They strained through their own alcohol shroud as they approached me; both straightened up and put out their chests, their arms held out like they were carrying luggage. When they drew close, I stood up.
         “Guys,” said the bartender, “no trouble or I call the cops.” I looked at him and nodded.  The two approaching me ignored him.  Adrenalin flowed again through my body, reinvigorating my fighting sense.  I saw that they had the same well defined muscle groups that Bleach Blonde had, telling me they all went to the gym regularly.  Probably, they all were work-out buddies.  Syracuse had heavy acne covering his cheeks and forehead—most likely a steroid user.  He was going to throw the first punch.  Man, I wish I could parse emotional information the way I could see everything else.
         “You the one who beat up Carl?” asked Syracuse.
         I looked to him, and then to Polo Shirt. 
         “Did you hear me, asshole?”
         “Gentleman,” I said, “I am drunk, as I believe you are and your friend Carl was.  I’ll give you this chance to let it go.”
         “Let it go…” the bartender echoed as he picked up the phone.
         I didn’t move. They didn’t move.  They, apparently, were not used to people talking to them in this fashion.  Polo Shirt wavered a little toward me, but retreated a step.  Syracuse was starting to rock with the alcoholic lullaby that had to be playing in his head.  I smiled.
         “Walk away,” I said, “or someone gets broken.”  My smile vanished and I felt my inner demon spooling up for the fight.  The demon himself must have played across my face because color drained from their faces. Polo Shirt moved back, but Syracuse gave no ground.  The girls from the table now were there; both blondes, probably sisters judging from the similarities in their faces.  Blonde One reached out to Polo Shirt taking his arm and dragging him back.  It didn’t take her much effort; he had already given up.  Blonde Two tried to do the same with Syracuse.
         “Com’on, Sal,” she pleaded.
“Bullshit,” said Syracuse and shook her off to cock his arm back.
         “Dammit,” I said, and waited for the punch. I watched it start from somewhere south of Mexico and traveled north toward my head. When it got to the right point, stepped back to clear it, reached out, and guided Sal’s fist into the bar.  He hit the wood squarely and there were several pops as Sal’s knuckles gave way to the well-worn maple.  There was a gasp from Blonde Two as Sal’s hand concaved around the bar.  It took a moment for the pain to register.  Sal pulled his hand away and looked at its new configuration.  His eyes then rolled to white as he lost consciousness and collapsed.
I picked up my drink and took it with my cigarette and my matches and walked out the door onto a raised deck, muffling the commotion of Sal and his friends. I set my drink on a wobbly, plastic table, lit the cigarette, and took a drag.  Smoke filled my alcohol anesthetized lungs.  I held the smoke in, allowing the lungs absorb the cancerous agents, and then slowly exhaled.  The lack of oxygen intensified my bourbon euphoria.  I picked up the glass, took in half of the liquor, and chased it with another deep drag.  I took another drag of my cigarette and sipped my bourbon.  I felt a twinge in the left side of my chest and exhaled.  I started to cough, ejecting mucous and spittle.  I finally cleared everything out and recovered enough for another sip.
         “Probably not the best course of action for a man who is missing the lower lobe of his left lung,” said someone from behind me.  The voice had very pleasant tones to it.  I turned around and saw three identical men in identical dark suits and ties.  I blinked and shook my head, and the resolved into one.  I stared at the man for a moment and then defiantly took another deep drag.  The man kept his peaceful eyes on me.  I lifted my drink, finished it, and took a heavy drag to finish the smoke.  He showed neither acceptance nor disappointment in my actions.  I couldn’t place it, but there was a familiarity when he wasn’t blurred.  I credited the feeling to the booze; booze makes everyone familiar.
         “Guardian Angel?”  I smirked.  A small, pleasant smile appeared on his face.  He casually moved his suit jacket aside and placed his hands in his pockets.  I felt threatened slightly, as if his silent form was accusing me.  I wanted to walk passed them man and acquire more bourbon, but I stood with my fluttering eyes attempting to meet this stranger’s gaze.  My inner demon was screaming to start swinging at this pretentious prick.
         “Look, leave me in peace, I’m done fighting for tonight,” I said.
         “Mr. Cain, why do you torture yourself?” he asked.  It caught me off guard.  He began to pace, sometimes looking at his shoes, sometimes at me, then out into the night, then his shoes.  I tracked him, rotating my body to reduce the spinning sensation I was feeling when I moved my head. 
         “I’m… angry,” I managed to say; surprised I had said anything at all.  I could feel the booze I just drank start to finally send me over the edge.
