THE CLIENT

The city shut its eyes and died. The clouds snaked over the skies, hiding the moon.

The rain pelted the Chicago skyscrapers. Fog devoured the G&M law firm until it vanished. Metallic fishiness tainted the air, a smell so putrid that, in comparison, the sewage pipes shook hands with spring flowers.

"Hurry." The man left the sunroof of his office balcony overlooking the city grid. He entered the warmth of his half-lit office,  and found the only hint of light: a little lamp  illuminating a woman whose fingers danced across her laptop. The man caught her enormous eyes. "Where's Golem?" he asked.

The woman raked her nails across her tired eyes. "He's on his way. Him and the new client."

The man frowned before turning to study himself in the floor-to-ceiling windows that wrapped around the office.

He groaned. "Please, tell me he took the Maserati."

* * *

The motorcycle spit across the street. The helmeted man who sat behind the driver clung to him for dear life.

Thunder roared from above, and lightning flashed the streets. The rain layered the street under a thick film of oily runoff that splashed up from the tires, drenching only the man in the back. The water chilled with the harsh oncoming wind.

The driver, helmetless, roared at the top of his lungs. His face lifted to the storm with a maniacal smile.

* * *

"I believe Mr. Golem took his client on the motorcycle." She lifted her eyes off the laptop to shed a smile on the man's reaction: He cursed and bursted out through the transparent doors, back to the balcony again, but this time he whipped an umbrella from his pocket, erecting it over himself by the click of a button, and peered over the edge.

Damn animal.

A sharp revving sound echoed through the fogged street below and through the orange streetlights where a flicker sped to the base of the building and stopped. Golem, his client, and the motorcycle broke into three parts: two of the parts leaving the third behind before they entered the building.

You idiot.

* * *

He rolled his eyes at the elevator and watched the light slug from left to right across the floor numbers as it approached floor sixty-nine. His floor. The top floor. The most important floor. The Golem and McCoy partner floor.

His secretary stepped beside him, bag in hand, ready to leave for the day—well actually it was two in the morning, but McCoy restricted his sleep schedule to five hours a day on weekdays and nine hours a day on weekends, so he needed her there too, to push his papers. Her perfume exhausted him by the time the elevator bell chimed.

The doors split open.

"McCoy. Hello." The man who wasn't wearing a helmet on the motorcycle, now stood before him with fully combed, dry hair, a dry face, clean suit, and shining shoes. "Why the long face?"

If Golem expected McCoy to believe he hadn't just been on a motorcycle again, in the rain, with a client propped precariously behind him through the streets of Chicago at seventy miles per hour at two in the morning, then he was a fool.

McCoy needed only one look at his client standing beside him to doubt Golem's false bravado: the only normal attributes about the client belonged to the bags under his reddened eyes, deep frown, and damaged posture. Other than those key signs of depression and worry, his entire image was skewed by the way his hair coiled to the ceiling like a tornado, while his suit wrinkled and shriveled, no doubt by the rain. It had soaked him so much that, by the time Golem had blow-dried him for the four minutes they took to come up to the sixty-ninth floor of the building, his shirt and jacket and tie had crinkled without any time for a quick ironing in the elevator.

His wet shoes, along with the puddle they stood on, were the biggest giveaways.

The client blushed and looked to Golem, who spotted McCoy's blank stare before he nodded to his client and took him by the shoulder to the lounge. McCoy followed and watched while Golem tore open an expensive walk-in closet where tailored suits lined the walls.

"Got your size right here." Golem handed the client a plastic wrapped suit and a new pair of shined shoes. "Just for the occasion." He turned to McCoy, whose face had fallen, and faked a grin. "Great weather we're having."

McCoy exited the room.

He stepped through the dark hall before reaching his own room, where his secretary's little lamp still glowed. He stared at himself and the dim city grid once again, except this time, he lifted his wrist and studied it in the reflection. A gold watch wrapped around his wrist—time  stood still on it. He never wore it to tell time. He just left it at 10:10, the time he had bought it.

Golem stepped into the reflection, where his head hovered over the half-lit world beside McCoy's sullen horse face. "The client's waiting, Travis." Golem stood beside him and dangled his head. In a lower voice, he added, "You're not mad at me are you?"

