THE WOMAN IS ACTUALLY IN MY APART-ment, standing in the den holding one of my magazines when I open the door. She jumps through her skin and drops the magazine when she sees me. Her mouth flies open. "Who are you!?" she almost screams.

She doesn't appear to be a criminal. "I live here. Who the hell are you?"

"Oh my gosh," she says, panting with great exaggeration and clutching her heart.

"What're you doing here?" I ask again, really angry.

'Tm Delbert's wife."

"Who the hell is Delbert? And how'd you get in here?"

"Who are you?"

"I'm Rudy. I live here. This is a private residence."

With that, she rolls her eyes quickly around the room, as if to say, "Yeah, some place."

"Birdie gave me the key, said I could look around."

"She did not!"

"Did too!" She pulls a key out of her tight shorts and waves it at me. I close my eyes and think of strangling

Miss Birdie. "Name's Vera, from Florida. Just visiting Birdie for a few days."

Now I remember. Delbert is Miss Birdie's youngest son, the one she hasn't seen in three years, never calls, never writes. I can't remember if Vera here is the one Miss Birdie refers to as a tramp, but it would certainly fit. She's around fifty, with the bronze leathered skin of a serious Florida sun worshiper. Orange lips that glow in the center of a narrow copper face. Withered arms. Tight shorts over badly wrinkled but gloriously tanned, spindly legs. Hideous yellow sandals.

"You have no right to be here," I say, trying to relax.

"Get a grip." She walks past me, and I get a nose full of a cheap perfume that's scented with coconut oil. "Birdie wants to see you," she says as she leaves my apartment. I listen as she flops down the stairs in her sandals.

Miss Birdie is sitting on the sofa, arms crossed, staring at another idiotic sitcom, ignoring the rest of the world. Vera is rummaging through the refrigerator. At the kitchen table is another brown creature, a large man with permed hair, badly dyed, and gray, Elvis lamb chop sideburns. Gold-rimmed glasses. Gold bracelets on both wrists. A regular pimp.

"You must be the lawyer," he says as I close the door behind me. Before him on the table are some papers he's been examining.

"I'm Rudy Baylor," I say, standing at the other end of the table.

"I'm Delbert Birdsong. Birdie's youngest." He's in his late fifties and trying desperately to look forty.

"Nice to meet you."

"Yeah, a real pleasure." He waves at a chair. "Have a seat."

"Why?" I ask. These people have been here for hours. The kitchen and adjacent den are heavy with conflict. I

can see the back of Miss Birdie's head. I can't tell if she's listening to us, or to the television. The volume is low.

"Just trying to be nice," Delbert says, as if he owns the place.

Vera can't find anything in the fridge, so she decides to join us. "He yelled at me," she whimpers to Delbert. "Told me to get out of his apartment. Really rude like."

"That so?" Delbert asks.

"Hell yes it's so. I live there, and I'm telling you two to stay out. It's a private residence."

He jerks his shoulders backward. This is a man who's had his share of barroom fights. "It's owned by my mother," he says.

"And she happens to be my landlord. I pay rent each month."

"How much?"

"That's really none of your business, sir. Your name is not on the deed to this house."

"I'd say it's worth four, maybe five hundred dollars a month."

"Good. Any other opinions?"

"Yeah, you're a real smartass."

"Fine. Anything else? Your wife said Miss Birdie wanted to see me." I say this loud enough for Miss Birdie to hear, but she doesn't move an inch.

Vera takes a seat and scoots it close to Delbert. They eye each other knowingly. He picks at the corner of a piece of paper. He adjusts his glasses, looks up at me and says, "You been messin' with Momma's will?"

"That's between me and Miss Birdie." I look on the table, and barely see the top of a document. I recognize it as her will, the most current, I think, the one prepared by her last lawyer. This is terribly disturbing because Miss Birdie has .always maintained that neither son, Delbert nor Randolph, knows about her money. But the will

plainly seeks to dispose of something around twenty million dollars. Delbert knows it now. He's been reading the will for the past few hours. Paragraph number three, as I recall, gives him two million.

