“Thanks to you, lawyer, I lost everythin’.”
He surveyed the fool. Not much had changed. Black oily hair down to the ears. Still thin as a sapling. Same long neck, like one of the pileated woodpeckers that built nests among the pines around Eagle Lake. In contrast, Brent was six-one, a fit 190 pounds, every muscle toned from a steady regimen at the gym. He liked working out. Sweating seemed to take the edge off, much like alcohol, tobacco, or drugs did for others. Thankfully those three vices had never really interested him.
“As I recall,” Brent said. “You didn’t have much to lose.”
“You almost cost me my job.”
“Bullshit.” And he pointed a finger. “Youalmost cost you your job.”
Ten years in Atlanta prosecuting criminals for the Fulton County District Attorney’s Office and he’d thought the middle Georgia in him gone. Nope. Not a bit. Still there. Ready for a fight. And though he hadn’t had a fisticuffs in years, he didn’t necessarily want to brawl right in the middle of Aunt B’s. Bad for his new image as an assistant general corporate counsel. A fancy title he was still trying to digest.
So he tried a diversion. “What happened to the wife?”
Silva smiled. Both front teeth were gone, and what remained looked like rotten corn kernels. “Married her again, six months after the divorce.”
Why wasn’t he surprised. The redneck code allowed a wide latitude for forgiveness, no matter the offense, provided a man’s pride had not been too soiled. Which seemed the case here.
“Got another young’un too, after.”
“How you must be proud.”
His sarcasm was clear, so he turned back and started down the serving line.
“Guess she just couldn’t go without it,” Silva said to him.
Another mantra of the code provided that no matter what the problem, sex was always the answer. Whether good or bad, real or not, didn’t matter. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t resist. “Killed any rabbits lately?”
He recalled during the divorce the wife’s testimony of how Silva liked to buy the children cute little Easter bunnies for them to play with. Then he’d fatten them up, twist their necks, and cook them for Memorial Day. Grillin’ Thumper, he called it. Needless to say the whole experience was traumatic on the kids and highly effective on the judge. Silva’s visitation rights had been severely restricted.
“How ’bout you and me goin’ outside?” Silva said. “I always wanted to twist your neck.”
He stopped, turned, and considered the challenge. Why not? He wouldn’t mind beating the crap out of this idiot. Might be a goodway to finish turning that page on his new life. Unfortunately, common sense cautioned otherwise.
“Since you got the wife and the kids back,” he said, “go get a life, Silva.”
“Got one. I’d just like to screw your face up. How about it, lawyer? You up to it?”
“I don’t think so,” a voice said from behind him.
Brent turned.
Hank Reed stood planted, all five foot nine inches of him, head jutted forward projecting that famous look of stern determination, like a face from Mount Rushmore, glaring at Clarence Silva.
“This ain’t got nothin’ to do with you, Hank,” Silva said. “Never liked this lawyer, and you know that.”
“I’m not here to argue. Get your food and move on,” Hank said.
He knew Silva wasn’t about to mount a challenge. Silva surely remained only an electrician’s helper at the mill, while Hank was the most senior of the senior day electricians and president of Silva’s trade union. Messing with that would bring nothing but a mountain of trouble. So Silva moved on, shuffling past, angling for a table. Good thing, because Brent was just about to head for the parking lot and crush the little bastard.
But he didn’t really want a bruised face tomorrow.
His first day on a new job.
New life.
No matter how much pleasure he would have derived.
6:05P.M.