McCoy shook his head and took a breath before turning to his partner. "Show me the client so I can go home."

Golem accompanied him into the darkness of the hall and toward the little lamp in Golem's office.

"Mr. McCoy, this is Will Johnson, an Advanced Placement English teacher at Heart High School from Southern California and our newest client. Will, this is Travis McCoy, my fellow partner here at G&M. He's not half as good a lawyer as me, but he's getting there."

McCoy and the client traded laughs and shook hands.

"You flew all the way out to Chicago just to see us?" asked McCoy. He raised his eyebrows to show at least some interest in this tornado-haired fool. "That's quite a compliment. It's nice to be reminded that we're the best."

"Because sometimes the sweeping salary just doesn't cut it," Golem jeered, and the two partners sniggered with narrow eyes at each other.

The English teacher lowered his head. "I need the best. No one believes me."

McCoy wanted to roll his eyes at the weak man but decided to bite his tongue until it bled, pretending it was the man's foot.

"Go on, Will." Golem nodded. "Tell Mr. McCoy the sticky situation you're in."

The English teacher hesitated. He peered at McCoy, looked down at his hands, and then looked out the window.

The wait made McCoy anxious. God he wanted coffee. Won't the angels above him spare him this torture? Why won't his side of the table just fall through the floor already?

"They've accused me. They think I killed one of my students."

McCoy raised his eyebrows at the man. They accused him? This guy couldn't even knock over a cardboard box by the looks of him. Scrawny, sickly, fatigued. The only strength about him was his youth, probably around McCoy's age, which meant Golem was ten years older than both of them.

"Why would they think that?" McCoy asked.

The client lifted his hand to his forehead. "I'm not sure."

"Was the student's body found in your classroom?" McCoy winced. This guy didn't stand a chance if they found his student dead in his classroom.

Golem shook his head. "The student's a girl."

That's even worse. A girl student dead in his classroom, likely under his desk or in a backroom, both scenarios not even he could believe to be accidents. Definitely a murder. Probably by this teacher, or another student, or another faculty member. But hold on, he was making assumptions. He should listen to the guy's story first.

The client shook his head. His throat croaked. "She wasn't even found in my room. She'd fallen down her stairs at home. Cracked her skull in the back. She got a pontine hemorrhage or something. God--it's terrible. She was naked too, they said." He crinkled his eyes and pouted in confusion. "They don't know why but her bed sheets were in the shower tub, all wet and dotted under blood. The floor was covered in school worksheets--the entire floor. Apparently, she'd been doing college applications, too. There were paper cuts on her feet."

McCoy burrowed his eyebrows. He looked to Golem and scratched his head. "Well, that's good." Golem and Will shot wide eyes at McCoy, making him blush. "I mean, at least she wasn't found in your classroom."

That's a plus, right?

           The client nodded to him, but then closed his eyes in sorrow. He watched his hands, said nothing.

McCoy frowned while he shuffled in his chair. "If she died at the foot of her stairs," McCoy grinned, "then how are you tied into this? Why are they accusing you?"

"Because," the client swallowed, "I was the last person to see her. She'd been studying in my room until 8:30 p.m. that night. Apparently, her parents never saw her come home because she usually climbs up a tree into her window. So when they heard loud thuds at four in the morning, they jumped out of bed to find their daughter naked--bloodied at the skull--crumpled like a ragdoll at the foot of her stairs." He took a pause and wiped his cheeks "They have no reason to believe she'd done it to herself."

McCoy scrutinized the client. Eight-thirty p.m.? Isn't that a little late to have your underage student alone in your room? What did her parents think? Did they know her teacher was a man? Did they know where she was at all?

"Was she the only student in your room every night?" McCoy leaned forward. There better be other suspects or you're close to screwed, pal.

The client shook his head and dropped his face into his hands.

Damn it. I'll need to pull so many strings to get this guy off easily. How did Golem find our client in the first place? On second thought, who cares? There's definite hope for this criminal--we've never lost a case, not yet--and every case has always seemed hopeless, every client always blaringly guilty. But we win. We always do.

