Chapter Thirteen: Freedom (Part 2)

Attempting to avoid his vigilante secretary, Jim Morris sneaks through a side door and creeps into his plush penthouse-view law office; he pulls a forbidden well-dressed cheeseburger and fries from a greasy brown bag, and rifling through the bottom left drawer of his Cadillac-sized mahogany desk, finds the new Carl Hiaasen novel given to him by his wife on his fortieth birthday. He swivels his Levenger Huntington executive desk chair into position, props his Fratelli Rossetti leather wingtips on a stack of unopened mail, and turns to page one. Jim queues up a huge bite of his dripping lunch as the phone softly rings. He reaches for the intercom button, mouth full, and impatiently addresses his ancient, pinched secretary as a glop of mustard, chili, slaw, and onions parks in the middle of his pink Aspinal silk tie. “What is it, Sybil?”
“You know better than to eat that cheeseburger, Jim.”
“Slaw is in the salad category, Sybil,” he says, lifting the tie to his mouth and sucking at the spreading yellow stain.
“Well, it’s your blood pressure, do what you want. But don’t expect me to cover for you when your wife asks if you’re following doctor’s orders.”
“Well, don’t expect me to give you a Christmas bonus this year, either.” Jim grabs a handful of salty French fries and shoves them in his mouth. “Why are you bothering me?”
“I’m putting a client through who comes to you compliments of your father, so you better take this one; she’s called three times already. Hang on.” Mimi introduces herself before Jim can object to the unwelcome interruption. “Mr. Morris, this is Mimi Killian. George at your father’s office referred me to you. He says you’ll be able to draft a contract protecting me from a business liability.”
Jim reluctantly puts down his cheeseburger, splays his book spine-up on his messy desk, and, after wiping his slick hands with a crumpled napkin, picks up a Lanier handcrafted pen. “What business, Mrs. Killian?”
“The Firefly and the Phoenix; you’ve been there, right?”
Jim perks up. “Best shrimp and grits this side of the Mississippi, and the homemade cheesecake’s not bad, either. Call me Jim. What can I do for you?”
“I need a contract releasing me from all liability in exchange for giving my partner all the assets of the business. I have a hand-scribbled contract from Sam’s attorney, but it looks pretty scary. I’m not about to sign this thing.”
“Who’s Sam?” Jim takes another bite of his drooling cheeseburger; richly-colored condiments splatter on the canvas of his starched white Burberry shirt.
“Sam’s my business partner and soon-to-be ex-husband.”
“Why don’t you sell your shares to him?”
Mimi sighs. “Jim, that would be ideal, but Sam refuses to pay me anything, based on the fact that we haven’t shown a profit in five years.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s not profitable, Mimi. Complete transparency isn’t always a plus, believe me; I understand how the restaurant business works.” Jim reaches across his wide girth, grunts, and flicks chili from his wingtips. “How much is the business worth?”
“According to an advisor, my half should be worth a minimum of two-hundred-sixty thousand dollars. I’d love to get at least sixty out of it, based on good will alone.”
“What do you mean by good will?”
“It’s the steady customer base and the reputation,” Mimi explains. “It’s the draw. Even potentially great restaurants with world-class chefs won’t last long if there’s no draw. A built-in customer base, like we have, is worth more than gold.” Mimi pauses. “But Sam says that’s because of him, not me. I disagree.”
“Then, why does Sam figure the business is worth nothing if good will is so important?” Jim swallows the dregs of his stale Pepsi, covers the receiver, and burps loudly; Mimi pretends not to hear.
“Because he knows how hard it is to prove, Jim. He believes in good will as much as I do, but maybe Sam’s right. Nobody’s gonna pay me sixty thousand dollars for the honor of being Sam’s business partner.”
Jim bores easily, and wishes this rambling conversation were over. “Sounds like a domestic issue to me,” he says, picking up his book. If page one were a crime scene, Jim would be the primary suspect based on fingerprints alone.
“I went to a domestic attorney first, who suggested I contact your father, then your father suggested I speak with George, and George suggest I hire you. Am I on the wrong track here?”
Jim cuts to the chase. “How’s your cash flow? The business, I mean.”
“It’s a cash cow. Most of the restaurant revenue is generated by credit cards which covers our business expenses. The bar provides most of the cash – an easy two grand a week, after expenses, walking.”
“And you’re willing to give that up to protect yourself for a perceived liability? You may want to reconsider, Mrs. Killian.” Jim flips to page two.
