The Trust by Norb Vonnegut Page A

thing off. “Why can’t you connect me with your head office?”
    “Company policy.”
    It was time to scram. Biscuit headed to the cash register, where the clerk insisted that she test his vibrator for out-of-box failure. “It’ll take two seconds.”
    “Don’t worry about it,” Biscuit protested, aware of the line of women behind him.
    “We don’t accept returns.”
    “It’s okay.”
    “Suit yourself. Cash or credit?”
    “Cash.”
    Faith Ann will raise hell if she sees HIP on our Visa.
    “You just saved yourself some money,” the clerk said. “We discount all cash payments ten percent.”
    *   *   *
    “Are you making any progress?” Mrs. Jason Locklear was calling for an update, the third time that week. She was barking and snarling into the phone, demanding answers and teething the receiver. “We need to know.”
    “Working it.”
    Biscuit had just returned. His office was located on the second story of a nothing-special brick building in a strip mall. Ten minutes north was the tiki bar he owned with his brother-in-law. Ten minutes south was his favorite Denny’s, where another brother-in-law was the general manager. His other three brothers-in-law lived farther away. Biscuit sometimes told friends his childhood was like living on the set of The View. Five sisters—and every one of them outspoken.
    “‘Working it,’” echoed Locklear, not at all pleased. “That’s what you have to say?”
    “The county inspectors are no help,” reported Biscuit. “HIP complies with zoning.”
    Locklear said nothing for a while, her silence reverberating with frustration. “I called you to get results. I made representations to the residents of Liberty Point. My neighbors trust me, Biscuit. And I have a responsibility to them. We’re paying you good money, and now I’m wondering whether we need to rethink our decision.”
    “Mrs. Locklear,” he said. “You called Saturday afternoon, and I told you this case would be tough. I’ve spent all week looking for the low-hanging fruit. Well, guess what?”
    “What?”
    “There isn’t any.”
    “You’re the lawyer. Figure something out.”
    “I need time to do my job.”
    “While our homes lose value,” she growled. “While every trucker heathen makes pit stops just around the bend from here. Time is one thing we don’t have.”
    “I didn’t see any trucks this morning.”
    “You weren’t shopping at HIP, were you?”
    Biscuit looked at the orange shopping bag on his desk. It read HIGHLY INTIMATE PLEASURES in big, bold black letters. He buried the bag in a desk drawer and replied, “Just research. Like I said on Sunday, I’m all over it.”
    “Call me Monday,” she ordered. “We need weekly updates.”
    “You got it.” Now was no time to remind Mrs. Jason Locklear that phone calls increased legal fees. The two hung up.
    In that moment Biscuit wanted to be the client. To be the guy saying what he wanted, when he needed it, and why the world should drop everything and deliver. Tensions were running high at Liberty Point Plantations. Locklear had grown so unreasonable. And the press would be no help this time. For one, Torres had warned him not to use them. For another, it would be difficult to harness public opinion when a priest had been killed.
    Stop making excuses, he reminded himself.

 
    CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    LEGARE STREET
    Catching up grows old when the venues are a wake and a funeral. Palmer’s final request, that I join his board, was both humbling and flattering. His last wishes filled me with a deep sense of responsibility. They saddened me too, the unmistakable signal that one of my most important friendships had come to an abrupt, unforeseen end. I was talked out after two days in Charleston, drained from the confusing mix of old friends and conflicting emotions. That said, my plate was still full of unresolved issues—things not done and words not spoken.
    What am I doing in Claire Kincaid’s garden?
    Let me bring you up to