Chapter 4: Taking It To The Streets


Monday, August 10, 2009
The Presidio
0700 (local)

As if preordained (and who says it wasn’t?), the DLI made Mac a generous offer. Not generous enough for me to be a golf bum, but generous nevertheless. She accepted and they even have temporary housing we can use while we finish finding our new home.

That’s my job. Mac starts hers today.

“Hey babe, you ready to be Colonel MacKenzie again?”

“You know, I never realized how much I’d miss that name. You OK with that?”

“Just fine, I understand completely. You’ll always be ‘Colonel MacKenzie’ to me. Well, when you’re not ‘sweetie pie’ or ‘snookums’.” Which earned me the anticipated swat on the six.

“Have a great first day, Mac. Don’t scare them and don’t let them scare you.”

“Harm, I’m a Marine, I can handle it.”

Now, why did I know she was gonna say that?

I’m scheduled to meet the Real Estate Broker we decided to work with at 1000, so I settle down with the newspapers and some coffee. San Francisco Chronicle, The Monterey County Herald, The Coastal Weekly, The Carmel Pine Cone (also a weekly). From the biggest world news to the smallest domestic scrabble (gee, I didn’t know you could get written up in the Pine Cone for having a loud argument in your back yard), it’s all there. I soak it up, convinced we’ve made the right decision.

Now all we have to do is find a place to live.

Promptly at 1000 Karen Summers is ringing the doorbell. We pour over the listings she brings up on her laptop and narrow our search to eight for today.


The Presidio
Harm and Mac’s temporary quarters
1630 (local)

I’m beat. And slightly overwhelmed. Looking for housing in DC or London wasn’t this hard. Maybe ‘cause I had the Navy helping me. Wow, people do this everyday? Just go out and buy a house?
I can tell Karen is more than a little surprised that a man my age has never owned a home, but gets a bit more comfortable with the concept when I explain I’ve been in the military my whole life.

We actually saw some ones that have possibilities. I did all the work on my loft, I know my way around tools. In fact, I liked working on my loft. It made it more ‘mine’. And it let me get exactly what I wanted. Like that shower I’m still missing. (First item on any house we buy: big new shower.)

Karen prints out the listings of the ones I consider worthy of Mac’s attention and promises to be back tomorrow with another set of possibilities.

“Honey, I’m home,” I guess it’s Mac’s turn to say the classic line. I pull her into my arms and ask, “how was the sexiest teacher in Monterey’s first day?”

She tells me how she thinks this is gonna be a great job as I watch her change into jeans and a sweatshirt.

We go into the kitchen and I tell her about my house hunting.

“The biggest thing is bathrooms. Because of the chronic water shortage around here, most places only have two baths, if that. I don’t know about you, but I think we gotta have at least two baths.”

“If we can get them for under a million.”

“Well, yeah, there is that. The price range is at the top of what we can afford, but I don’t want to compromise so much that we won’t be happy.”

“Tell you what, I’ll ask around the DLI. Do you know anybody at Fort Ord or the Naval Reservation? Let’s work our networks. If we can do a direct purchase we can save a lot on the commission.”

“Sounds like a good plan to me, Mac. Let’s forget it for the rest of the night. I’ve been living it all day and I’m crisp.”

She saunters over to me, carrot in hand. Now carrot in mouth, moving in a most un-carrot-like way. “You want any help forgetting your day?”

I grab the carrot and sling her over my shoulder, fireman carry style. “And all these years I didn’t think you liked vegetables.”


Tuesday, August 11, 2009
The Presidio
Harm and Mac’s temporary quarters
1000 (local)
Once again Karen is right on time. We scan her laptop for the day’s possibilities and make our choices. Off we go for another fun-filled day of house hunting. Come on, fate, now is *not* the time to lie down on the job.

I cut the day short after five houses, pleading other obligations (like preserving my sanity).

Back at our quarters I start to work the phone. There’s gotta be people I know at Fort Ord and the Reservation. Two hours later, and many long distance calls to far-flung friends, I’ve got a list of ten people I actually do know and twenty more that are ‘a friend of a friend’ who’ll be getting a call to expect mine.

OK. Enough. I’ve hit my limit for the day. Time out. Guitar time out. Yeah, that’ll do it.

I’m sitting on our front step noodling a little blues when Mac walks up with a General in tow. I automatically come to attention (I think it’s gonna take a long time to get out of that habit).