Mimi’s patience wears thin. “I don’t want to be Sam’s business partner anymore, Jim, okay? Do you understand that? We’re legally separated, but that doesn’t protect me from his bad business decisions. He’s a sloppy, delusional alcoholic with a very bad temper.” Mimi plays her last card. “He, well, he’s offered people money to make me go away.”
Now Mimi has Jim’s attention. He marks page two with a mustard-stained napkin and places the book on his desk. “What do you mean, take you away?”
“Well, what does it sound like to you?”
“It sounds like a criminal charge waiting to happen.” This case may have legs after all, Jim thinks. “Okay, I need a list of everything you want from the restaurant in exchange for releasing all assets, if you’re sure that’s the route you want to take. What tangible items do you want?”
“Not much, just some artwork that belongs to me, and my old computer. Oh, and some of the wine. We have a few cases that’ll never move unless I’m there to sell them.” Mimi quickly runs through the inventory in her mind. “Two thousand dollars is a pretty good guesstimate on the value, and the longer it sits, the more valuable it becomes.”
Jim whistles. “That’s a lot of wine.”
“Not really. Maybe three cases wholesale, but it’s the hard-to-get really good stuff, and Sam will probably cook with it.” Mimi shudders at the thought, and summarizes for the seemingly dense attorney. “Listen, Jim, Sam’s been shuffling money from our business account for a long time. I’ve seen the books and deposit slips – the real ones. And yeah, I can take him down the river, baptize him in the holy water of your religion, tear his little world apart, and give you all my money in an effort to feel good about myself. But that’s not my deal. Please, all I’m asking is for you to draw up a contract stating, very simply, that Sam Killian gets the business assets in return for releasing Mimi Killian from any and all liability.”
“I can do that,” Jim replies. “But, it’s gonna cost you a little.”
Mimi laughs at the little part. “How much is a little?”
“Two hundred-fifty dollars an hour to start, including this phone call; and the contract work will take five hours, minimum.” God, small potatoes after all, Jim thinks; this better be a quick fix.
“Let’s do five maximum, Jim. Please, don’t stretch this out.” Jim makes no promises, but agrees to address the potential criminal offense as a separate issue in exchange for two bottles of vintage wine. “A short, well-worded letter should be all that’s needed,” he says. Jim schedules an appointment with Mimi for later in the week – an appointment that will take fifteen minutes, but he’ll charge a full hour. He hangs up the phone and shakes his head. Lady, you’ve lost your mind, he thinks. But if you can pay, I’ll play. Now, where was I? He plops a well-shod foot on his shiny desk, picks up his novel, and resumes his hard work.
Two days later Mimi organizes her attaché, dresses in her best left-over corporate attire and enters the world of high overhead. Damn, she thinks, studying an opulent flower arrangement that could attract a swarm of killer bees; that ugly thing must have set him back a cool two-fifty, hold the aesthetics. “Nice office, Jim, great view of the city from way up here. Who’s your florist?” Jim smiles, but doesn’t waste time explaining Sybil’s penchant for funeral arrangements. “Did you bring the list?”
Mimi reaches for her attaché. “Yes, and the contract from Sam’s attorney.” She slides one neatly typed watermarked list and a wrinkled handwritten contract across the table. Jim looks at the contract first and frowns. “Who’s Sam’s attorney?”
“Drew Wissle, do you know him?”
“Oh yeah.” He shakes his head. “This is crap. It doesn’t protect you from anything. My advice is to burn it,” he says, and passes it back to Mimi before changing his mind. “No, give it back. I’ll take care of this.”
“Can I sue someone for making me feel stupid?”
Jim takes notice of Mimi for the first time, and looks at her intently. “You’re not stupid; if you were, you’d have signed this contract. Nope, my guess is you’re one sharp cookie, but somebody’s trying to bite out of you.” He picks up the precisely-typed inventory list, and frowns again. “There’s not much on here; are you sure this is it?”
“I’d like to include my initial investment, if possible. I invested my retirement fund into this venture.” Jim shakes his head. “You’ll be able to recoup some of that loss when you file your taxes, but most of that money’s long gone; have you considered suing for alimony?”
“If we had kids, Jim, I’d do it, but it’s just me. I’m not worried about the money right now; I’ll land on my feet.” Or your ass, Jim thinks, and shrugs. “Okay, your call.”
“Once Sam signs this agreement, it’s over, right? If he has a wreck in the company car and kills someone, or knocks his vodka bottle onto the gas burner and lights up the place, I’m not liable in any way, shape or form, right?”
