Lawyers in Hell (15 page)

Marie reached across the table and patted Wellington’s hand.  “Satan.  In league with his non-Christian equivalents.  Devising tortures for the damned.  You know that.”

“I suppose I do.  Rather stupid question, I must admit.”

“Not to change the subject,” Marie said, “has anyone seen our HOA president lately?”

“Damned lawyer,” Wellington sniffed.  “That rule book of his is a veritable nightmare!”

“It
is
a tangle of legalese,” Napoleon agreed, “I’ll grant you that.  But once you pick up on the rhythm of the thing, including all the new additions, you can get some sense as to where it’s going.”

“Well, you must come by it honestly. 
Your
father was a lawyer.”

“True.  But what was legally written down in his time didn’t change from day to day.”

Wellington snorted and finished his meal.

“Coffee?” Marie asked.

“No thank you, my lady.  I’m going home and attempt to get some rest.”

“Good idea,” Napoleon said, taking his cup from Marie.  “But I don’t want to wake up in the middle of the night to find you squatting in your yard, armed with a flashlight, watching your grass grow.”

*

Napoleon locked the front door and joined Marie who waited by his car in the driveway, frowning at the new crop of dandelions and crabgrass that had sprung up over night.  So far, it hadn’t reached the stage where a fine would be incurred but, after their trip to the store, they would be back to pulling weeds.  Chemicals didn’t slow their growth that all.  In fact, the invasive things likely thrived on poison.

“Where’s Wellington?  He knew we’re going to the Unsafeway, though I can’t figure out why he wants to come along.  He’s always sponging off us and probably has a grocery bill a tenth the size of ours.”

“He’ll be here.”  She looked across the front yard at the house to the right of Napoleon’s.  “Have you talked to our new neighbor yet?”

“No.  He came in the middle of the night a few weeks ago.  I’ve only caught glimpses of him in his backyard.”

“Rather unfriendly, isn’t he?”

Napoleon shrugged.  “Getting the lay of the land is my guess.  Who knows where he came from, what period in history, what crimes he committed to land him here in New Hell.  We’ll find out eventually.”

“Here comes Wellington,” Marie said.  Her expression changed.  “And what is he up to now?”

Wellington rounded the hedge and headed up the driveway.  Today, instead of his red British general’s coat, his snow-white breeches, and his spotless black boots, he came clad in a neat pair of slacks and an open collared shirt.

“Damn, Wellington.”  Napoleon couldn’t help but smile.  “I didn’t know you owned civilian clothes.”

“Oh, these.”  Wellington glanced down at his outfit.  “I decided to go casual today.  After all, we’re only going to the mall.”

“That’s never slowed you down in the past.  As I recollect, you were examining your grass yesterday all decked out in uniform.  No, no.  I’m not making fun of you.  After all this time, I never thought I’d see you without your customary spit and polish.  Now, come on.  We’re running late as it is.”

*

The drive to where the Unsafeway lay at the far end of the strip mall proved a series of delays.  The mobile potholes had moved since the last time Napoleon had driven this way, potholes large enough to swallow a fair-sized child.  Napoleon was sure, if he looked close enough, he might find one of Attila’s brats at the bottom of one.  The HDOT had timed the stop lights, making the wait for them to turn green seem to last at least forever.  Finally, after avoiding a driverless car left parked in the middle of the street, Napoleon pulled into the parking lot.

“Oh, bother.  We’ll have to hike again,” Wellington complained.  “Never a parking place near the front door.”

Napoleon managed to find a spot relatively close to the Unsafeway.  As he and Marie exited the car, Wellington headed off in another direction.

“Where are you going?  I thought you wanted to grocery shop.  Oh, I forgot.  You don’t need to buy food.  You eat all of ours.”

Wellington pulled a face.  “I’m going to nose around.  There might be something new in one of the stores.”

And with that, he sauntered off in the direction of several shops that lined the mall.  Napoleon watched him go.

“What now?”

“Oh, don’t question,” Marie said, taking his arm and steering him toward the Unsafeway.  “At least we won’t have to put up with his running review concerning the food, its quality, or the lack of it.”

As grocery shopping went, this trip turned out to be less of a nuisance than usual, grounds for well-founded paranoia.  Everything but two items on Marie’s shopping list was available, the aisles were merely crowded rather than packed tight, and the checkout clerk less surly than normal.  Leaving the store, pushing the cart that had only one wheel that wouldn’t turn, Napoleon and Marie headed to his car.

