Page 29 of Winning Bid

But I park in front and walk in to find myself in the petite lobby of his office. There’s an office manager at her sparse desk. There is not even a filing cabinet in sight. Just two chairs and her. “Mr. West?”

“Yes.”

She gestures to one of two doors in the place. “He’s expecting you.”

I walk in to find a grizzled veteran of the law world behind his desk. The legend, Otto Pym. Gray-haired and grumpy. His voice is gravel in a blender. “Sit. Close the door. Let’s talk.”

I follow his instructions and find his guest chairs are only slightly more comfortable than Dad’s. The office is white and brown, and none of it is designed to match. His desk looks like a discount number from a big box store. How is this Otto Pym?

“Elliot’s kid, right?”

I nod. “Otto Pym?” I just need to hear him say it because I’m skeptical.

“That’s me. I understand you’ve gotten yourself into some trouble.”

“Forgive me, but you have a reputation for handling some of the highest-profile cases in Boston and New York, and this is your office?”

He laughs, his belly bouncing beneath his shirt. He presses his intercom button. “Gladys, I owe you a steak dinner. You were right. This one is under five minutes.”

“Told you.”

“The hell?” I ask.

He releases the button. “You’re a West. Do you even know how to park your own car, or has a world of valet drivers made that impossible?”

“I’m not here to be belittled for my wealth. I’m here to?—"

“Save your ass. Yeah, I know.” He pulls an orange out of his drawer and starts peeling it. “And now, you’re wondering how I have my rep if this is how I work, right? I’ll tell you. It’s because I don’t take shit from no one. I require absolute transparency from my clients because that is how I save you. I don’t bullshit you. You don’t bullshit me. We bullshit anyone outside of us, and we do it together.”

That’s more like it. But still, this office? Those clothes? I know he makes more money than this. But that’s none of my business really. If he gets me out of trouble, what do I care what he does with his money?

“Alright then. How do we get started?”

“What happened with you and the dead guy?”

“How do I know there aren’t recording devices in?—"

“Get out.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“Clearly, you don’t care about saving your own skin, and you don’t trust your father to provide the lawyer you need. So, we’re done here.” He eats a section of orange like he didn’t just fire a client. This is just a regular day for him.

“Do you handle all your clients like this?”

“You’re not my client. Your father is. Stop wasting my time. You talk, or you leave. But this doesn’t work if you don’t trust that I am the man of my reputation.”

“We fought. He died.”

“Details, sonny boy.”

I blow out an irritated breath. “He attacked the woman I love. I didn’t lay a hand on him until he put one on her.”

“So, let me fill in the blanks for you,” he says, devouring another section. “You saw the two of them on a date. You didn’t like it. You stalked them, saw him getting friendly, and you attacked him. That about sum it up?”

I slam my hands on the desk. “We’re done here.”

“Quite a temper on you, kid. Sit down.”

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