Jim looks at his watch and pushes back his chair. “That’s right. I’ll give you a ring when the contract’s ready so you can read it before we send Sam a copy. In the meantime, lay low. Avoid contact, and by all means, stay away from the restaurant.”
Oh, Mimi. Where’s the fight song? Where’s the trainer in your corner – the one who says, look, don’t walk away from your business; stand up and fight for your financial rights. It might cost you a body part, but limbs are replaceable. Take him down, girl, sic’em! It sure isn’t Jim; he’s working hard to finish the second short chapter of his Hiaasen. Jim’s a slow reader.

Laying low isn’t an easy task for a woman like Mimi, especially when five messages to Sam go unanswered; Mimi left something very precious in their cottage by mistake: six delicate, tulip-shaped, cobalt blue, mouth-blown champagne flutes, circa 1940’s, inherited from her Aunt Agnes, and they must be retrieved before their condition changes from mint to flea market. On a whim, she stops by and boldly knocks on the front door, not expecting an answer although Sam’s car sits in the driveway. Sam, however, has a more pressing need, a need more enticing than a confrontation with his nemesis. Mimi walks through the gate to the back yard, passes the lovely purple irises she planted three springs ago - they’re in full bloom - and notices the back door standing wide open. She tiptoes to the threshold, peeks around the corner, and gets an eyeful; Jesse, the red-headed, enabling cocktail waitress, walks through the kitchen from the direction of the bedroom. A rat built a nest in her hair, Mimi thinks. Jesse’s wearing one of Sam’s shirts and nothing else; she doesn’t notice Mimi silently gaping. A large bong sits on the coffee table alongside a quart-sized zip lock bag full of what is either catnip or marijuana, and Sam doesn’t like cats. Mimi fantasizes for a moment, but revenge is tricky business; she simply wants her champagne flutes. A note will have to do, Mimi thinks; she pulls a tube of lipstick from her pocket, and, using Sam’s glass door as her canvas, scrawls “FLUTES” in large, Femme Fatale-colored cursive letters across its center.
Mimi’s phone rings two hours later. The voice on the other end is agitated. “Mimi, Jim Morris here. I just received a call from Drew Wissle a minute ago. He says you’ve been trespassing on Sam’s property, is that true?”
“Well dang, Jim,” Mimi replies, conjuring her best childhood innocence; she knows the dress-down is coming, and expects nothing less. “All I did was drop by his house on the way to the grocery store this morning to pick up something. His car was in the driveway; it’s not like I broke in or anything.”
“You shouldn’t have painted on the door, Mimi. Drew says it’s ruined and will have to be replaced.”
“Jim, it’s lipstick; tell Drew to pull his head out of his ass.” Black beret and candy cigarette notwithstanding, innocence was a strong player in Mimi’s formative years; however, the virtuous Pollyanna act is not in her current repertoire. Hayley Mills has a black eye. “I just want my champagne flutes.”
Jim sighs. “Sam will put the glasses on the front porch and you can pick them up tomorrow. Drew also said that a No Trespassing sign will be posted on Sam’s front door the minute you get them.” He pauses. “Is there anything else you want from the house? Because if you do, now’s the time.”
“Nope, that’s it.”
“Okay, I’ll call Drew.” Jim tone turns from reprimanding to conspiratorial. “Something’s very strange about this deal; Drew says he doesn’t really represent Sam anymore and refuses to discuss the contract with me. I think he’s hedging. But he did say he tried to represent both of you through mediation, is that true?”
Mimi isn’t surprised by Jim’s skepticism. “You saw the contract; whose side do you think he took in mediation? All I know is Sam told me to go through his attorney for everything, and he says his attorney is Drew Wissle. God, these guys are such liars.”
“There’s nothing we can do about that unless you think Drew misrepresented you, and then we’ll have a real legal battle on our hands. It’ll cost a lot of money and take a lot of time. But,” Jim says, crossing his fingers, “I’ll represent you if you want to go there.”
Mimi doesn’t hesitate. “Nope, let’s get this over with as soon as possible.”
“Alright,” Jim says, once again missing his chance to be a hero. “I’ll call Sam directly instead of dealing with Drew. I’ll remind him you’re not pressing criminal charges against him for threatening to have you taken away.” Whatever that means, Jim thinks. “Oh, but Drew did mention that Sam is afraid you’ll call the IRS and report him for tax fraud.”
“Good!” Mimi exclaims. “I want him to be afraid. Tell Sam he has one week to sign the contract, or I’ll make the call.”
“That should do it. I’ll be back in touch.”
