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TWO-1

TWO

Oliver arrived at the downtown skyscraper housing the offices of Macon Wesley at ten minutes past four o’clock. He rushed into a lobby filled with expensive appointments from Portland artists through a revolving glass door that briefly imprisoned him as it went a second cycle until he gathered his balance. As the glass door slowed, he lunged out of the aperture to find the wall, which he grasped tightly to steady himself. He took several deep breaths before walking to the escalator that carried him to the mezzanine floor. The illuminated lobby with stylish artwork behind a large marble desk where the security staff monitored the building had four elevator shafts. Oliver clenched his fist before punching the button to enter car number two for the ride to the twenty-fifth floor.

Oliver stepped off the elevator. He looked into the glass of the offices where men walked in stylish suits and women wore a professionally tailored wardrobe, complemented with an assortment of fashionable heels. Oliver ran a shaky finger through his thinning hair. He popped a breath mint before opening the door.

A smiling woman met his gaze. “Oliver,” she greeted warmly. “How are you this fine morning?”

“Been better, Camille.”

Camille was a pleasant woman in her early forties, or at least that is what she told anyone who deigned to inquire. She wore a form-fitting wardrobe with stylish accessories so elegantly that the younger women in the firm frequently solicited her fashion advice. Her warm smile and dazzling eyes beguiled Oliver through the years of working alongside her. She handled the professional details without fault, and worked diligently to bring every facet of each case to masterful preparation. Oliver cherished her talented efforts. He regretted that he had not always expressed his appreciation.

“How are things in your house under the bridge at St. Johns?”

Oliver groaned. “Swimmingly.” He shook his head.

“I always thought it was a cute house with many possibilities,” she added.

“It was a strategic investment when we bought it years ago. Calista and I are very happy with it.”

“Calista?” interrupted Camille.

“What?” Oliver realized his mistake. His voice stammered as he struggled to adjust his sentence. “Cyllvia and I are very happy with it,” he said abruptly. Oliver quickly changed the subject just as easily as a mariner changes course to favor the wind. “Is Richard around?”

“Yes,” she responded. “He was asking for you this morning.”

“He phoned me just after noon for a project.”

Camille smiled as she gathered several binders in arms toned from daily Pilates. “He has a special project for you. It will require a person of your talents!”

“You know something about this service?” asked Oliver skeptically.

Camille met his inquiry with satisfaction. “You’re forgetting something very important, Oliver,” she said in a tone suggesting an elevated sense of self. “I know everything that goes on around here.” She sent a disarming smile and an exaggerated wink of her eye toward Oliver. “Follow me.”

Oliver stepped quickly to her side. “I’ve always liked walking with you rather than walking behind you,” he said.

Camille smiled. They walked down the narrow corridor upon a carpeted floor that muffled the sound of their footsteps. Oliver peeked inside every parted door to view the bustling commotion between attorney and associate. Some worked on computers while others studied the Pacific Reporter. They arrived at a large wooden door with gold lettering indicating the office of Richard Robinson. Camille placed her hand a few inches in front of the door. “Oliver, it’s wonderful to see you again.” Camille knocked on the door before stepping to the side.

Oliver struggled to force a smile as he nervously fidgeted. “It’s nice to see you again, too.”

“Richard had an urgent partnership meeting with Duane and Alistair. I believe I saw him return a few moments ago.” She touched his forearm gently. “We’ll know if he answers that the founders dismissed him from the twenty-sixth floor.” She winked mischievously.

“Come in,” said a deep voice from within the room.

“Looks like he is inside,” said Oliver, as he returned the playful wink. He gently squeezed her hand that rested upon his forearm. “Good-bye, Camille.” He opened the door to the office. A stout wooden desk was positioned next to a wall upon which were many framed diplomas from various schools. A large certificate designating acceptance to practice before the Oregon Supreme Court was dwarfed by a larger certificate that awarded the recipient the honor to argue before the United States Supreme Court. A comfortable leather sofa occupied the opposite wall, underneath framed art of the Dutch Masters. A floor-to-ceiling glass window afforded the inhabitant to gaze at the Portland skyline with the Willamette River flowing to the north and an incomparable vista of a snowcapped Mt. Hood in the distance.

“Some things never change,” spoke a voice dripped in rich timbre.

Oliver quickly turned to face the doorway. He observed a man in his late thirties, dressed in a Giorgio Armani and leather shoes.

“Wool Jacquard?” inquired Oliver with a nod of his head.

Richard grinned. “I learned from you, Oliver. You gave me expensive tastes.” He patted Oliver on the shoulder.

Oliver instinctively recoiled from the touch. He stumbled to catch his balance.

“Sorry,” blurted Richard.

Oliver settled himself in a chair at the front of the large wooden desk. He nervously fidgeted with his fingers, and avoided making eye contact as Richard opened a file drawer. He pulled out a packet.

“These are the dissolution papers for service upon an evil troll who has made the life of my client absolutely unbearable.”

“That’s what they all say,” interjected Oliver.

“Actually, Oliver, I know this cretin personally. I can attest to his poor comportment.”

“Then I will accept your endorsement,” said Oliver.

Richard grinned. “You are the best man for this project, Oliver. This is a difficult service because the man thinks he is above the law due to his familial lineage. He will attempt to evade you, so he can continue draining the financial resources of my client. I need you to deliver these documents, including the Statutory Restraining Order to Prevent Dissipation of Assets. My client has significant financial resources in peril.”

“What do you know about this guy?”