Even more disturbing is the issue of how Delbert got his hands on the document. Miss Birdie would never voluntarily give it to him.

"A real smartass," he says. "You wonder why people hate lawyers. I come home to check on Momma, and, damned, she's got a stinking lawyer living with her. Wouldn't that worry you?"

Probably. "I live in the apartment," I say. "A private residence with a locked door. You go in again, I'll call the police."

It hits me that I keep a copy of Miss Birdie's will in a file under my bed. Surely they didn't find it there. I suddenly feel ill with the thought that I, not Miss Birdie, breached such a private matter.

No wonder she's ignoring me.

I have no idea what she put in her previous wills, so there's no way to know whether Delbert and Vera are thrilled to know they might be millionaires, or whether they're angry because they're not getting more. And there's no way in the world I can tell them the truth. I really don't want to, to be honest.

Delbert snorts at my threat to call the cops. "I'll ask you again," he says, a bad imitation of Brando in The Godfather. "Have you prepared a new will for my mother?"

"She's your mother. Why don't you ask her?"

"She won't say a word," Vera chimes in.

"Good. Then neither will I. It's strictly confidential."

Delbert does not fully comprehend this, and he's not bright enough to attack from different angles. For all he knows, he might be violating the law.

"I hope you're not meddling, boy," he says as fiercely as possible.

I'm ready to leave. "Miss Birdie!" I call out. She does not move for a second, then slowly raises the remote control and increases the volume.

Fine with me. I point at Delbert and Vera. "If you get near my apartment again, I'll call the police. You understand?"

Delbert forces a laugh first, and Vera quickly giggles too. I slam the door.

I can't tell if the files under my bed have been tampered with. Miss Birdie's will is here, just the way I left it, I think. It's been several weeks since I last looked at it. Everything appears in order.

I lock the door, and wedge a chair under the doorknob.

I'M IN THE HABIT of getting to the office early, around seven-thirty, not because I'm overworked and not because my days are filled with court appearances and office appointments, but because I enjoy a quiet cup of coffee and the solitude. I spend at least an hour each day organizing and working on the Black case. Deck and I try to avoid each other around the office, but at times it's difficult. The phone is slowly beginning to ring more.

I like the stillness of this place before the day starts.

On Monday, Deck arrives late, almost ten. We chat for a few minutes. He wants to have an early lunch, says it's important.

We leave at eleven and walk two blocks to a vegetarian food co-op with a small diner in the rear. We order meatless pizza and orange tea. Deck is very nervous, his face twitching more than usual, his head jerking at the slightest sound.

"Gotta tell you something," he says, barely above a

whisper. We're in a booth. There are no customers at the other six tables.

"We're safe, Deck," I say, trying to assure him. "What is it?"

"I left town Saturday, just after the deposition. Flew to Dallas, then to Las Vegas, checked into the Pacific Hotel."

Oh, great. He's been on a binge, gambling and drinking again. He's broke.

"Got up yesterday morning, talked to Bruiser on the phone, and he told me to leave. Said the feds had followed me from Memphis, and that I should leave. Said someone had been watching me all the way, and that it was time to get back to Memphis. Said to tell you the feds are watching every move because you're the only lawyer who worked for both Bruiser and Prince."

I take a gulp of tea to wet my parched mouth. "You know where . . . Bruiser is?" I say this louder than I planned to, but no one's listening.

"No. I don't," he says, eyes oscillating around the room.

"Well, is he in Vegas?"

"I doubt it. I think he sent me to Vegas because he wanted the feds to think that's where he is. Seems a likely spot for Bruiser, so he wouldn't go there."

My eyes won't focus and my brain won't slow down. I think of a dozen questions at once, but I can't ask them all. There are many things I'd like to know, but many things I shouldn't. We watch each other for a moment.

I honestly thought Bruiser and Prince were in Singapore or Australia, never to be heard from again.

"Why did he contact you?" I ask, very carefully.