         “That is partly true.  I can see the anger you hold for yourself.  There is, however, more to why you are trying to kill yourself slowly,” his voice was soothing, yet authoritative; it reminded me of my foster father.
         “I got shot and I got my partner shot,” I said. 
         “It was worse than that,” said the man “wasn’t it.”
I felt my chest heave.  I tried to stop it, which only worsened my condition.  Tears in my made the small lights illuminating the deck shimmer.
“You shot him, didn’t you Mr. Cain.”
The words hit me with a force that was unfathomable.  I tried to focus on him but three of men stood before me again.  I spun in circles, I think, looking for the door back into the bar.  I couldn’t find it.  He stood there with his doppelgangers, watching my drunken attempts to escape.  I stumbled to a set of stairs I found that led to ground level and out into the parking lot.  I looked back to see if he was following me.  Fear and panic fueled by booze flooded my body with adrenalin and I tried to run, but I was too far gone.  I took two steps and failed to find the rest.  My arms flailed about to find the railings, unable to grasp anything.  I was finally able to stop my fall with my face.  Slamming into the ground, I drove gravel into my right cheek and ear.  I laid there for an eternity.  When it passed I took another eternity to get my hands and knees under me.  It was still dark.  I tried to stand, but the planet fell away from me. I fell into a vortex that consumed me and I returned to my starting position.  Pain and sickness devoured me, only fading with the blackness that fell over my consciousness. 
Chapter 3
         I felt a nudge in the leg.  I opened my eyes to see bright, blinding sunlight.  I felt a hand on my shoulder, shaking me.  It was a firm grip, but not aggressive. 
         “Are you okay?” said a female voice, “Do you want to call an ambulance? Or the Police?”
         My kinesthetic senses returned slowly.  I was in a sitting position against a building.  I felt her take something from between my fingers.  I leaned into the wall and pushed up with my legs; grating sensation told me it was made of brick.  I worked my way to standing and my vision cleared, but the altitude brought a rush of pain to my head.  I felt her adjust me so that I was stable.  Her hands left me and I heard a deadbolt click and the hinges of door being opened. The woman guided me into a darkened room and sat me into a chair.  A click sounded, and soft, florescent light filled the room and allowed my eyes to adjust gently.  I looked around to see a store front office.  It was a corner office with big plate windows leading into the corner where to frond door was situated.    I sat before a desk that was angled in a corner of the room facing the corner entrance.  Behind was a big swivel chair and a small, silver fridge was against the wall on the right.  My eyes continued down the right-side wall where a mix of several file cabinets, both wood and metal, stood.  All looked worn.  On my left was a small couch that began at the back wall and ended at the window. It was leather and looked old, but not uncared for. 
There was, of course, a woman.  Her back was to me.  She had straw colored blonde hair pulled into a high pony tail.  She had a sharp, dark colored dress coat over her right arm that matched the skirt that she wore with a light colored blouse. I followed the skirt to her knees and continued my scan of her tanned, bare legs, which in turn lead me to her sneakers; the new-fangled kind that was supposed to tighten up rear and leg muscles.  Returning my gaze a little north to her posterior, I could tell the shoes had done their job.  I widened my vision and watched as she was releasing the shades and flipping a wooden sign over in the front window; I read the word “Closed” on the side that faced me.  She walked by me and around the desk.  She looked at me and the distance to her, then laid her suit coat with her left hand over the back of her chair to reveal a compact Glock she had been holding in her right.  She held barrel down to the floor until she sat down and placed the weapon on her desk, its barrel facing me. 
         “Do you want me to call 911?” she asked.  I shook my head.  It amplified the wrecking ball that rebounded internally from ear to ear. 
         “Do you have a name?” she asked.
         “Cain,” I said. 
         “That explains my card crumpled in your hand.  You’re the one Joey said could help me serve some papers,” she said.  She took the Glock from the desk, opened the top right drawer, and placed it inside; she didn’t close it.
         I nodded, sending the wrecking ball swinging fore and aft.  I asked for some water and any pain meds.  She produced a bottle pills from the gun drawer.  She tossed it to me, wheeled an inch over to the little fridge, and retrieved a twenty ounce bottle from it.  She offered and I took it greedily.
         “You don’t look like much,” She said.
         “I am in disguise.  I was staking out the bar dressed as a barfly,” I said.
         “How did you get here?” she asked.
         “Not sure,” I said, “I was very, very drunk.”
         “Is that you default setting?”
         “It has been lately.”
         “Why?”
         “Did Joey explain my situation?”
         “She said that you were an amazing martial artist and that you went out west to be a cop,” she said as she looked at my state incredulously.