“Harm, meet General Franklin, he’s the Provost here at the DLI.”

”Sir,” I extend my hand to shake his.

“The General has been so kind as to give me a list of all the personnel scheduled to be rotated out. Some of whom have lived on the Peninsula for a long time.”

“And own homes?” I ask, hopefully.

“Yes, Captain,” (god, it’s good to hear that again), “we try to keep what housing stock we have in our family, so to speak. It’s a tough market out there. Cutting out the commission can make the difference between getting a place and not.”

“So I’ve discovered in the last two days.” Thank you fate, I knew you were just taking a nap and hadn’t deserted us entirely. “Thank you for this, General. I’ll get on it first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Good luck. And Captain, when you find something, write an offer for it immediately. Things don’t last long here. Some of the realtors’ web sites promote that they update their listings twice a day, if that tells you anything.”

Holy moley. Yep, it sure does.

“Well, I’ll be seeing you around,” he smiles as he strides off.

“I think I’m gonna need to get an ear piece for the phone, Mac. I’ve got 30 people to call and now this list.”
She pats my crooked ear. “We wouldn’t want any damage to come to that darling little part of your anatomy, now would we?” As I find myself being led inside by selfsame part. She kicks the door shut, pulls my head down within her tongue’s reach and gives it a gentle swipe. “I know how sensitive it is.”

Damn right she does. Buying the ear piece can wait for an hour or so.


Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Harm and Mac’s temporary quarters
1700 (local)

I’ve been on the phone nonstop since 0500 (time zones and all). Thank god I got that ear piece. But I now have a list of 15 homes in our price range; appointments to see nine of them tomorrow.

Wow, when fate steps in, she sure doesn’t mess around.

I’m stretched out on the couch when Mac walks in. “Hey, good to see that at least one of us is working hard,” she teases.

“Maaac, I think my initials have become AT&T. If I hadn’t bought that ear piece I don’t think I’d have an ear left. But I’ve got nine viewings set up for tomorrow and six more on Friday.”

“In our price range?”

I nod.

“In Pacific Grove?”

Nodding again.

“In the part of Pacific Grove we wanted?”

Big grin.

“Eeeck!” She does a little dance. There’s nothing quite like a Marine getting giddy.

And then getting on my lap. “You know, I think we better refine our ‘wishes, wants and can’t live with’ list. You might have to make an offer on a place before I get a chance to see it.”

Oh no, no way am I gonna do that. Commit us to buy a house she hasn’t even seen?

“No, Mac. I’ll draw up an offer contract tonight that gives you 24 hours to view the property, but I won’t buy ‘our’ home without you seeing it first.”
“Harm, if you find the perfect place, you’ll know it. Don’t let it slip through your hands because of doubts. You know me better than you know yourself.”

She’s right about that part, although much of her will always be a mystery to me. Bud says women are just like that. Over the years I’ve come to agree with him.

“OK, I’ll try the 24 hour clause first. I’ll use all my persuasive skills. But if I’m convinced it’s perfect and won’t last 24 hours, I’ll take the leap.”

“Harm, you’ve outrun dirty nukes, HALO’ed into enemy territory, defended the SecNav in the World Court, I think you can find the courage to do this if you have to.”

Well, when you put it like that.


Thursday, August 13, 2009
2525 Laurel Street
Pacific Grove
1400 (local)

This is it. It’s perfect. Needs some work (fine by me, that way it’ll be exactly what we want and more affordable now). Just a few short blocks from Washington Park, where we hear the monarchs stop on their migration.

Word has it that they cover the trees so thoroughly you can’t see the leaves. Don’t hurt the trees; just rest there awhile and do their reproductive cycle thing. It’s one of the big insect-world mysteries, but even though it’s the great-great-grandchildren of the ones that leave in the spring, they come back to the same place each fall. Some tagging efforts have shown they come back to the same tree! Wow, that’s loyalty for you.

In any case, the house is perfect. Three bedrooms, two baths (one big enough that I can have my Harm-sized shower), charming little yard full of flowers (everyone seems to be very big on flower gardening around here) and a garage. Well, it’s only a one car garage, but at least it has a garage. It looks like something Hansel and Gretel might come across, minus the crone.

The only drawback is the owner won’t go for the 24 hour clause. “How ‘bout I give you $500 to hold it for three hours?”