He bites ruVlip as if he's about to cry. The tips of the four beaver teeth are visible. He scratches his head as minutes pass. Time, though, is frozen. "Well," he says, even lower, "seems as if they left some money behind. Now they want it."

"They?"

"Sounds like they're still together, doesn't it?"

"It does. And they want you to do what?"

"Well, we never got around to the details. But it sounds like they wanted MS to help them get the money."

"Us?"

"Yeah."

"Me and you?"

"Yep."

"How much money?"

"Never got around to that, but you gotta figure it's a pile or they wouldn't be worried about it."

"And where is it?"

"He didn't give specifics, just said it was in cash, locked up somewhere."

"And he wants us to get it?"

"Right. What I figure is this: the money's hidden somewhere in town, probably close to us right now. The feds haven't found it by now, so they probably won't find it. Bruiser and Prince trust me and you, plus we're semi-legit now, you know, a real firm, not just a couple of street thugs who'd steal the money soon as we saw it. They figure the two of us can load the money in a truck, drive it to them and everybody's happy."

It's impossible to tell how much of this is Deck's speculation and how much was actually presented to him by Bruiser. I don't want to know.

But I'm curious. "And what do we get for our troubles?"

"We never got that far. But it would be plenty. We could take our cut up front."

Deck's already figured it out.

"No way, Deck. Forget it."

"Yeah, I know," he says sadly, surrendering after the first shot.

"It's too risky."

"Yeah."

"Sounds great now, but we could spend time in jail."

"Sure, sure, just had to tell you, you know," he says, waving me off as if he wouldn't dare consider it. A plate of blue corn chips and hummus is placed before us. We both watch the waiter until he's gone.

I have thought about the fact that I'm surely the only person who worked for both fugitives, but I honestly never dreamed the feds would be watching me. My appetite has vanished. My mouth remains dry. Every slight sound causes me to jump.

We both withdraw into our thoughts, and stare at various items on the table. We don't speak again until the pizza arrives, and we eat in complete silence. I'd like to know the details: How did Bruiser contact Deck? Who paid for his trip to Vegas? Is this the first time they've talked since the fugitives disappeared? Will it be the last? Why is Bruiser still concerned about me?

Two thoughts emerge from the fog. One, if Bruiser had enough help tracking Deck's movements to Vegas to know that he was followed the entire way, then he would certainly be able to hire people to fetch the money from Memphis. Why worry about us? Because he doesn't care if we get caught, that's why. Second, the feds haven't bothered to interview me because they didn't want to alert me. It's been much easier to watch me because I haven't been worried about them.

And another thought. There's no doubt my little buddy across the table wanted to open the door to a serious discussion about the money. Deck knows more than he's told me, and he started this conference with a plan.

I'm not foolish enough to believe he's giving up this easily.

a   n   D   n

THE DAILY MAIL is an event I'm learning to dread. Deck picks it up after lunch, as usual, and brings it to the office. There's a thick, legal-sized envelope from the good folks at Tinley Britt, and I hold my breath as I rip it open. It's Drummond's written discovery: a set of interrogatories, a series of requests for every document known to the plaintiff or his lawyer and a set of requests for admissions. The latter is a neat device to force an opposing party to admit or deny certain facts set forth in writing within thirty days. If the facts are not denied, then they are forever deemed admitted. The package also contains a notice to take the deposition of Dot and Buddy Black, in two weeks, in my office. Normally, I'm told, lawyers chat for a bit on the phone and agree on the date, time and place for a deposition. This is called professional courtesy, takes about five minutes, and makes things run much smoother. Evidently, Drummond either forgot his manners or has adopted a hardball strategy. Either way, I'm determined to alter the date and place. Not that I have a conflict, it's just for the sake of principle.

Remarkably, the package contains no motions! I'll wait for tomorrow.

Written discovery must be answered within thirty days, and can be filed simultaneously. My own is almost complete, and the receipt of Drummond's spurs me into action. I'm determined to show Mr. Bigshot that I can play the paper war. He'll either be impressed, or he'll once again realize he's competing with a lawyer who has nothing else to do.

