5.
Jeff Dalkin sips a dry martini at an open-air table outside Chef Geoff's on Sutton Place, a piazza-style forecourt on leafy New Mexico Avenue, D.C.
R.
James Cloverland joins him and orders a glass of Chilean red wine.
"Number
One," says Dalkin. "I found an
office in Montecito."
"Good,"
says Cloverland.
"Two,
I've figured out what our misfit mavericks will do."
"Let's
hear it." Cloverland strokes his
Wyatt Earp mustache.
"Anything
they want," says Dalkin.
"Run
that past me again?" Cloverland
cups a hand around his right ear and edges closer.
"Like
a choose-your-own-project course at college.
We tell them, you're so goddam smart, we've decided to set you free to
create your own operation. Being
mavericks, they'll like that."
"Hmm." Cloverland considers this. "Makes sense." He pauses.
"As long as it's harmless."
Dalkin winks. "The distractions in Santa Barbara are endless. And, of course, I'm the professor. They bring their project to me, I guide it my way."
Cloverland nods. "Okay. I have your first recruit. A Brit. How soon can we send him?"
6.
Next
morning, Bradley Fatwood of Bacon, Hump phones Dalkin and 30 minutes later
they’re back in the same corner office.
“Okay,
I made some calls," says Fatwood.
"First off, Ding-a-Ling won't cover your legal bills..."
"Why
not?"
"They
cite evidentiary reasons. In simple
terms, they've got their side of the story and whatever documents and you've
got yours. They say that everything needs
to be kept separate."
"What
a fuck-load of shit—and that wasn’t Tourette’s.
Can we go after them later?"
Fatwood
shakes his head. "You can't recover
legal costs in this country. Have you
ever heard the name Richard Mutton?"
"Of
course," replies Dalkin.
"That's the guy I worked for at Ding-a-Ling. He was VP for special projects."
"Well,
he's the person the plaintiff is basing her complaint on."
"WHAT?"
"Mutton
visited the plaintiff and told her everything."
Dalkin
absorbs this bombshell. "Why?"
"Mutton left Ding-a-Ling under acrimonious circumstances. He claims they owe him millions of dollars in compensation and Ding-a-Ling won’t pay. So, in revenge he told everything to the plaintiff to embarrass them."
"We should sue Mutton, that rotten son-of-a-whore, for breach of confidence! Or something."
Fatwood
shakes his head. "The plaintiff
wanted to name Mutton as a defendant too.
But she couldn't. And we can't
touch him either."
"Why
the hell not?"
"He
declared bankruptcy," says the lawyer.
"So
what?"
"It
protects him from anyone seeking damages through a lawsuit."
"Fucking
son-of-a-whore-master." Dalkin
gazes out the picture window in disbelief.
"So what now?"
"We'll
file a motion to dismiss. We've got a
few things going for us."
"Like
what?"
"The
Statute of Limitations, for one," says Fatwood. "All these things happened years ago, so
it may be time-barred. Also, jurisdiction." The lawyer pauses. "I'm going to need more money."
"You've
gone through $2500 since yesterday?"
"No." Fatwood chuckles. "But a motion to dismiss is going to run $15-20,000."
"WHAT?“
"Litigation
is expensive," says Fatwood.
"Maybe
I should find a one-man band somewhere?"
Dalkin gestures around at a high-rent corner office. "A lawyer with less overheads,
maybe."
Fatwood
shrugs. "You get what you pay
for. I already have the facts down, you
might as well stick with us."
7.
One
day after setting up office in Costa Villa Courtyard in mellow Montecito, Jeff
Dalkin receives a telephone call from Richard Thornington, who had been
seconded to the FBI from MI5, he explains. And now the FBI had just seconded him to
Dalkin's Rooster Regiment.
"Your
first assignment," Dalkin tells the Brit maverick, "is to travel to
California and find me."
"Find
you?"
"It's
a test," says Dalkin. "I'm in
Montecito, a filthy rich community near Santa Barbara. You have to find me."
"Why?"
"Partly
to ensure you're the right man for the super-sensitive, ultra-important stuff
we do in this unit."