Wellington was waiting for them, looking vastly pleased with himself.

“Where have you been?” Napoleon asked, helping Marie deposit the grocery bags in the car trunk.

“Oh, I nipped into the hellphone store.”  Wellington extended a new, shiny hellphone.  Red for Britain, of course.  “I thought it might come in handy since I’m not having any luck in getting through to the other side of the Park.  My landline is always so full of static it’s difficult to hear.  Times being what they are, I really need to know how Queen Victoria is bearing up.”

Napoleon briefly closed his eyes.  “My Ma-hell landline seems to be operating as well as anything does hereabouts.  It
is
New Hell’s telecommunications monopoly after all.  Do you realize what you’re getting into?  If our objective is to stay quiet and nearly invisible on our side of the Park, did it ever occur to you what activating a hellphone might entail?  The downside to operating one?”

“Well, I’ve heard the hell towers can move around a bit.”

“A
bit?
  They jump from place to place, all without notice, and usually end up somewhere extremely annoying, leaving you in a dreaded dead zone if you’re making a call.  On top of that, the possessor of a hellphone can be tracked at all times, even when the phone isn’t being used.”

Wellington’s expression was hard to read. “I think I’ve got that covered.  If I run into trouble, I’ll toss the bloody thing in the trash.”

“You just bought it!” Napoleon growled.  “You’re on record for having it, and you’re obligated for an entire two-year contract, unless you want to pay a stiff cancellation fee.”

Wellington lifted one shoulder in a shrug.  “I might have a solution to that.  Do you honestly think anyone would recognize me, dressed as I am?  I’m not even wearing a hat.”

Napoleon glanced at Marie, who was shaking her head.

“Probably not,” she said.  “You do look, well, rather ordinary.”

“All right, Wellington,” Napoleon said, echoing Marie’s earlier comment.  “What are you up to now?”

“There are times,” the Iron Duke said, assuming his best put-upon expression, “when I have the notion you don’t think I have a brain.  I wanted a hellphone and, by Jove, I’ve got one!”

“Let’s assume you have a plan.  What happens when the bill arrives?”

“I won’t see it.  I only want the phone for a month or so, and then I’ll chuck it.  Queen Victoria must be advised that I stand ready to assist her in any way I can.”

“I know you and Victoria are close,” Napoleon pointed out, “but do you really want to put yourself in potential danger simply to let her know you’re thinking of her?”

“And consider this,” Marie said.  “I’ve heard the hellphone collection department is very thorough.  They’ll track you down if you let your payment slide.”

“I’ve solved that,” Wellington said, a smug expression flitting across his face.

“Oh?”  Napoleon cocked his head.  “Come on, Wellington.  You can share.  What have you done now?  I smell something dishonest.”

Wellington blushed slightly.  “I gave them the wrong information as to who I am.”  He reached in his pocket, pulled out his wallet and fished out a New Hell I.D. card.  “Here.  Take a look.”

Napoleon took the proffered I.D. card.  Wellington’s slightly altered photo was on it (a bit out of focus, as usual), but the name was different, as was other information pertinent to the possessor of the card.

“Vincent Saint-James?  A solid British name, I’ll grant you that.  Where did you get this?”

“My cigar supplier, for a small fee, but he gets his hands on only the best.”

“Congratulations, Wellington.  You’ve really slipped into the seamier side of New Hell, haven’t you?  First the black market for cigars, and now counterfeit I.D. cards.”

“One has to be inventive at times to maintain one’s position.”

Napoleon returned the card.  “You never cease to amaze me.  By hook or by crook, you get what you want, don’t you?”

“Sometimes.  At other times, I fail.  After all, I
did
end up living next door to you.”

“Touché!”

“Let’s go home,” Marie suggested, “before the frozen food defrosts.”

“Now I know why you broke out your civilian clothes,” Napoleon said, sliding in behind the wheel.  “The Iron Duke, hero of Britain, would never be caught in public dressed as someone he wasn’t.  Get in, Wellington.  And, for our sakes, try to keep out of trouble.  We’ve got entirely too much as it is.”