McCoy looked to Golem. "Have you assorted a case file?" He held out his hand in which Golem slapped a manila envelope. He opened the envelope and discovered the picture of a beautiful teenage girl.

Her skin, angelically young. Defined cheekbones suggested the recent loss of baby fat. The lipstick and subtle makeup revealed a maturity that symbolized an ability to apply the least amount of cosmetics to enhance her beauty, thus successfully avoiding to over paint, and therefore achieving to differentiate herself from murderous clowns and plastic play dolls.

"Is this her?" McCoy flashed his eyes up at Will.

Will nodded.

McCoy dropped his eyes back down at her and sighed. She was, sincerely, beautiful. Bright eyes, soft cheeks, full lips, and pearly teeth. Her hair, Vogue Magazine worthy, must've cost a fortune. What a pity. She could've made any man happy. And with that face, could have become president—might have even ruled the world.

He sighed. "What's her name?"

Will croaked. His face shined red through his fingers as if someone was strangling him. "Freedman. Alison Freedman." He hunched and shriveled in misery. "Alison." His voice cut deep in his throat, swallowing the knot in it.

Freedman. McCoy blinked. Freedman? He shook his head. No, it couldn't be her.

McCoy held his breath and stared at the Alison girl. He studied her eyes, her cheekbones, her jaw, her nose, her lips--they were all suddenly familiar.

It couldn't be...

Coincidence--the name Alison Freedman, the facial features-- all coincidence. McCoy flashed his eyes at Will. "Where do you live, Mr. Johnson?" He held his breath while he waited for the answer. The gold watch around his wrist began to burn, a sizzling strangle around his skin.

"Valencia." Will lifted his eyes. His face less red as he began to calm down. "I work at Heart High School where Ali attended."

McCoy leaned back. His eyes widened. When he slugged to his feet, Golem touched McCoy's shoulder and watched him in confusion.

"Where are you going?" Golem scrunched his face before he gestured McCoy to return back to his seat.

McCoy felt his chest fluctuate as he turned to the door. "Excuse me." He escaped into the shadowy hall and rushed to the lamp on the other side. When he reached his room, he shut the door behind him.

He cursed and covered his mouth.

FREEDMAN? FREEDMAN?

Impossible. This was a prank. But Golem wouldn't pull that. Would he? Was this Will client an actor? To humiliate him? To summon a long lost hatred, fiery black ache in him which only time had been capable of burying?

The gold Rolex watch scorched his wrist. It was the least expensive piece of jewelry he owned, certainly the least expensive watch for sure. Regardless, he wore it every day, ever since that day, ever since--

He saw himself in the mirror but looked away. What had he become? A suit. A cold, robotic money-chaser who lost his heart when his walls went up since the day Liz had--

He ran around his desk, then ripped open a drawer. He dumped his arm through and fumbled his fingers in the cold back until he felt the soft, satin, velvet, bite-sized box. He examined it in his palm and felt his entire body fume under the breathtaking sensation of something cutting into his organs from the inside, as if microscopic knives were passing dangerously though every artery, capillary, and vein in his trembling body.

Tiffany's scribbled in gold letters across the box. He opened it, before he saw the empty crevice inside it-- the crevice without a diamond ring.

His eyes misted, his lips descended, his frown broke into a glare. He stowed the ring box in his pocket and spread his fingers over the multi-karat gold decorations that wrapped like carved ice, freezing every hair which folded under it.

He ripped the door open and marched out of the room, into the shadowy hall and back into Golem's room.

"Mr. Johnson." McCoy nodded to him and then to Golem. He sat down and immediately closed the manila envelope. "I'm sorry--"

He returned the envelope to Will Johnson. Will's face turned white.

"What do you mean?" Will let the envelope fall on the table instead of holding on to it. "Sorry for what? What's wrong with this case? You don't think I could win or something? I could pay you well, make it worth your while--"

McCoy shook his head. "No, it's not your chances of winning or losing that's the problem."