         “Tucson,” I said.
         “She said that you had been shot and that you to quit.”
         I nodded.  I looked at her as she continued to size me up.  She wasn’t hostile with her questioning and my look certainly did not inspire confidence.  I chose to come as clean as I could.
         “Ms. Uh…” I began, suddenly realizing that I did not know her name; I knew how to prep for an interview.
         “Michaela Warner,” she said, “Attorney at Law.”
         “Was that a T.V. series?”
         “Don’t be an ass.”
         “You are right, I apologize.  Ms. Warner.  I was a martial arts fanatic from age 8—Filipino styles to be exact.  I got really good at that, but lacked direction in everything else.  About five years ago, a friend had me come out to Tucson and try out for the cops.  I ended up being a bit of a cliché, really. I was top of my class out of the academy and made Training Officer in three years—cops who train the rookies coming out of the Academy,” I paused in my narrative.  She sat with passively, not idly.  I could see her trying to reconcile the character in my story with the drunken that sat before her.  I continued. 
“Francis Orellana was my first rookie.  He was smart, ambitious, and fast.  He was me three years prior.  Fifteen week in FTO, we caught a call for break in at an apartment complex.  We got to the apartment, saw a perp take off out the door.  He fired on us, we returned.  I called it in to start the tone we went after him.  He ducked into another apartment and Frank took off.”
I tried to swallow the lump in my throat.  The lawyer in front of me was giving her courtroom face: attentive, inquisitive, and passive.  I tried again and lump receded enough for me to continue. 
“Frank must have thought I was closer. I shouted for him for him to stop but there was a scream from the door we were heading toward.  I saw him clear the door and go in,” I had to stop at this point.  The pain was getting difficult to ignore and my eyes were wet. 
“Okay,” said Kaela, starting to squirm a bit, “You don’t…”
“No,” I said, fighting for my composure, “I’ll finish it up.  There’s not much left to tell.”
She smiled her lawyer smile that hid what she was thinking and resettled herself in her chair.
“It turned out to be an ambush,” I said and spat out the short version of the finale, “I took two AK rounds that passed through my vest and tore up my left lung.  I was in a coma for a month.  Frank is in a wheel chair now. That was a year ago.”
         She was silent, and she had her poker face back on, showing no judgment of the tale I told her.  She gave me a minute to make sure that I had finished and then spoke.
         “So, you came back home and crawled into a bottle.”
         “Something like that.  He was my rookie, my responsibility.”
         “I’ll be honest with you, you haven’t impressed me,” she said, “I think you need therapy more than a job.  You have my sympathy, and don’t want to sound like I am making light of your tragedy, but I need this done and how can I be sure that your recent history won’t compromise you?”
         “I am fairly underwhelming at this point,” I said, “I don’t even know how I got here after the bender I tied on last night,” remembering the man in the suit, “I don’t know what I need at this point,” and I looked at her for a another second before I said, “I won’t take up any more of your time.”
         I stood and started for the door.  The water and the pills made it much easier.  I began to reach for the handle when a thought hit me and I stopped.  I turned back and looked at Michaela Warner, Attorney at Law.
         “You don’t strike me as person who would have a problem serving papers on someone.”
         “I typically don’t.  This instance, the man has been incredibly elusive, especially now that he knows I am trying.  I have other cases and clients to get to, so I don’t have the time to pin him down. I asked Joey if she could do it for me.”
         “Thought the Sheriff’s Civil Bureau did that stuff.”
         “They don’t serve divorce papers anymore.  Up to the parties involved or the lawyers.  Actually anyone can do it.  In New York you need to be eighteen and have a heartbeat to serve papers on someone.”
         “Joey said she’d do it?”
         “She said she knew someone who could get it done.”
         I stood in the office taking in the last twenty-four hours. The argument with Joey, the drinking, the bizarre hallucination….
         “I’ll get it done.  What do I need to know?”
Chapter 4
         “First off, call me Kaela,” she said, “do not call me Mike or Mikey.”
         “Yes ma’am,” I said.
         “Or Ma’am or madam.  Or sir or anything else your smart ass might come up with.  Just Kaela,” she said. 
         “Understood, Kaela,” I said.  I sat back down in front of her and she took a file a drawer.
         “Second, no booze while you are working for me,” she said.
         “Agreed,” I said.  She set some papers between us, explaining what I needed to do, what signatures went where and such.  She took a photo that had a man, a woman, and a girl standing together at what looked to be an observation deck in Niagara Falls.
         “The lovely couple and their daughter in happier times.  Husband, Gerald Furman; wife that is now filing for divorce, Ellen; and the daughter, Erica,” she said, pointing to each as she spoke.
