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“Not that I’m unhappy to see you,” says Harry. “But what is this about?”
It is not, overall, the worst thing to say while zip tied to a chair after having one’s blindfold removed. In terms of originality it ranks solidly between Unhand me, you knave! and Not the worst date I’ve been on. Though of course Harry can hardly be blamed for a lack of originality when faced with a not-insignificant number of former clients, all lined up and looming over him.
Howard Williams clears his throat. “Harry,” he says, “Some of us have been talking, and we all agree: you’ve gone too far.”
“... Too far,” says Harry.
“Too far,” says Howard.
“Can I ask what you mean by ‘too far’?”
“‘Too far’, Harry, refers to the respective fates of Jason Crawley and Fletcher Maxwell, both former clients of yours brought low by means which as yet escape our understanding. Not to mention Donovan Keyes who, if I recall correctly, coaxed some money out of your mother and was caught siphoning funds from an Eastern European mob boss shortly thereafter.”
“Ah,” says Harry. “Well, these things happen.”
“That’s true,” says Howard. “These things do happen. But these particular things happened very quickly and in very quick succession. Which in turn led us to you.”
“I see,” says Harry.
“So what are we going to do about it?”
“I was hoping you might tell me that.”
“Well, Harry, I’ll tell you what we’re going to do about it. I’m afraid we’re going to have to kill you.”
“... I see.”
“Not outright, of course. That would be far too messy, and some of us do have some unfortunate legal constraints upon which the addition of murder charges would be an unfortunate burden. No, Harry, we are going to kill you, and make it look like you did it.”
“Suicide,” says Harry.
“I’m afraid so,” says Howard.
“Surely someone will notice. I haven’t seemed suicidal up until this point.”
“Respectfully, Harry,” says Pete Flaherty, lurking somewhere in the back of the gaggle, “Who would notice whether you’ve been suicidal or not?”
“That’s true,” says Howard. “Your wife left you, your daughter is eighteen years old, and you’ve severed ties with all the friends you had. Sorry, Harry, but I’m afraid that won’t cut it. There is no one in your life left to notice whether or not you are now or ever have been suicidal.”
“You’re right. Of course you’re right.”
There is a brief, somber silence, in which the room contemplates Harry’s utterly solitary existence.
“How would you do it, Harry?” says Thomas Kennedy abruptly.
“Excuse me?”
“How would you kill yourself? We want to make this as accurate as possible. True to your vision.”
“... I don’t know,” says Harry. “I’ve never thought about it before. I’m not suicidal.”
“Oh, come on, Harry,” says Thomas. “Everyone’s thought about it at least once.”
“Drowning, I guess,” says Harry. “I don’t know how to swim.”
“ Drowning ?” says Pete. “I’m sorry, Harry, but that’s just far too over the top. Too melodramatic. Besides, no one would be able to identify your body. It’d be all bloated and runny.”
“How about a gun?” says Howard. “Very decent. Very respectable. It’s how Ernest Hemingway went, you know.”
Harry cringes at that. “No, no. I don’t like that very much.”
“Don’t be stupid, Howard,” says Victor Granby. “We certainly wouldn’t be able to identify him if he shot himself.”
“I suppose not.” Howard chews his lip, lost in thought. Then his face lights up. “What about a nice, simple hanging?”
There is another moment of silence as this is contemplated. Thomas nods.
“I like it,” he says. “The perfect middle ground between a suicide and an execution. Very symbolic.”
“You think so?” says Harry.
“Of course,” says Victor. “Don’t worry, Harry. We want this to be done right just as much as you do.”
Harry nods slowly.
Victor says, “Would you leave a note?”
“No,” says Harry. Then he pauses, tilts his head to one side, rather like a lost puppy, if said puppy were contemplating its own staged suicide note. “Yes. But keep it simple.”
“ I’m sorry, please forgive me, something like that?” says Thomas, fishing a pad and pen out of his inner jacket pocket.
“No. More like… It couldn’t be helped.”
Howard clears his throat. “It doesn’t sound like a suicide note. Might put undue suspicion on the circumstances surrounding your death.”
“Would it?” says Harry, somewhat distantly. “Alright. I’m sorry is fine.”
“Now, Harry,” says Thomas. “Where exactly would you like it done? You have a fine oak tree in your backyard, we could—”
“No!” Harry says suddenly, with more passion by half than he’s had thus far in the conversation. “Not there. I don’t want my daughter to find me.”
He looks Howard square in the face, as if daring the man to politely rebuff him as he has with all Harry’s ideas thus far vis-à-vis his death.
But Howard merely shrugs and says, “Fair enough. We’ll find a place.”
“How about his office?” says a voice almost no one recognizes. As one, Harry’s clients turn to peer in the direction of this new, heavily-accented suggestion.
The woman that almost no one recognizes slides into the room, draped in an expensive-looking peacoat and wobbling ever so slightly on black stilettos. She regards each new face she encounters, plus the one she knows, with the same impassive stare.
“A symbol of his fall from grace,” she says. “For him to hang in his own office.”
“Harry,” says Pete, without taking his eyes off the woman. “Do you recognize this person?”
Harry shakes his head slowly. The woman cocks an eyebrow. Harry clears his throat and tries again. “No. No, I don’t.”
“Then who exactly are you?” This directed at the woman, who is picking imaginary lint off her sleeve.
“I am a friend,” she says. “We share a common interest.” She strides across the room and takes a seat in the one other plastic chair in the otherwise empty room. “So what do you think? Hang him in his office?”
For a moment there is silence. Then Victor says, “It has a certain elegance to it. Harry flees his life as a lawyer in search of redemption, finds he can’t achieve it, and can’t live with the knowledge.”
“We could even type the note on his work computer,” says Pete.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” says the woman almost no one recognizes. “The note needs to be handwritten. So the authorities can verify that it is authentic.” Then, to Thomas: “Can he borrow your paper and pen?”
Thomas obligingly hands it over. Harry takes it in one hand and uncaps the pen with the other.
“Harry,” says Howard, remarkably pleasantly. “I thought that we zip tied you to that chair.”
A woman dressed all in black stands from where she was crouched behind Harry. She grins at the woman who almost no one recognizes.
The struggle that ensues is shorter than Harry had anticipated it would be. As it turns out, men who reap the benefits of underpaid labor and less-than-kosher tax havens don’t know how to fight. Harry remains seated until it all seems to be over, then stands and straightens his jacket.
“How’re you doing, Harry?” says Breanna.
Harry nods. “I’m alright. Nice accent, by the way.”
She grins. “Thanks. Sophie showed me how to do it.”
He turns to Parker. “Nice job with the vents.”
She tilts her head, considering. “I think I might go out that way, too. Wanna come with?”
“God, no,” says Harry.
Parker makes a face. “Breanna?”
“Sure.” She kicks off the stilettos and hands them to Harry. “Walk these out for me, will you? Eliot’s parked in the south lot. We’re getting Thai food on the way home.”
He obligingly takes her shoes and gives her a boost up into the vents. Then he turns and walks out of the room, stepping gingerly over the splayed limbs of men whose crimes he’d once ignored, and makes sure to turn the lights off as he leaves.