“OK, but not a minute more.”

More land speed records are achieved. Another speeding ticket is obtained (I’m gonna just hide this one from Mac), and I’m back at the Presidio, pacing outside her classroom.

The door opens, the students pile out (hard to think of them as students since they vary from Ensigns to Commanders or the equivalent in the other branches) followed by Mac.
“I’ve found it. It’s perfect. But I *really* want you to see it. Mac, we’re talking about a whole lot of money. More than you or I have ever spent on anything. I’ve got a hold on it ‘til 1700. When can you get away?”

“How far?”

“Ten minutes, well, probably more like 18 if we obey the speed limits.”

“You got another ticket, didn’t you,” she makes it a statement, not a question.

How’d she know?

Sheepish grin is all I’m gonna answer.

“Let’s go right now. I have an hour before my next class.”

Now I know most women, hell, most sane people, would want to take more than 20 minutes looking at a house that they’re gonna spend over $600,000 on, but Mac knows her mind and has never had trouble making decisions. (Well, except that Brumby or me one, but that wasn’t her fault, she wasn’t working with complete information.)

I circle the neighborhood so she can get a feel for the nearby area. Then I drive from the park down Laurel to the house. I pull up in front of it and gesture with my eyebrows (there’s no ‘For Sale’ sign).

“This one? This one!?!” She’s leaping out of the car and running up the walkway. “It has a garage!”

I’m knocking on the door.

“Well, that was no three hours.”

“No, ma’am. Didn’t want to keep you waiting.”

We walk through the house, the owner giving us the privacy to do so alone.

“The kitchen’s too small, but this isn’t a load-bearing wall. We can take it down and make it one big space with the dining room. More our style. This bathroom’s OK, could use some new fixtures, but look at the master bath. We can have our big shower again. The rubber ducky will rule once more! A guest room and a room for an office.”

We walk outside. “I’d want to replace the sliding doors with french ones, but the yard is just the right size. Big enough to give us a sense of privacy, but not too big to be a burden to take care of.”
“Yeah, especially since it’s already landscaped to the nines. And a little brick patio. So you can barbecue steaks for me.”

She spins around with her hands on her hips. “You pulled me out of class for this? Are you out of your mind Harmon Rabb Jr.?”

“You don’t like it?” I’m dumbfounded.

She marches up to me with full Marine attitude. “I don’t like that you haven’t signed an ironclad, airtight, there’s no way they can get out of it contract yet! It’s perfect.” She rewards me with a hug and kiss.

“Now, let’s do that and get me back to the DLI or I’ll be late for class.”


Friday, August 14, 2009
Harm and Mac’s temporary quarters
1000 (local)

Well, sure, there’s lots of paperwork and running around to do with buying the house. I remember what it was like with Harriet, but there’s even more out here. California takes its real estate very seriously (some might say too seriously). With Mac working, I’ll be riding herd on all that stuff. Keeping her filled in, but doing all the legwork.

Nonetheless, it’s time to face facts. I need a job. OK, guess it’s time to Google ‘lawyers in Monterey County’. Well, there certainly are plenty of them.

Scrolling down the page I start thinking. ‘Family law’ translates to divorce. Too depressing.

‘Personal injury’ brings to mind the image of ambulance chasers, sleazy guys lurking in hospital emergency rooms.

‘Elder Law’ attorneys. Great, just the way I wanted to spend my day: updating wills to cut out little Johnny ‘cause he hasn’t visited Grandma in three years.

‘Medical malpractice’; don’t have the skills.

‘Child custody and visitation rights’; and I thought divorce was depressing?

‘Probate’, good god, can’t I at least stay in the land of the living?

‘Commercial litigation’, that might be acceptable. One developer suing another when they’re probably both at least partially culpable.

‘Intellectual property rights’, now that sounds interesting. An emerging field; not a lot of case law. Yes, that sounds like something I could get into. Especially if it’s keeping the big bad corporation from screwing the little guy.

‘Criminal Defense, Violent Crime’. Not in this life.

‘DUI Defense’. Ditto on that one.

OK, ‘commercial litigation’ and ‘intellectual property rights’ are the top of my hit list. I print out the local firms’ web sites that say they specialize in this sort of work and go about updating my resume.