*

Several evenings later, after numerous mowings of Wellington’s yard, never-ending weedings of Napoleon’s driveway, and the rise in petty vandalism in the neighborhood which needed to be taken care of before the Home Owner’s Association levied yet more fines, the time had come to partake of the one dinner at Hellview Golf and Country Club all members were required to purchase every month.

Wellington came clad in his usual British red uniform, resplendent in gold braid, spotless white breeches and boots so polished he could have probably seen his reflection in them.  Marie had donned a simple light blue pantsuit, while Napoleon had changed into a neat pair of jeans, a newer denim shirt and thoroughly broken-in boots.  As they climbed out of Wellington’s Sedan de Ville, the last person they expected to see was Attila.

The king of the Huns stood at the edge of the polo grounds, his mount at his side.

“Hey, Napoleon!  Wellington!  Marie!”  His voice carried across the short distance from the field to the parking lot.  “Come see my new horse!”

“Oh, drat,” Wellington muttered.  “Knowing Huns and horses, this could go on forever.”

“Humor him,” Napoleon advised.  “We’ll get inside quicker if we do.”

“Don’t get too close.”  Attila tightened his grip on the reins.  “He’s a wonder on the polo field, but he’ll take your hand off if you let him.”

The beast that stood by Attila seemed, at first glance, to be an ordinary polo pony.  Then, with a strange flicker of half-discernable light, its appearance changed.  What stood by Attila now was a perversion of horseflesh:  scaled, red eyes, snaky mane and tail, plus the very real threat of impending bodily harm to anyone who ventured too near.  The illusion changed again and, to all outward observation, the “horse” looked much like a normal Hun mount.

“Where did you get this one?” Napoleon asked.  “It doesn’t look any friendlier than the last horse you bought.”

“Oh, well. 
This
one’s a murderous fiend on the polo field.  I’m fine, as long as I keep my hands and feet away from his teeth.”

“Which,” Wellington observed, “appear to be fangs rather than teeth.”

“That’s why I keep the chain attached to the industrial strength martingale.  Keeps him from tossing and turning his head.”

“Does he breathe fire, too?” Marie asked.

“No.  Only farts it.”  Attila laughed at his own comment.  “You here for the monthly dinner?”

“Yes, and we’re going to be late for our reservation,” Napoleon said.  “I suppose you should be very proud of your new mount.  I’ll wager the other Huns and Mongols don’t have anything quite so ‘murderous.’”

“Damn right!  Well, go on.  I’ll be seeing you soon.”  He turned, then grinned widely.  “We won the game today.  Beat the crap out of those Mongols!  See you around!”

The Club was moderately crowded this evening.  As Napoleon, Marie and Wellington stepped up to the hostess to be seated, Napoleon gave the bar a cursory glance.  The usual assortment of people sat at their places at various tables, but he only saw a small group of Romans and didn’t recognize a one.  Something was definitely amiss on the other side of the Park.  A quick call to Caesar might clear things up but, the way things were going, perhaps not.

Seated at their customary table, they ordered and sat back to wait for dinner.

“Incoming.”  Marie nodded at someone crossing the room toward them.

Napoleon and Wellington turned to watch the man approach their table.  He was a person who would disappear in a moderately large crowd.  Nothing about him was particularly memorable, except the arrogant way he carried himself.

“Oh, damn!  It’s the president of the HOA,” Wellington said in a hushed voice.  “What can
he
possibly want?”

“I suppose we’ll find out.”  Napoleon gestured to the empty chair at their table.  “And how are you this evening, Martin?” he asked in his best conversational tone.

“I’ve been better,” the HOA president said, “and I need to talk to you.”

“Me in particular, or Wellington and me?”

“You.  It’s about your new neighbor.”

“What about him?  All I know is that he moved in several weeks ago.  Nobody ever sees him unless he’s behind his house.”

“Well, his yard is the main problem.”  Martin Chase Standish, Esquire, lawyer to the tips of his toes, shook his head in what could only be a combination of bewilderment and frustration.  “I’ve sent him innumerable letters requesting a cleanup of that yard of his.  And he’s ignored every one.”

“The ruddy nerve,” Wellington commiserated.

“You’ve fined him?” Marie asked.

“Several times.”

“Has he paid?”

“Late, of course.  He’s why I need to talk to you, Napoleon.  Have you ever spoken to him?”