12

It was Friday afternoon, the end of another miserable week. They were in no hurry to return to the city, so Todd took the back roads and they crossed into Virginia. Near the town of Berryville, the boys decided they needed a drink, and Todd stopped at a convenience store. Zola, who never touched the stuff, volunteered to drive, something she often did when she was out with Gordy and the law school gang. Mark bought a six-pack and a soft drink for her.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

Todd, in the front passenger seat, pointed to a sign. “It says that’s the way to Front Royal. Ever been to Front Royal?”

“No.”

“Well, let’s take a look.” They popped tops and took off. A few miles down the road, Mark stuck his beer between his knees and checked his phone. There was an e-mail from Ness Skelton. He read it and yelled, “What! You gotta be kidding!”

“What is it?” Todd asked, startled.

“They just fired me! I’ve been fired!”

“Come on,” Zola said.

“No, this is from Everett Boling, sorry, M. Everett Boling, a real ass who’s the managing partner at Ness Skelton. Listen to this. He says, ‘Dear Mr. Frazier. Today our firm announced its merger with the London-based law firm of O’Mara and Smith. This is an exciting opportunity for Ness Skelton to expand and better serve our clients. However, the merger requires a shifting of our personnel. I regret to inform you that the offer of an associate position is being rescinded. We wish you the best in your endeavors. Sincerely, M. Everett Boling.’ ”

“I like their timing,” Todd said.

“So they’re firing me before I even start the job. Can you believe this?”

“I’m so sorry, Mark,” Zola said.

“Yeah, me too,” Todd said. “Sorry, pal.”

“And they don’t even have the guts to do it in person,” Mark said. “Terminated by a lousy e-mail.”

“Are you really surprised, Mark?” Todd asked.

“Of course I’m surprised. Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Because they’re a bunch of low-end lobbyists who gave you a half-baked offer that didn’t include a salary, and one contingent upon passing the bar exam. You’ve said yourself, and many times I might add, that you trusted no one there and never felt good about the place. They’re a bunch of creeps, your term not mine.”

Mark took a deep breath, put down his phone, drained his beer, crumpled the can, and tossed it on the floorboard. He ripped off another can, popped the top, and took a swig. Todd drained his and said, “Give me another.” When he popped his top, he held his can up and said, “Cheers. Welcome to the world of the unemployed.”

“Cheers,” Mark said as the cans touched.

After another mile or so, he said, “I really didn’t want to work there anyway.”

“Attaboy,” said Todd. Zola kept glancing at him in the mirror.

“You would’ve been miserable,” Todd said. “They’re all a bunch of turds, real pricks who hate their work. Said so yourself.”

“I know, I know. But I would like to call Randall, my supervisor, just to hear him stutter and stammer.”

“I guarantee you he won’t take your call. Let’s bet on it.”

“That’s a bad bet.”

“Don’t do it,” Zola said. “Don’t waste the energy.”

“For some reason I’m low on energy these days,” Mark said. “My worthless little brother is about to go to prison, which is a bum deal for him, but I really hate it for my mother. Then Gordy loses it. Now we’re taking flak for his suicide. Zola’s family gets rounded up and tossed in a prison to wait on deportation. Now this. Now we’re supposed to somehow push it all aside and hustle back to law school for our last semester, which will be followed by two months in hell studying for the bar exam, so we can do something to make a little money and start repayment, which, actually, is far more impossible than it seems, and it seems awfully damned impossible at the moment. Yes, Zola dear, I’m tired. Aren’t you?”

“I’m beyond exhausted,” she said.

“That makes three of us,” Todd added.

They slowed and passed through the small town of Boyce. When it was behind them, Mark asked, “Are you guys really going to class on Monday? I’m not.”

“That’s either the second or the third time you’ve said that,” Zola said. “If you don’t go to class, then what are your plans?”

“I have no plans. My status will be day to day.”

“Okay, but what are you going to do when the law school starts calling?” Todd asked.

“I won’t take their calls.”

“Okay, so they’ll put you on inactive status and notify your loan sharks and they’ll be out for blood.”

“What if they can’t find me? What if I change phone numbers and move to another apartment? It would be easy to get lost in a city of two million people.”

“I’m listening,” Todd said. “So, you start hiding. What about work and income and those little challenges?”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Mark said and took a long swig. “Maybe I’ll get a job tending bar, for cash, of course. Maybe wait tables. Or maybe I’ll become a DUI specialist like that sleazeball we met last Friday at the city jail. What was his name?”

“Darrell Cromley,” Zola said.

“I’ll bet Darrell nets a hundred grand a year hustling DUIs. All cash.”

“But you don’t have a license,” Zola said.

“Did we ask Darrell to show us his license? Of course not. He said he was a lawyer. His business card said he was a lawyer, so we just assumed he had a license. He could’ve been a used-car salesman moonlighting at the jail.”

“What about going to court?” Zola asked.

“You ever been to city court? I have, and it’s a zoo. There are hundreds of Darrell Cromleys running around, hustling small-time criminals for fees, ducking in and out of courtrooms where the judges are bored and half-asleep. And the judges and clerks and everybody else in the courtrooms just assume, as we did, that the guys in the cheap suits scrambling around are really lawyers. Hell, there are a hundred thousand lawyers in this city and no one ever stops and asks, ‘Hey, are you really a lawyer? Show me your license.’ ”

“I think that beer’s gone straight to your brain,” Todd said.

Mark smiled at Zola in the mirror.