“Tourist tax,” I replied with a shrug, leaning back in my seat.
“Ugh, this is why I hate the Waterfront.”
We were in Robertson’s, the place I’d be meeting Samuel tomorrow. It was a few blocks up from the old-new Boardwalk, on the revitalized street that snaked along the beach. Tons of new businesses had been popping up, almost all of them still trying to play by the old rules; as if Brockton Bay had a tourism industry in the near future.
Whatever, wasn’t like I was hurting for it. Better to spend a little and avoid a potential ambush tomorrow. I’d told Amy of course, and she agreed to go with me to case the place for anything fishy. I wasn’t totally sure what to be looking for, so I watched as much as I could from the corner table I’d sat us down at.
Robertson’s was a pretty fancy place. Amy fit in well enough, in a nice pair of jeans and a blue blouse, but I stuck out pretty badly. But my money was good, so the painfully obvious, plainclothes rental cop didn’t bother us. The other patrons were all dressed much better, with collared shirts and nicely pressed slacks or skirts.
It didn’t seem like too suspect, and that bothered me. If this lawyer was connected to my mom, he was probably dealing with other shady clients, possibly even other Nazis. I looked pretty different than I used to, so wasn’t too afraid of being spotted if this was a fascist place. Plus I had my knife, brass knuckle, and a bottle of pepper spray on me. I wasn’t looking for trouble, but it did have a habit of finding me. These days, I was ready for it.
“How was class?” Amy asked as I was studying what little exposed skin the staff had for tattoos.
“Fine,” I said, glancing at her before returning to watching the place. “Just school, you know?”
“Yeah,” she scoffed. “Sometimes feels like we don’t really need to go.”
“Right?” I drawled, meeting her eyes and giving her a smile. “Not like precalc is going to help me at work.”
“I know,” she groaned. “Like, I’m not bad at math, but some of that stuff is just stupid.”
“We had a sub for it today,” I said. “She actually kind of made it make sense, a little. Still really dumb though. Hey, whatever happened to...whatever it was you were working on in Textiles before all this?”
“Oh, my robe?” Amy shrugged and lowered her voice. “Was just a spare. One of mine sort of reached the end of the road, so I needed an extra to make sure I...had an extra.” Ah right, her job was a bit...dirty. “Kind of sucks I never finished it, but it’s not like I really need it anymore.”
“I still think it’s cool you know how to do that stuff,” I said. “I mean, I can’t really work with my hands super well, or think the same way.” She stared at me quizzically.
“What are you talking about?” she asked. “Lia you gave me an amazing drawing for my birthday. There’s no way I could do anything like that. Sure I can put lines on paper, but I can’t draw stuff like you do.” I flushed and stared into my mug of steaming tea.
“It’s not that good,” I said. “Like, believe me, I’m nowhere near what actual artists can do. But...thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Amy said with a smile, bumping her leg against mine under the table. “It meant a lot Lia, seriously.” I sipped my tea to hide my deepening blush.
“Do you want, um, more?” I asked. “I mean, god knows I have time now. I could...draw for you, if you want.”
“Maybe,” she replied. “You don’t have to, but...yeah, maybe.” I took her hand, grinning up at her.
“Cool,” I said, heart fluttering.
I returned to watching the shop, keeping an eye out for anyone suspect, but my gaze kept drifting back to Amy. If I could draw for her...what? No, focus, I had to make sure I wasn’t walking into an ambush or something. The walls of the shop had a bunch of knickknacks from all over the place, including a broken sign reading ‘n’s Tea Sh’. Squinting, I read the plaque beside it, explaining it as the remains of the last shop’s sign from Leviathan. Damn.
There weren’t any bits that suggested a subtle Nazi angle though. I knew a lot of them from briefings, and a few more from my other set of memories, but nothing on the walls struck a chord. That didn’t mean it was clean, of course, but it probably wasn’t a place for a public ambush either. Only a couple blocks from Skitter’s old stronghold by the new Boardwalk, and I was sure they wouldn’t take kindly to an Empire operation right at home.
So, probably not a direct attack by the Nazis, then what? Maybe it was just...real. That was, frankly, ridiculous considering how neatly it had fallen into my lap now. Right now though, I didn’t have a better explanation. The Nazis sure weren’t going to send help my way, and the heroes wouldn’t have beaten around the bush, trying to buy me back in.
Whatever the case, I wasn’t finding any answers here. At least it had been an okay date, and maybe if this lawyer was legit we could come back here for a real one. The hell was I going to do if I just...got everything? Problems to figure out after I sorted this out, but I guess I’d sit on it like everything else. Maybe sell the house or something; cash was more useful since I was living with Amy.