My resume. For the Navy it looked great. Even better if you had the clearance to read the classified version. For civilian law it looks a little thin to me. Stable, (Chegwidden having successfully erased the six-month CIA tour) but thin. Yeah, some capital cases, but mostly DOD, DDO, UA, things that are gonna look trivial to a civilian lawyer. What did Renee say years ago: “missing a movement, is that a criminal offense or an intestinal disorder?”

I do the best I can with it, considering I can’t put in any of the juicy classified stuff, trading heavily on the SecNav at the World Court case.

OK, I’ve reached my limit for the day. Time for time out.

Once again sitting on our front step noodling a blues tune on my guitar. It’s 1700 and the foot traffic passing by has picked up considerably.

“If you put a hat out there you might get some spare change, flyboy.” Mac’s got her ‘it’s the weekend and I’m ready to play’ look on.

“I figure the hell with this lawyering stuff, Mac. I’ve been doing it far too long. Time to get back to my true Delta roots. The blues. I’ll play for change in the square in front of Fisherman’s Wharf.”

“Your true Delta roots? That would be the La Jolla delta, Harm? And might I remind you that the last time we were over there there were two mimes, one clown making balloon toys and an organ grinder complete with monkey?”

“No plan is without its flaws, Mac.”

She bends over, ruffles my now-longer-than-military-regs hair and kisses my forehead. “You’re cute. Wanna wash my back?”

Don’t need that invitation twice.


Monday, August 17, 2009
MacKenzie-Rabb temporary quarters0800 (local)

Mac’s just left and I’m enjoying my second cup of coffee. Figure calling any of these attorneys before 0900 is a waste of time.

After an hour I can’t put it off any more. Usually I’m pretty, well, no, really self-confident. But this looking for a job thing has me feeling like an awkward teenager again. Maybe ‘cause I’ve never really had to do it. The Navy wanted me; the CIA wanted me; Mattie needed me; the Navy wanted me back.

Now I’ve gotta convince someone they need me.

Kinda scary.

Taking a deep breath, I make the first call. Get through to the head guy (don’t know if that’s a good sign or not) and immediately e-mail him my resume. I listen as he reads through it.

“Wow, so you were a regular GI Joe for 24 years?”

“Well, actually ‘GI Joe’ usually refers to Army personnel; I was Navy.”

“Defended the Secretary of the Navy at the Hague for war crimes. That had to be quite a rush.”

‘A rush?’ “It was a challenge and there was quite a lot on the line.” Like American credibility in waging the war at all.

“And you were a pilot, too? Flew jets off aircraft carriers?”

“Yes, when I was younger.”

“Why do I get the feeling this resume has been sanitized? Like there’s a whole bunch in your background that mere mortals like me can’t see.”

I swallow. “I can neither confirm nor deny that, sir.”

“Wow! I knew it! Hey, I’m free for lunch today. Wanna join me?”

I’m not sure if he’s interested in me as a lawyer or a character out of some movie plot (this is California, after all). But what do I have to lose?

“Sure, shall I meet you at your offices, say 1230?” Fortunately, 1230 and 12:30 sound alike. Gotta start getting used to using civilian time.

I arrive at his offices on time. They’re a little ‘off’. Maybe it’s the surfing posters on the walls. Could be the pink streak in the receptionist’s hair. Might be the raggae music playing. I’m wearing a suit. He’s wearing a t-shirt, blue jeans and flip-flops.

“We’ll be back in about an hour, Moon,” he says as we walk out the door.

“Her name is Moon?”

“Actually it’s Moonbeam, but I usually just shorten it to Moon.”

He says this like ‘it’s Alexandria, but I shorten it to Alex’.

Over lunch it becomes painfully apparent that he’s way more interested in my military career than any possibility of us becoming law partners. Which is good since I wouldn’t partner with this guy for a walk across the street.

We part amiably enough and I head back to our temporary quarters.

For the rest of the week it’s the same story. Go to lunch, get pumped for details about Afghanistan or the Hague or what life on a carrier is like. All by guys who clearly believe blue jeans and flip-flops are the attire de jour for attorneys in Monterey.

I’m not working with someone who takes depositions in flip-flops, I don’t care if everyone else does.


Friday, August 21, 2009
Harm and Mac’s temporary quarters
1730 (local)

I’ve grilled salmon for me and steak for Mac. Salad, baked potatoes and steamed broccoli (Mac turns up her nose but eats some anyway) complete the simple meal.