Golem shot McCoy a glare. "Then what is the problem?" Golem grabbed the manila envelope before sliding it to him again. "There is no problem, now take the case. Mr. Johnson's money is as good as any. His case is intriguing. We can win--now take the case--"

McCoy waved a hand. He shot Golem a glare for a second, only a second. Golem shut his mouth. "I'm your partner. Let me speak." He turned to Will. "I'm not taking your case. I know this girl."

Will's eyes widened. The hairs stood off the back of his neck.

"I know the Freedman family. I know her parents, I knew her sister, knew her brother, and I know her. They're old friends of mine." McCoy pointed. "And I know you. You're a pedophile. A liar. A snake. That's what all our clients are, and you're not fooling anyone--"

Tears rivered down Will's face.

"No, please believe me! I didn't hurt her. I would never hurt anyone--"

McCoy jumped to his feet and towered over the desk, shooting his finger between Will's eyes. "Get out of this building!"

"I swear. I've done nothing wrong. I would never assault a--"

"You're a lonely snake."

"No. I have a wife." The client fumbled in his pockets. He retrieved a wallet and pulled out a photo. "Look. I love her. More than anything. I would never seek another person. She's enough for me. She's more than enough."

When he lifted the photo, McCoy froze. The woman on the photo was more familiar to him than the victim's. His eyes misted. Gravity intensified on his legs like chains and pulled him down to his seat again. Heat radiated from his chest.

He retrieved the photo and pulled it close. The light's reflection on its crinkles added a third dimension to the woman. An image flashed though McCoy's mind: the woman spinning in a red dress, singing in an empty concert hall, swinging close to him,the silk of her dress slipping through his fingers, him failing to hold on. Her perfume smelled of May blossom and fruity undertones (even pineapple!) Her hair shined lavishly in the light. She leapt onto him, her soft breasts pressing against his chest, her lips melting onto his--strawberry chap stick--she hummed—hummed the sweetest requiem--

His body immobilized. The photo was so unreal to him, it started to fade to white. His eyes couldn't believe it, so they looked to McCoy. "This is starting to no longer feel like coincidence. Why did you come here?"

Golem pulled his shoulder. "I found him. I discovered the case from a friend in Los Angeles. So I called Will and persuaded him to fly out here--"

A knot tied in McCoy's throat. "What's her name?" He gritted his teeth at Will.

Will shuffled. "Why do you need to know?"

"Tell me her goddamn name--"

"Travis!" Golem fumed. "What the Hell is going on with you--?"

McCoy slapped the photo in Golem's face. All of a sudden, Golem turned white. His jaw dropped before he too stared at the client, one eyebrow lifted.

Will fidgeted like they were studying his inner skeleton, examining him sit in the nude. "What happened just now? What does my wife got to do with anything?"

Wife? WIFE?

McCoy's lungs failed him. He knocked the envelope off the table before all its contents confettied across the room. "I'm going to sue you for all you've got."

Will jumped to his feet. He recoiled to the door, shook his head wildly, frantically, crumpling into a hunch, cowering into the shadows of the next hallway.

"Get out!" McCoy shouted.

The client disappeared into a silhouette whose footsteps decrescendoed into silence before the elevator rang and dived down to the Earth.

"Mick--" Golem jumped to his feet. "It's a coincidence. I swear. I had no idea. I don't even know how he happened to be Liz's--"

McCoy sped off into the hall. The moonlight peeped through the windows while the rain plummeted like hail.

Golem ran after him. "MCCOY, PLEASE. DON'T GET INTO THIS CASE. LET SOMEONE ELSE HANDLE IT. DON'T GET INVOLVED WITH--"

McCoy spun, and his entire body prickled like cracked ice. "He's dead. He'll burn in Hell. I'll escort him. I'll even join the sonuvabitch as long as he feels the eternal pain I've endured—" McCoy's throat constricted.

Golem shivered in the cold blackness. Sweat reeked off his armpits. "McCoy, I'm so sorry I brought him here."

McCoy nodded. His shadowed figure shook with adrenaline across the moonlit wall, which the shadowy raindrops decorated like running spiders. "I'm gonna find her. I'm gonna find her through him. And after that. . ." His voice trailed away.

"After that, then what?"

Warm tears slithered out McCoy's eye sockets. "I'll break her."