“Ready to get out of here?” I asked, putting my dish and cup on the platter that held the pot and a few finger biscuits. They were okay, dry though.
“Yeah, you uh, done?” Amy said.
“I am,” I replied, rising from my seat.
She followed me out, taking my hand once we hit the sidewalk. It was getting colder now, not terribly so, more a relief from the oppressive summer humidity. But the sun was out and kept the chilly wind blowing off the water from cutting too deep. Soon enough, we came to the bus stop and twenty minutes after boarding we were home.
“So what’s the verdict?” Amy asked after we’d sat down on the couch, cuddling against each other.
“If they’re Nazis, they’re keeping it quiet. Same with any other gang connections.” I sighed and scratched the back of my head. “Still don’t like it, feels...off.”
“Maybe it was, uhh, your ex?” I grimaced at the thought. “Or maybe not, you have other classmates.”
“The timing is right,” I muttered bitterly. “Fuck sake, if she did…” I shook my head. “Whatever, forget it, please.”
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Okay,” Amy said quickly. “So, um, what do you want to do tonight?” I looked at her, studying the way the light played off the faint blush on her cheeks, the way it deepened the longer I watched. “What?”
“Want to model for me?” I asked. She smiled and pressed her lips to mine.
“It’s a date.”
I fiddled with the handle of my knife, hidden in the pocket of my loose jeans. The inviting entrance of Robertson’s Tea Shop stood slightly ajar, probably to let in the warm breeze blowing in today. Inside, theoretically, I was going to inherit whatever blood-money my mom decided I was worthy of.
Taking a deep breath, I pulled the door open and strode inside, scanning the few patrons scattered around the room. A couple eyed me, fair enough considering I didn’t remotely look like I belonged despite Amy’s best efforts dressing me. All her slacks were too long, but I was wearing the same shirt I had to the barbeque. Hopefully they wouldn’t kick me out outright…
Fortunately, the clandestine security guard seemed more interested in a black couple sitting by the door. Huh, maybe it was a Nazi place… That bitter pill on my tongue, I kept looking until I saw a portly guy with a greying comb-over. He was wearing a dull, blue suit and a black tie with thick, neon orange stripes on it. Looking closer, I spotted a bit of black on his thumbnail. Well, that was the description he gave…
“Samuel Bedford?” I asked in a low voice as I came over. He looked up, eyes widening briefly before he broke out in a wide grin.
“Lord you’ve grown, have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chair. His voice had that same tinny tone that it had over the phone. Weird. I sat down and he cleared his throat. “Do you want anything? This place has incredible tiramisu.” Well if he was offering.
“Sure, sounds good,” I replied. He flagged down a waitress and ordered a plate of it. I wasn’t sure what exactly it was, some kind of dessert I guess. Once she’d left, I leaned forward on the table. “So, brass tacks?” He eyed me.
“This city hasn’t been kind to you,” Samuel commented, earning a glare.
“Yeah apocalypses will be like that,” I said with a shrug. “Look no offense, but I sort of want to get this over with.
“I understand completely,” he said, tone grave. He lifted a briefcase onto his lap and unlocked it, then took out a thick stack of papers. “If at any time this becomes too difficult, please let me know and we can stop. I’m a lawyer, not a monster.” A monster’s lawyer.
“Okay,” I said flatly.
“Alright, here we are,” Samuel said, unfolding a sheet of paper. “The last will and testament of Carol Anne D’souza. I won’t bore you with the formal language, but besides paying off a not inconsiderable debt, you’re getting just about everything.” I blinked.
“Uh,” I managed after a second. “O-okay, so...what, the house?” He snorted.
“Well, yes, certainly,” he said, smiling. “Unmortgaged as well. Besides that she had a number of investment funds we liquidated just before the corporation went under. On top of her retirement fund and a few other bits of uh, offshore investments yet to be liquidated, it’ll add up to...ballpark of eight-hundred?”
“Thousand?” He gave me a nod and I exhaled. “That’s...a lot.”
“There’s an estate tax of course, which we can work on reducing if you’d like, plus my own fees,” Samuel explained. “But still, quite a lot for a young woman.”
“So how much is dirty?” To his credit, he didn’t blink.
“Around forty percent,” he replied evenly. “She didn’t tell me you were aware.”
“You can keep whatever is,” I said with a shrug, suppressing the shiver that ran up my back. “Don’t want a thing to do with it.”
“I...suppose we can arrange that,” he said, then lowered his voice before continuing. “While I respect your decision, I’d say it’s a little foolish to leave several hundred grand on the table.”
