“No ma’am. I’m meeting someone.” I point my index finger toward the raised booth where Amy is sitting with her date. He’s some lawyer from a firm in a high rise downtown. I don't bother to get to know him because he isn't any different than the last six or seven suits she's sat down and broken bread with.
This guy she met at some shindig a month ago where people sat for a long time like little dolls around a big room, clapping politely and looking like they'd rather take a hot poker up the ass than listen to one more speech.
Amy's companion made her smile a couple of times and she agreed to meet him for coffee. Whatever urge I had to beat in his grinning face faded after I followed them to the coffee shop. The two spent more time on their phones than talking with one another. Day that some woman finds her phone more interesting than me is the day I should cut my dick off.
But this is their fourth meeting and I know it's not for business. My guess is Amy's getting restless. She wants some companionship that isn't powered by batteries. She’s feeling him out, seeing whether he’s worth her time. He's not and I'm here to help her come to that conclusion.
“Oh,” the hostess murmurs with real disappointment, but she’s a pro. She grabs one of the black leather bound menus and leads me to the table.
“Your third guest has arrived.” The hostess lays the menu on the table. Both Amy and the suit look up.
He’s wearing a gray tie and the way he looks at Amy—like she’s his next course—makes me want to choke him with it.
“You have the wrong table,” the suit says.
“Flint?” Amy greets me at the same time. I give her a nod. “Is someone in trouble?” She asks.
“You know this man?” the suit asks.
“Yes, Ron, this is my…an acquaintance of mine, Flint. Flint this is Ron Lemmons.” She leaves off the last name. In a one percent club we don’t have last names--only our road names. One of the reasons that Judge has a soft spot for Amy is because she respects our customs.
When I first started watching Amy it was because Judge and I were worried we’d picked the wrong lawyer for Wrecker. Amy was young—just a few years out of law school but a friend of Judge’s had recommended her. Duncan Vermier owned a chop shop on the west side of the Twin Cities and he’d gotten into some hot water for moving stolen goods. He swore that he didn’t know jack about it and Amy was the only lawyer he’d went to that actually believed him. She pled him down to some stupid fine. He paid a couple hundred dollars and that was the end of it.
Smart as a whip and tireless as a bulldog, Vermier said. And he was right. She worked her ass off defending Judge’s son Wrecker when Wrecker was involved in a fight that left a skinhead dead not too far from the club headquarters.
Wrecker ended up serving only three years of a ten year manslaughter sentence. Amy had taken care of Wrecker which is why Judge wanted to take care of Amy. She’s in my hands now. I'm planning to take real good care of her.
“Nice to meet you Lemmons.” I hold out my hand. Lemmons glances at my hand and then at at Amy. He picks up a napkin and wipes his mouth with it. Dabs, really. Like he’s wearing some lipstick or shit and doesn’t want it to smear on the white cotton.
“We’re having lunch, Mr. Flint,” Lemmons says as he places the napkin next to his knife. My hand hangs out there, untouched. It’s a dick move, not shaking my hand, and I can tell by the narrowing of Amy’s eyes that she doesn’t like it.
“We’re actually almost done.” She reaches out and takes my hand in hers. I’m not at all surprised by the electric jolt that shoots through me at the contact. It’s why I’m here but Amy’s wide eyes reveal her shock. She recovers quickly and drops my hand. I let it rest on the white tablecloth not too far from her plate. “Can you come by my office in about a half an hour?”
“I’d rather talk to you now.” I reach for the menu and at the same time slide into the booth. “Besides. I’m hungry. What’d you have?”
“Salad.”
“Mr. Flint, I really have to tell you that you are interrupting something.” Fruitman drums fingers that are softer than a baby's bottom against the tablecloth.
"I'm not." I turn to Amy. "Salad? I think I'm going to need something more substantial. Why don't you order for me." I hand her the menu. Fruitman coughs into his hand trying to gain Amy's attention but she's busy trying to figure me out.
Her head tilts and her pretty eyes inspect me. "If you're hungry, Flint, why don't you have the steak medallions and pomme frittes."