         “How long have they been together?”
         “Fourteen years.  Daughter is eleven.”
         “Any violence?” I asked.
         “Four complaints in the last five years.  The last one was just over a week ago.”
         “Arrests?”
         “No probable cause,” she said.
         “Domestic calls are the worst for cops.  Way too many variables. But still, New York’s Mandatory Arrest law…”
         “Gerry has some longtime friends on the local cops. He lives south of here near Delaroy and chief of the village police is an old college friend,” she must have seen my recognition on the name of the village on my face, “Are you familiar with the area?”
“My foster father used to take me hunting and camping down there.  Nice little village.  I take it you’ve not been able to serve him at home?”
“Well,” she sighed, “he has a gated property with an electrified fence.  I can’t just drive up and knock on the door.  After the last incident Ellen left.  She was able to get a call out to one of her old friends.  She got through the fence, taking some pretty good shocks and getting pretty good cuts in the process.  Her friend picked her up and grabbed the daughter from school; their staying at the friend’s house.”
“Wife can’t get you in?”
“She’s not going back,” she said, a piece of ice entering her voice.  I decided to drop that line of thought.
“What can you tell me about Gerry Furman? Anything I can go on?” I asked.
         “He’s the president and the owner of a trucking company Expedited Package Services,” she said, “do you know the company?”
         “Seen the EPS trucks about.”
         “EPS is trying to go up in rank, to either be the new FedEx or United Parcel.  I tried to serve him at his office, but I haven’t got passed his security until he manages to disappear.  He’s chauffeured and seems to always be just out of reach.”
         “Which is why he knows what he’s being served,” I said, “which means he’s on his guard and won’t be in a public space he can’t control.  Can’t get a judge to sign off that you tried?”
         “No luck yet,” she said, “judge says I haven’t done my due diligence.  The judge of course, is a friend of the Police Chief.”
           “Do you have a time frame for me to get this done?” I asked.
         “I’m down to the last four days of the deadline between the time it is filed and summons is served.  Today is Tuesday.  I need it done by Friday.  I’m trying to get another judge to look at it as well.  Also, the last time I talked to Ellen, she sounded like she’s starting to waver on the whole divorce thing. I haven’t been able to convince her to get a restraining order yet and it was severe teeth pulling of me and the friend she is staying with to even file for divorce.  I want to limit her choices a little.”
         “For Ellen's own good,” I said.  I think I might have said it with a little acid because her face turned from business to cold anger.  I took the file with the papers and the photo from the desk and stood.
         “I’ll take care of this,” I said.  I didn’t look at her for fear of being frozen to stone by her gaze.
         I called Joey from pay phone down the street from Michaela Warner, Attorney at Law’s office.  I had left the office to step into the realization that I still had no idea how I had gotten there.  I felt my pockets to find my cell phone was not with me so, not risking the fury I had ignited in Kaela; I walked to a convenient store I spotted.  Surprisingly, I had a quarter and made the call.  Joey was there with fifteen minutes and we went to the bar.  My truck was still in the parking lot.  This was not a surprise since it was a rusted out 1977 Ford F-150—not a high value target.  The dark green metallic was sun faded, but it still gleamed a bit, despite the rust patches. 
         “Shocker,” Joey said, “How no one stole the Gumby Mobile.”  She had been calling it that since I bought it in high school.  Admittedly, it had seen better days as a dozen northern winters and two cross country trips had taken its toll on the machine. 
I could not find my keys, but luckily the place served lunch and the keys were located in a bucket behind the bar.  We drove in tandem back to her place—her place being a very nice five bedroom, three bath, two-floor, mansion, though she punched me every time I called it that.  The driveway split with the second branch leading down to the guest house I was staying at.  The fifteen acre spread was on Lake Ontario and was the envy of the rich folk that lived on either side of her.
         Joey’s money was a combination of family money and hard work.  The house and land had been given to her by mother after she had passed.  It had been in the family since 1910 when the just-off-the-boat Jakobuski’s had bought a small cottage.  August Jakobuski had gone to work at Port Rishile docks.  Within ten years, he was a shipping magnate and the property grew as August’s stature grew.  The last major expansion was in the 1940’s, when then bulk of the Jakobuski money was made under government contracts for the war effort.  The company disappeared in the ‘80’s, but the land and title stayed in the family.
She had offers made for double the current assessed price of the estate, but she had refused them.  It would have been easy for her to sell the place and live off the proceeds; however she was determined to keep it in the family until she had someone to give it to.  The upkeep of the place was hard and it absorbed all the family money that had been left to her.
