Devil's Bargain

“What are you doing?” Borden asked. He sounded annoyed but interested. The table creaked as he leaned his weight on his elbows, craning for a look.

“Not getting my fingerprints all over it,” she said. “Just in case.”

The letterhead was Gabriel, Pike & Laskins, LLP, with an address in New York City, on Central Park West. Nice, old-fashioned raised printing, none of that inkjet stuff. The cream-colored paper had thickness and texture.

It read:

Dear Ms. Callender:

Our firm has been engaged by a nonprofit foundation to offer you a business opportunity. Our research has shown that you have made inquiries with lending institutions toward opening a private investigation agency, which inquiries have been denied. The nonprofit agency wishes to make funding available to you, under the condition that you accept a partnership agreement with another qualified individual.

The terms of this agreement will be discussed in a separate communication should you indicate a desire to proceed. As a good-faith gesture, the firm has provided the name and vitae of the individual our client requires you to accept as a partner in this start-up business, as well as a check made out in both of your names in the amount of one hundred thousand dollars (U.S.), which should be used to defray expenses related to establishment of the partnership, including but not limited to rent, office equipage, and hiring of staff, as well as an advance against salary.

Please communicate your reply via the individual who has been entrusted to deliver this communication. We thank you for your attention.

Sincerely,

Milo Laskins, Partner

Gabriel, Pike & Laskins, LLP

Jazz read it again. Then again.

And slowly tented the envelope to look in it again.

“It’s there,” Borden said. “The check, I mean.”

“How do you know?”

“I put it in myself.”

She reached in and pulled out…a business check. Thick, official stock, emblazoned with the Gabriel, Pike & Laskins, LLP, name and address. Private bankers. Printed with a neat, computerized “one hundred thousand and no/100.”

Made out to Jasmine Callender and Lucia Garza.

“Here,” Borden said, and slid over another envelope—slightly bent from the beating he’d taken, but bloodstain-free—that when opened proved to have some kind of résumé with the name Lucia Garza in bold at the top. She didn’t read it.

Her eyes went back to read the check again.

One hundred thousand and no/100.

Borden was still coming up with things, like a magician without a top hat…a business card, this time, in cream-colored stock that matched the letterhead and the check. Gabriel, Pike & Laskins, LLP. Under that, in smaller letters, James D. Borden, Attorney-at-law.

Jazz couldn’t help it. The whole thing was so absurd, so downright idiotic, that she started laughing, and once she had, she couldn’t stop. She clutched Borden’s card and laughed until her sides hurt and her eyes watered, with his frown grooving deeper every second.

“You’re—” She finally managed to gasp it out. “You’re a lawyer?”

He folded his arms and sat back. He looked tougher in the black knit shirt than in all that load of leather and zippers; he actually had some biceps to flex, though nothing like the trucker twins back at Sol’s. She remembered the washboard-tight abs, and thought he was probably more of a boxer or a runner than a weightlifter. Some strength in him, though. Not that the trucker twins wouldn’t have kicked his ass until it fell off, but…

He derailed her train of thought by saying, in an aggrieved tone, “Yes, I’m a lawyer. What’s so funny about it?”

Which set her off again, gulping down giggles, wiping tears from her eyes. His vanity hadn’t just been wounded, it was on life support, but she couldn’t help it. The idea that a lawyer had come all the way from New York City, dressed in Harley make-believe, to deliver some ridiculous, asinine joke was…

“Was it Brown?” she finally asked, once she was sober enough to get through the question. “Welton Brown? Big guy, snappy dresser, terrible sense of humor?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m asking who put you up to it. Was it Brown? I knew he’d go to extremes for a prank, but…”

James Borden, attorney-at-law, wasn’t just looking wounded now, he was starting to look pissed off. She preferred that, actually. Vulnerability was something she always found disturbing. Aggression, that was right up her alley.

“Lady, were you in the room back there when I was getting my ribs kicked in? Would I do that for a practical joke?” Borden skidded his chair back from the table and stood up, leaning over with both hands flat on the wood. “All right. Look, I’ve just about had it. I caught the crying-baby express flight from New York. I’ve been insulted, hit, kicked, lost a jacket I spent a thousand dollars on…”

She swallowed another giggle. “Seriously? A thousand? Damn. Why’d you go and listen to me, then?”

“… and all to hand you the chance of a lifetime. If you don’t want it, fine. I’ll just go home and tell my boss you’re not interested.” Borden grabbed for the check. She slapped her hand down hard on it.

“Don’t get cranky, Counselor,” she said, and nodded at the chair. “Sit.”

He stared at her, leaning close, for long enough that she thought she might have pushed him too far, but then his elbows unlocked and he lowered himself down to the seat again. All was not forgiven, but he was willing to give her another chance.

Which she promptly screwed up by saying, “So who’s Lucia Garza? Some scumbag client of yours that you suddenly need to move out of town, set up with a new identity, and find a place to launder her drug money?”

He actually blinked. “Are you always this unpleasant with people trying to do you a favor?”

“Only when they’re lawyers.”

Borden stared at her for a long, long moment, then stood up again. “Thanks for the coffee,” he said. “I’m going to the hospital to get my ribs taped now. If you don’t want the check, fine, tear it up. If you don’t cash it, we’ll assume you’re not interested. If you do, Miss Callender, please be advised that we consider cashing the check a binding good-faith contract, and believe me, we have the resources to enforce it. Call the number on the card and talk to Mr. Laskins before you do anything stupid, since you obviously don’t think I can advise you.” He pushed the chair in, neat and courteous. “And hey. Have a nice day.”

He was walking away when she said, “Hey. James Borden. Get back here.”

And for once, somebody didn’t follow her orders.

She stared, bemused, as he walked up to the door. He actually opened it.

He was going to just…leave.

She fidgeted with his card, drummed her fingers on the down-turned check—one hundred thousand and no/100—and made a split-second decision.

“Borden,” she called again. “Hey, Counselor. Come back. Please.”

He was already going. He really was leaving. She couldn’t believe it.

She got up and went after him, caught his arm and dragged him to a stop just outside the door. “Seriously,” she said, and let go of him when she caught sight of his face. “I’m sorry, okay? Can we talk?”

“You going to insult me again?”

“Maybe,” she said. When he gave her a disbelieving look, she shrugged. “What, you want me to lie to you?”