Richard nodded his head. “I did some investigation work for you. Charles Dillingham lives in Dunthorpe, behind an impenetrable gate and prying neighbors. His employment is questionable because he comes from money, and he travels in a limousine to and from his office on 6th Street, but nobody, including my client, knows exactly what he actually does for a living. He says he is a real estate developer, but there is no evidence for it. Despite his means, he sponges off the resources of my client. He frequents a particular gentleman’s club downtown where he is known to flash a lot of my client’s money to all the dancers.”

“Is that so?” said Oliver. “Which one of the many gentleman’s clubs in Portland?”

“I think it’s called The Cabaret.” Richard read an almost imperceptible wince. “Have you heard of it?”

“Who hasn’t?” responded Oliver, who began to construct a plan for delivering woe and gloom to the target.

“I don’t frequent those establishments,” continued Richard. He studiously regarded Oliver’s face to develop additional clues from the details of his earlier observations.

Oliver fidgeted nervously in a leather chair placed next to the wooden desk of the attorney.

“And the most important thing, Oliver, is that he has bodyguards with him everywhere he goes. You’ll not get close to him.”

“Everybody has a weakness,” voiced Oliver confidently.

“My client is prepared to pay handsomely for the service, so don’t give me a fifty-dollar invoice!”

Oliver reached for the document. “Any timeline?”

Richard placed the packet directly into Oliver’s hand. “Like I said before, Oliver. The sooner we get this Statutory Restraining Order in his hand, the safer my client’s financial resources will be.”

“Is there a photo of the target?”

Richard smiled. “Of course, Oliver. I placed a photograph of the Neanderthal as well as his vehicle and his office.”

Oliver rose anxiously from his seat. “Thanks, Richard.” He wordlessly scampered toward the door, hoping to close it to muffle any conversation that might spill from the room.

“Good to see you, Oliver.”

The sound of the closing door liberated Oliver from conversing with Richard Robinson. He stepped anxiously through the corridor, hoping that his hasty exit from the office would not invite a nervous conversation. He raced past Camille’s desk to reach a vacant elevator car, completely unaware of the tidings she sent his way. His body craved a release from the pressure building from within his slender frame. The elevator door opened on the mezzanine level, and Oliver was immediately delighted to see Nate Burgess, the athletic head of security for the building, preoccupied with a pair of young people wearing masks and dark clothing. The disturbance spared him from perfunctory conversation that interfered with the mission of finding some chemical relief for being in the building. As he rode the escalator from the mezzanine level, he decided to exit the building via the glass upright doors so as to avoid the revolving door. He raced across the street to the parking garage. Horns blared as three cars narrowly missed striking him in the middle of the street. Oliver ran up five flights of stairs to reach the safety of a dented Ford Tempo. He forced the door open, and jumped into the driver seat. He reached underneath the seat for a cigar box. He lifted the lid to reveal a syringe, a spoon, a lighter, and a baggie of a crystal substance.

Oliver glanced around the parking lot before sprinkling a crystal into the spoon. He poured some drops of water into the spoon before placing the lighter underneath. He watched the substance melt and form bubbles. He placed the syringe into the substance, and drew it into the apparatus. With no time to tie off a vein, Oliver inserted the needle into his arm. He pushed the substance into his body to quell the perpetually unsatisfied craving. He leaned into the seat to ride the wave of euphoria. Sweat beaded on his brow. He could feel his blood pressure rising.

Oliver glanced at the dissolution packet secreted within a large privacy envelope. He pulled the cover open, and emptied the document onto the passenger seat. He rifled through the documents to place them in sequential order. With a fine point pen, Oliver scribbled the documents and the target onto a page from a yellow legal pad.

Oliver recalled the instructions from Richard. As his brain numbed from the methamphetamine coursing through his system, he picked up his flip phone to place a call.

“Hey, Cyllvia,” said Oliver dispassionately.

“Yes,” she answered with indifference. Sensing a pause from Oliver, she hastily urged a conversation. “I’m hitting the stage next.”

Oliver found the words to express. “You know that fat guy whose been giving you the benjamins lately?”

“Sure.”

“You know his name?”

Cyllvia drew a breath. “He says his name is Charles.”

“You believe him?”

Cyllvia grinned. “I have my ways to getting at the truth.”

Oliver bit his lip. “Have you seen him today?”

“Not yet. He usually gets here around nine o’clock in the evening.” Cyllvia took occasion for Oliver’s pause to adjust her lipstick.

“I need a favor.”

Cyllvia stood to view her reflection in the floor length mirror. She began to make adjustments to her costume. “Whatever I can do to make your life easier, Ollie, you know I will do.”

“I need you to call me when he arrives. Then I want you to take him into the VIP Room.”

“Is this guy really important to you, or do you just want to watch?”

Oliver rubbed his temple nervously. “Just do it for me, Cyllvia.” Oliver closed his flip-phone. He organized the documents that had scattered on the front passenger seat, and secured them with a metal clip. Oliver heard footsteps approaching. He quickly shoved the syringe and a small baggie into the cigar box, and slid it underneath the driver seat. The footsteps walked past his car. Oliver took a sigh of relief.

Oliver spent the next few hours serving several documents from other clients throughout Portland while anxiously awaiting the call from his lovely mole at The Cabaret. He made time to swing past several dealers of methamphetamine in Old Town to prepare for his afternoon and evening. Suddenly, his telephone chirped. He glanced at the face of the screen on his flip phone at half-past eight. “Hello?”