She’s been laughing at my week’s encounters. “Hey, look at it this way, Harm, you got five free lunches.”

True, I didn’t pay money, but I paid.

“So, what’re ya gonna do now?”

“I think I’m gonna try private practice. With the contacts at Fort Ord and the Naval Reservation we made house hunting, it should give me a start.”

“Not to mention the DLI and the Naval Postgraduate School. A lot of their work will be handled by JAGs, but they all have family and friends whose wouldn’t.”

“General practice. Not I-SUE-NAVY stuff.”
We’re putting away the dishes, cleaning up the kitchen.

“So you see yourself as a general practitioner?” she asks.

“Well, yeah, sort of.”

“Like a doctor?”

Oh, I think I like where this is going.

“Sort of.”

“Good, ‘cause I’ve had this itch all day that I think needs to be scratched, but I want a professional to do it.”

“Mac, I’m just the pro you need.”



Chapter 5: The Maltese Eagle -- An Open and Shuteye Case


Spade and Archer Law Offices
Monday, Sept. 14, 2009
0900 (local)

I’m sitting at an old-style oak desk, in a second story room overlooking Lighthouse Avenue. Funny, I don’t remember renting an office. Who’s ‘Spade’? And who’s ‘Archer’?

I look down to see a cigarette burning in between my fingers and quickly extinguish it. What’s that all about? Then I notice my jacket, shirt, trousers and tie. Not to mention the fedora perched on top of the nearby coat rack. Hey, I like them. I’ve always liked the retro ‘40’s look. Just never owned any. Wonder where these came from?

In bustles a woman who has all the indications of being my secretary/receptionist, except that she could be Harriet’s twin.

“Sam, there’s a woman out in the lobby wanting to see you.”

‘Sam’?

“She’s just your type: gorgeous, looks wealthy and wringing her hands. Says her name is Miss Mac, but I wouldn’t take that one to the bank.”

No, my type is gorgeous, looks great in Marine green and always comes up with the dispassionate plan.

“OK, send her in,” I hear myself say. Now why would I say that? Maybe the urgent need for clients and the income they provide might have something to do with it.

She slinks in. Oh clearly this is a woman who knows how to slink to get what she wants. And since she looks just like Mac, I may be the guy to give it to her.

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Mr. Spade, but I didn’t know where else to turn.”

‘Mr. Spade? Sam Spade?’ OK, this is a crazy dream but I’ll just go along, not that I have much choice.

She pours out her little tale of a missing sister, twisting her hanky and hiking her skirt at every opportunity.

“I’m afraid she’s fallen in with unsavory characters. This Joel Cairo fellow and this tall fat man who seems to always wear white. They want something from her, I can just feel it. But I don’t know what.”

The dabbing at the eyes is particularly effective. Good thing these ‘40’s trousers are generously cut.

“You’ve done the right thing, miss. You gave us this joker Cairo’s address, I’ll have my partner (whoever he/she might be) follow him tonight. We’ll find your sister.” I pat her shoulder as I walk her out the door.

Did I mention that the venetian blinds are like 2” wide and wooden? That a floor-standing fan seems to be the only ‘air conditioning’? And that looking out on Lighthouse Avenue lets me see the only shops I recall proudly stating they’ve been ‘serving Pacific Grove since 1941’.

As dreams goes, this one’s tremendously detailed.


Sam’s apartment
Later that night

The phone wakes me up (when did I start drinking bourbon to get to sleep?).

“Spade, you better get down to Cannery Row. It’s Archer. He’s been shot.”

“Gonna make it?”

“Nope.”

Damn.

I’m not surprised to see that Singer is the detective in charge of the Archer murder when I arrive at Cannery Row.

“What do you know about this, Spade?”

“He was working a case, guess it went sour.”

“You think?”

“Don’t know any more than that.” Lying to the police about an ongoing murder investigation is not the most intelligent course of action, but hey, this is only a dream, right?

“I find out you know more, Spade, I’ll have your license. And your butt in my jail for a good while.”

Singer always was easy to get along with.

I head back to my apartment, only to find the door open. Drawing the gun I didn’t know I had, I enter. Calmly sitting in my favorite easy chair is Clayton Webb. Who, as soon as he opens his mouth, sounds like Peter Lorre.

“Mr. Spade. So good to meet you. Please excuse my entering your abode, but I didn’t want to linger in the hallway.”