         Her hard work was that of owning the best martial arts school in Western New York.  She had a main school and two satellite schools.  Joey was an old school Judoka, coming from a dojo that had only two ranks, white belt and black belt.  Her martial prowess had been second to none, with words like “natural” and “prodigy” typically attached to her name in conversations.  No one liked getting thrown under Joey “The Bus” Jakobuski. 
She had been an assured a spot on the Olympic Judo team until a sparring partner tried to be funny and attempt a flying scissor throw.  It was poorly executed and Joey’s right knee exploded, causing severe damage.  Many surgeries and complications later, Joey could walk normally again.  It would be four more years after the surgeries for her to get back to a shadow of her former self.
  Olympic dreams gone, she had floundered for a while, until I had someone ask her to teach a self-defense class at her church.  She found that she was an even better teacher than she was a fighter and she converted. She took some business courses, took some business loans, and a year later she opened her school.  Since then, she had built a fantastic reputation as several of her judoka had gone on to success in the UFC or sport judo arenas.  It gave her a pretty good income, too.
I parked and went into the guest house with Joey coming up behind me.  Once inside she let me shower and dress before beginning her interrogation.  I smelled coffee in a de ja vue moment of the previous day, and I came out of the bedroom to find coffee ready for me once again.  A Styrofoam cup sat in front of the coffee pot this time, however. 
“Do you know how you are going to do this?” she asked, walking into living room.  I followed her after pouring my coffee, sheepishly avoiding the massive hole in the drywall caused by my tantrum.  I sat on the couch with my Styrofoam cup in hand.
“No.  I’m still working on hangover recovery efforts,” I said.  The pain and sickness had ebbed, but my balance was still a bit wonky.  She wanted to get angry, I saw it start in her eyes, but it subsided quickly.  I motioned for her to sit.  I figured we should just talk a bit, try to smooth the edges from yesterday’s argument.  She pulled on her straight brown hair, occasionally chewing it as I spoke while I sat rubbing my right for finger along the stubble of my chin as she spoke.  Our fidgeting seemed to balance each other out.  I told her about the Man In Black that I had talked to at the bar; I didn’t tell her about the last thing he said to me.  She said that she was worried after I stormed out but was relieved that I was not sleeping one off in a ditch.  She wasn’t sure about the whole Man In Black thing either, but she said if it had come from The Man up Stairs, I should at least listen to what He had to say.  We both couldn’t figure how I got from the bar to Kaela’s office, which was separated by a twenty minute drive.
         “Thank you,” she said.
         “For what?” I asked.
         “For doing this.  It does help Kaela out a lot.  She’s a one woman show,” she said, “I am hopeful it will help you out, too.”
         “What are you expecting?” I asked.
         “I hope this is a life line for you.  Like teaching was for me.  I remember what the darkness is like of your life’s plan taken from you,” she said.
“I know; I remember.  You and I are different with different situations, though,” I said with the Man In Black’s voice still in my ear, “Someone else screwed up and it cost you.  For me, I screwed up and it cost me and someone else.”  We looked at each other for a bit.  She was trying to help.  I understood it, but I didn’t want to think about it.  I had done it for her after she got hurt.  I wouldn’t let her quit and she wouldn’t let me.  I knew that.
         “I’m sorry for yesterday,” I said, looking at the hole in the wall, “I lost it and I was wrong.”
         “I kind of lost it a little as well,” she said, “I just… let me in.  Let me know what happened.  We only spoke a couple of times after the… uh,” she paused, “incident.  Even when David, Marian, and I flew out to see you, you didn’t talk.”
         “I’m not ready,” I said.  I knew she didn’t like that answer so I redirected the conversation.
         “I appreciate this, I really do.  The place to recoup, the job, not letting go of me,” I said, “but…” 
         She smiled, and then slowly nodded.  She got up, bent over me, and gave me hug filled with the power of both of her muscles and compassion.  I returned it with an equal intensity. I heard her sniffle, which started my eyes leaking as well.  She let go and turned to leave.  I stayed on the couch, arranging my emotions.  She looked back as she opened the door.
         “Zeke, I’m here, if you need.  Have gotten a hold of David or Marian?” she asked, referring to my foster father and his sister.  I shook my head.  I saw her face had a hint of disappointment on it.
“I’ll get a hold of them when I’m ready,” I said.  She nodded.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I just… I miss my friend.  I miss the Zeke that was pushing me when I was hurt.  I miss the Zeke that had always known what to do in all situations.”
“He might not come back, Joey,” I said.  I felt her pain because I missed the Zeke she was talking about, too.