IT'S ALMOST DARK when I pull quietly into the driveway. There are two strange cars next to Miss Birdie's Cadillac, two shiny Pontiacs with Avis stickers on the rear bumpers. I hear voices as I tiptoe around the house, hoping to make it to my apartment without being seen.

I stayed at the office until late, mainly because I wanted to avoid Delbert and Vera. I should be so lucky. They're on the patio with Miss Birdie, drinking tea. And there's more company.

"There he is," Delbert says loudly as soon as I'm visible. I break stride, look toward the patio. "Come on over, Rudy." It's more of a command than an invitation.

He rises slowly as I walk over, and another man also gets to his feet. Delbert points to the new guy. "Rudy, this here is my brother Randolph."

Randolph and I shake hands. "My wife June," he says, waving at another aging leathered tart in the Vera vein, this one with bleached hair. I nod at her. She gives me a look that would boil cheese.

"Miss Birdie," I say politely, nodding to my landlord.

"Hello, Rudy," she says sweetly. She's sitting on the wicker sofa with Delbert.

"Join us," Randolph says, waving at an empty chair.

"No thanks," I say. "I need to get to my apartment, see if anybody's been pilfering." I glance at Vera as I say this. She's sitting behind the sofa, away from the rest, probably as far away from June as she can get.

June is between forty and forty-five. Her husband, as I recall, is almost sixty. Now I remember that she's the one Miss Birdie referred to as a tramp. Randolph's third wife. Always asking about the money.

"We haven't been in your apartment," Delbert says testily.

In contrast with his gaudy brother, Randolph is aging with dignity. He's not fat, permed, dyed or laden with gold. He's wearing a golf shirt, bermuda shorts, white socks, white sneakers. Like everybody else, he's tanned. He could easily pass for a retired corporate executive, complete with a plastic little trophy wife. "How long are you gonna be living here, Rudy?" he asks.

"Didn't know I was leaving."

"Didn't say you were. Just curious. Mother says there's no lease, so I'm just asking."

"Why are you asking?" Things are changing rapidly. As of last night, Miss Birdie wasn't discussing the lease.

"Because from now on, I'm helping Mother handle her affairs. The rent is very low."

"It certainly is," June adds.

"You haven't complained, have you, Miss Birdie?" I ask her.

"Well no," she says, waffling, as if maybe she's thought about complaining but just hasn't found the time.

I could bring up mulching and painting and weed-pulling, but I'm determined not to argue with these idiots. "So there," I say. "If the landlord's happy, then what are you worried about?"

"We don't want Momma taken advantage of," Delbert says.

"Now, Delbert," Randolph says.

"Who's taking advantage of her?" I ask.

"Well, no one, but-"

"What he's trying to say," Randolph interrupts, "is that things are gonna be different now. We're here to help Mother, and we're just concerned about her business. That's all."

I watch Miss Birdie while Randolph is talking, and her face is glowing. Her sons are here, worrying about her, asking questions, making demands, protecting their momma. Though I'm sure she despises her two current daughters-in-law, Miss Birdie is a very content woman.

"Fine," I say. "Just leave me alone. And stay out of my apartment." I turn and walk quickly away, leaving behind many unspoken words and many questions they'd planned to ask. I lock my apartment, eat a sandwich, and in the

darkness, through a window, hear them chatter in the distance.

I spend a few minutes trying to reconstruct this gathering. At some point yesterday, Delbert and Vera arrived from Florida, for what purpose I'll probably never know. Somehow they found Miss Birdie's last will, saw that she had twenty million or so to give away and became deeply concerned about her welfare. They learned she had a lawyer living on the premises, and this concerned them too. Delbert called Randolph, who also lives in Florida, and Randolph hurried home, trophy wife in tow. They spent today grilling their mother about everything imaginable, and have now reached the point of being her protectors.

I really don't care. I can't help but chuckle to myself at the entire gathering. Wonder how long it'll take for them to learn the truth.

For now, Miss Birdie is happy. And I'll be happy for her.

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