Oh no. Breaking and entering is much better than lingering.

“I believe you have something that belongs to me.”

“I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking about.” I’m heading over to the bourbon bottle again. When did this become a habit?

“Joel Cairo,” he hands me a card that reeks of lavender.

Hey, I’ve got absolutely nothing against gays. Consenting adults get to do whatever they want. But this card reeks. If I put it in my wallet *I’ll* smell like lavender. Not the way I want to smell.

“And I’m talking about the Maltese Eagle. The one Miss Mac, the younger, stole from the Fat Man. But he stole it from me first. It’s mine and I want it back.”

I wish Mac would roughly roll over in bed. Or I had to get up to pee. This dream is getting way outta control.

There’s a knock at my door. Why am I not surprised to see a suddenly much taller and heavier Secretary Nelson, in a white suite, standing in my doorway. With Miss Mac in tow. Apparently this Mac doesn’t know hand-to-hand combat like mine does, or Sidney Greenstreet’d be on the floor.
“Well, I see we’re all here. How cozy,” the Fat Man concludes. Tossing Mac into my only other chair he turns to me. “That gun doesn’t mean a thing, Spade. The only thing that matters is the Maltese Eagle.”

OK, I’ll bite. “What’s the Maltese Eagle?”

The Fat Man starts in on a tale, only to be interrupted by Cairo and Mac, about a priceless Eagle, solid gold that has been smuggled out of the Mideast.

“They have eagles in the Mideast?” I ask.

No one bothers to answer me.

“My sister had a line on it. She got the pigeon here (more birds??) to give it to her. She sent it to me via parcel post, but he,” she points accusingly at Cairo, “stole it back.”

“Then he,” Cairo sends the same accusing point to the Fat Man, “absconded with it from me.”

“Which would leave it with you, sir, if I’m not mistaken.” It’s getting late and this dream is going on waay too long.

“One would think.” A new voice is heard from. A new person has entered my quickly becoming crowded apartment. Well, well. If it isn’t Admiral Chegwidden.

“It was too easy getting it away from you. And sending it to Spade was the best plan I could come up with at the moment. He wouldn’t have a clue and I could retrieve it when I wanted.”

He walks over to the packing boxes stacked in the corner of my apartment. Selects one, opens it and pulls out a 10-inch tall wrapped irregular object.

Suddenly everyone in the room has a gun drawn.

“You saps,” Chegwidden scoffs. “Have you no idea what this really is? It’s not solid gold. It’s not ancient. It’s the eagle the Navy gave me when I got my first star. The only value it has is to me. How you fabricated this other tall tale, I’ll never know.”

“Why, I paid good money for that intelligence in Istanbul,” the Fat Man sputters.

“My sources gave me their words with their dying breaths.”

“I’m gonna kill my sister.”

Just to complete the party, Singer, or Detective whoeversheis, shows up. “Spade, thought you’d wanna know we’ve cleared you in Archer’s death.”
Yeah, that makes me feel real warm inside, given I didn’t even know the man.

“But who are all of these guys?” Who have suddenly hidden their guns.

“Just some old friends who dropped by and probably stayed too late. I think they’ll be leaving now.”

They slink, lope, lumber, flit and walk out the door.

I lock it. Strip down to my boxers (at least I’m wearing boxers in this dream) and climb in bed. No Mac to hold onto so I settle for a pillow. Talk about your lame substitute.


Rabb-MacKenzie temporary housing
Monday, Sept. 11, 2009
0700 (local)

“Ohhhhh,” I groan.

Mac sits up next to me and puts her palm on my forehead. “You OK? It doesn’t feel like you have a fever.”

“I think I have a hangover.”

“From what? You didn’t have anything to drink last night.”

Briefly I tell her about my dream. “Maybe this going solo isn’t a good thing”

“Don’t be silly, Harm. It was just a dream.”

“How would you feel if I said that about your visions?” yes, said a bit pugnaciously.

“Those are different.”

“OK. But if anyone even resembling Harriet asks me about a job, I’m running as fast as I can in the opposite direction.”

She holds me tenderly. “That’s fine. Just run straight to me and we’ll take care of it together.”

I sigh. You know, maybe a second story office on Lighthouse wouldn’t be a bad idea after all. Or I could get used to taking depositions with lawyers in blue jeans and flip-flops.

No, I think I’ll look into the office on Lighthouse first.