Jim Morris calls Mimi ten days after their first meeting; it’s a wrap, Sam has signed the contract, Jim says. Save that wine, he chuckles; it might be worth something someday. Mimi laughs. It already is, Jim, she says; it’s worth the year it will take me to drink it.
Mimi’s heart and brain play tackle football on an uneven field. Sam teaches Mimi about spite, and the lessons are bitter and tough. She moves painfully forward with the hesitancy of a blind man touching a cold dead animal for the first time; a very deep freeze sets up camp in her chest. Is it human nature to put love on ice? Mimi needs a military issue wool blanket to keep frostbite from permanently damaging her heart.

Sam dogs Mimi’s every step when she returns to The Firefly for the last time. “Just the computer, Mimi, no backup discs. Not that picture, Mimi; that belongs to the restaurant, not you. Not that wine, Mimi; not that book, Mimi; nope, that’s mine. It’s all mine. Hurry up,” Sam sneers and looks at the velvet Elvis clock in the kitchen. “Your twenty minutes are up; now get the hell out or I’ll call the police.”
Anger and alcohol mix a combustible and toxic blend. Sam opens the telephone book, looks up Jake Reston’s number, but doesn’t dial. Not tonight, Sam thinks. But he is sure of his right to revenge. He sparkles with spiteful glee, sparkles like a laser-cut Blue Nile diamond under a jeweler’s backlit case. His mouth puckers as he bites his tongue until it bleeds and he tastes the bitterness of his own blood; his mouth fills with it until he can’t swallow. Sam looks at his reflection in the bedroom mirror and sees a mouth curved like an upside down horse shoe; all the luck runs out, all his good will spills out and dissipates in a blue vapor. Sam personifies bad intention. This will be good, he thinks. Sticks and stones are meaningless; I’ll hurt Mimi with words. He tries to right his smile, but it pains him.

Sleep eludes Mimi, and the howling coyotes can’t soothe her; their calls conjure death tonight, conjure the thrill of the kill. She jumps out of bed and into her car, wheeling toward the black horizon in bedroom slippers, pajamas, and a baseball cap. “I’m going trespassing,” she says out loud to the wind blowing through her open window. “I’m going to collect sticks and rocks and dirt and plants. I might even break a window,” she whispers to the wind. “I might even set off the alarm.” She smiles, but finds no satisfaction in the act. “Maybe I’ll get arrested, then make a scene and become hysterical. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do.” Her fantasy gains speed as her foot guns the accelerator up a long, dark hill. “Maybe the cops will take me to the hospital…the psyche ward sounds good. I’ll get a big shot of a pharmaceutical cocktail, and they’ll put me in the rubber room where I can wear myself out.” Mimi laughs at the headwind as it tries in vain to drive her back home. “No, no…I’ll just tell them I want to kill somebody, maybe myself; then they’ll give me big drugs that’ll knock me out for days.” Mimi slows at the next corner, thinks about pulling into the golden arches for a double cheeseburger instead, but beats Fatty Patty in a hard-fought wrestling match; if Mimi lets her in tonight, she may never leave. “Fuck you!” Mimi yells, battling with an army of forked-tongue fiery demons. “God, this is stupid; just get to a cool, dark corner and pull the covers over your head for a few days. It’s only money, it’s only money, it’s only money.” Mimi slams the brakes one quick time, tries to right her mind with a hard snap; it doesn’t work. “You incompetent shit,” she scoffs. “I fucking hate myself right now; I’m so incompetent. No, no, dammit, I have to stop this, or Sam wins.” She punches the gas again, sticks her head out the window and takes a deep breath. “Go home,” her brain orders. “Go for a walk,” her legs suggest. “Buy a pack of cigarettes,” her hands plead. “Chill in the hammock and read a book,” her intellect chimes. “Get shitfaced! Drink a bottle of Bachio Divino for breakfast!” her liver implores. “Calm down, all of you,” Mimi instructs. “It’s important to calm the hell down before we get in serious trouble. No, I already am in serious trouble; it’s important that I not let Sam steal my money. No, fuck the money, let the money go. You’ve been in need of money before and found a way to survive. What makes this time different? Here I am, no big deal. Breathe, let it go. Let…it…go.” And she does, but not before trespassing. Not before gathering rocks and sticks and dirt and not before staring into The Firefly’s large plate glass window, and not before considering how it might shatter into a million pieces if she stares at it long enough; it never does.
By sunrise, the hammock and a half bottle of Bachio Divino lull Mimi into a dreamless, motionless sleep.

To be continued…