“I’d burn it if I could,” I said simply. “So that leaves, what...four-hundred and fifty for me or something?”
“Approximately,” Samuel said with a nod, not trying that hard to convince me to give him less money. “Plus the house, as I said, and everything therein. If you need to set things up to stay out of your guardians’ attention, I can give you a hand there too.” I eyed him.
“You’re sort of a piece of shit, huh?”
“It’s a living,” he replied, shrugging. “Though you’d be the first client to complain about having access to their own money without prying eyes looking or grubby hands reaching out.”
“Doesn’t matter either way,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m living with someone, on my own. No guardian to speak of.”
“Ah,” he said, grimacing. “I see. Well we’ll arrange...something.”
“What, can’t I— ah shit.”
“Age of majority,” he sighed. “A pain in the ass. I can work around it, saying I’ve been acting in loco parentis. A little grease here and there, and it should be fine. Costly, but fine.”
“Take it out of the forty percent,” I said.
“That’s aside from my fee—”
“It’s not,” I snapped, voice frigid. “I’m not twelve. You can take your fee out of that portion, or I’ll take it, cash it, and burn your house down with it.”
“You certainly inherited your mother’s temper,” Samuel said dryly. “Well, whatever, I can work within that.”
“Expenses too,” I said, leveling a finger. “I do know what ‘grease’ means when it comes to paperwork.” He held up his hands, palms out.
“Tough customer,” he commented. “Not hard to see how you survived the last few months.” Survived was a strong word for it.
“Call it luck,” I said, knowing every ounce I’d had in the last while was bad. He took out a pen and began scribbling on the papers in front of him. “You know, I’m not sure what you’re doing to support yourself and don’t intend to ask. That being said, if you ever need a lawyer…” A business card skimmed across the table and I took it, stuffing it in my pocket to be forgotten.
“Sure thing.” Hell no, I’d rather deal with Carol Dallon. “So, what do you need from me?”
The answer was a few dozen signatures and some patience. Even with whatever grease he intended to add, apparently getting things shifted around was going to take time. That didn’t matter too much to me, beyond being more time I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. While we worked, the waitress dropped off a plate of pastries that I ignored, determined to finish ASAP. Finally we were done and he packed up the paperwork.
“I appreciate the time,” Samuel said, offering a hand to shake.
“Likewise,” I said without meaning it. “So what, a few months?” He took his hand back, unshaken.
“Something like that,” he said with a nod. “Some sooner, some later. Don’t change your number in the mean time, or if you do call me so I know how to reach you. We’ll handle money transfer details when we need to, I assume you’re old enough to have your own bank account.”
“I do,” I replied. Several in fact, to try and hide the fact that a kid had suddenly become richer shortly after Shatterbird’s bounty was paid out. A pain in the ass to try and remember it all…
We agreed to handle the details in the future, and I made a mental note to try and figure out what the fuck to do with my money. Managing a few accounts was easy for the PRT with specialists on payroll to work it out, but for me? God what the hell was I even going to do? Probably get investigated by the cops when even more money showed up in them.
I sighed as I left the tea shop. Why couldn’t I just feel good about a windfall of fortune? I was as sour as ever, despite the promise of money coming my way. Maybe because of where it was coming from, which made sense but still sucked out loud. Whatever, I’d just donate a bunch to charity, try and salve whatever damage my mom caused to earn that cash.
It was the least I could do, and it wasn’t enough.
PHO was a dogshit website with a mod team that probably needed a psych evaluation before rejoining society. I had created an account of my own, having lost access to my official hero one when I left, to cruise the Parascience board. I had hoped for someone to have some kind of insight, or idea, or conspiracy theory for what was going on in my head. All I found were genuinely crazy theories and one or two that were spot on but decried as insane. I didn’t reply to those posts, just in case.
Still, it was a nice way to kill some time. Amy was in the bath, relaxing. She’d invited me, then spent the next five minutes apologizing even though I really wasn’t that upset. Sure it sucked I’d never be able to enjoy being held by my girlfriend surrounded by warmth and bubbles but… No, no but, it just sucked.
My eyes flicked up to the interface at the top of the page as I refreshed it, frowning. A glowing, red ‘1’ hovered over the envelope icon for my messages. A PM? Who? Why? Well, it was the internet and I’d made most of my posts on the more conspiratorial side of things. Maybe some weirdo wanted to talk shop about their pet theory or—
Message from: LookieLou
Subject: mtg
Hope you liked your gift. Talk more @ Prescott Memorial, tmrw, 5pm.
Motherfucker.