18

Corey checked the address on the old lawyer’s business card against the number on the tiny brick building—345½ Hudson Street.

The door was tilted, the building narrow. Its rows of brick, instead of going straight across the front, sagged downward toward the middle. It was as if the two apartment buildings on either side had expanded toward each other, squeezing the little house between them. Just above the door, on a rusted metal hook, dangled a wooden shingle that said H. P. FILCHER, ESQ., ATTORNEY AT L.

It looked like termites had gotten to the AW.

Corey knocked on the door once . . . twice. Finally he heard the heavy thumping of footsteps on the other side. But the door did not open. Instead a weirdly high-pitched voice called from within: “Helloooo! This is Mr. Filcher’s secretary! Consultation by appointment only!”

“Uh, this is Corey Fletcher?” Corey said.

“Is that a question?” the voice said tentatively. “How would I know who you are?”

“No, it’s a statement!” Corey said.

“I heard a question mark at the end. It sounded to me definitely like a—”

“I’m identifying myself!” Corey interrupted. “I met Mr. Filcher a little earlier today? I’m the victim of a theft. I don’t have an appointment but he said I could see him anytime from—”

The door swung open. Instead of some dotty old woman, it was Filcher himself. The bags under his eyes had deepened. He was no longer wearing a hat, and his hair was all bunched up on one side, brittle and white. “Ah, yes, I know exactly who you are!” he said.

“Wait, that voice . . . it was you?” Corey said.

“Yes, well, you see, my . . . uh, staff is out ill today, so to fend off all the inquiries . . . you know how it is . . . popularity,” Filcher said. “Come. Sit. Are you injured? Headaches? Double vision? Triple vision? The courts are very sympathetic to triple vision.”

He led Corey down a dark, narrow corridor. A string of bare light bulbs hung overhead, but only one of them was working. At the end of the hall, they stepped into an office. Corey couldn’t tell if it was small or large. There wasn’t much to see besides piles and piles of papers jammed together, rising practically to the ceiling like a city skyline. A pathway snaked through them, leading to a desk and a metal file cabinet, both of which seemed to have papers growing out of them. Perched atop the unruly pile on the cabinet, a metal fan whined noisily but generated no breeze.

Filcher pushed a fat, bored-looking black cat off one of the massive stacks. As he lifted the papers off and shifted them to his desk, he revealed a hidden chair that looked like it hadn’t seen a human butt in years. “Sit. Sit! Make yourself at home!” Filcher said. “Ignore the untidiness. My cleaning staff is—”

“Out ill,” Corey said. “I know. Thanks for seeing me, sir.”

Filcher sat in a worn leather seat behind his desk and leaned toward Corey. “Unlike most attorneys, my boy, I let my clients call me by my first name. You see, I have three names—Mr. Horace Filcher. So you can call me . . . Mr. Filcher. Haaa! You see what I did there?”

Corey stared at him, speechless.

“Yes, well, this is what we call breaking the ice,” Filcher said. “Loosening up. Always room for humor, eh? Go on.”

“Okay, so you were right about those guys in the ditch,” Corey said. “You called them thieving. And that’s what they did. They stole all my money while I was unconscious. All my possessions!”

“I see . . . ,” Filcher said, stroking his sideburns thoughtfully. “You know, judges are very generous with a combination of memory loss and double vision—”

“This is about theft!” Corey said.

“No, this is about compensation!” Filcher pounded his desk, sending up a cloud of dust. “I happen to be one of New York County’s most reputable personal injury attorneys. If you follow my line of thinking, my lad, you will be sure to get more money than you lost! Er, how much did you lose?”

Corey had to cough out a lungful of dust before he could reply. There was no way he could explain why he needed the coins, or what a cell phone was. “Well . . . the amount isn’t the important thing.”

“True,” Filcher said, “we can round up generously.”

“Is there any way we could get back exactly what I lost, sir—I mean, not an equal amount but the exact coins?”

Filcher sat back, his brow furrowed. “That’s an unusual request. But brilliant in its own way. We may be able to do this quickly, without involving the courts at all.” The lawyer leaped from his seat, grabbing his jacket. “These thieves tend to go to one place. Follow me.”

Haak’s Pawnshop was marked by a faded sign above cement stairs that led down to a dark basement entrance. As Corey descended behind Filcher, he nearly gagged at the stink. “That’s disgusting,” he said, pinching his nostrils. “Doesn’t he have a bathroom inside?”

“You get used to it,” Filcher said. “The smell is kind of a filter, you see. Only serious customers will endure it, and Haak likes his buyers motivated.”

The door at the bottom was thick with layers of paint and festooned with signs: BEWARE DOG!! MARKSMAN INSIDE!! SHOPLIFTERS SHOT ON SIGHT!! PUBLIC URINATORS SHOT TWICE!!!

“Don’t be dissuaded,” Filcher said, pushing the door open. “Haak is a puppy dog. And none of these warnings are true.”

“I figured that out,” Corey said.

As they entered, Corey slammed the door hard behind him.

“HORACE, YOU OLD HORSE-TRADING, BOOTLICKING, LYING SKINFLINT, HOW DO YOU INTEND TO CHEAT ME TODAY?”

A thickly accented voice bellowed from inside, so violently loud that Corey almost had the urge to open the door and leave. Instead he turned to see a man with a girth so wide he could have swallowed a small bus. He waddled out from behind a long glass display case, wearing a white tank-top T-shirt soaked with sweat. A pair of threadbare suspenders stretched over his torso so tightly you could almost hear them groan. His face was perfectly round, his cheeks red and juicy like beef patties not yet cooked. On his shiny head was a single tuft of blond hair shaped like a question mark. Despite the harsh words, he was smiling broadly at Filcher.

“Good morning, Haak,” Filcher said quietly, shrinking away. “But please spare my tender, crooked back. Whatever you do, please do not strike—”

With an open palm the size of a dinner plate, the man smacked Filcher on his back and sent him staggering to the wall. “Love this guy!” he said, turning to Corey with his hand extended. “Otto Haak! Welcome! Don’t tell me Horace the Miser hired an assistant!”

Corey backed away, tucking his hands behind his back. “Corey Fletcher. I’m not his assistant.”

“The boy . . . is a . . . client . . . ,” Filcher said through gritted teeth, holding his back with his right hand. “Has been . . . robbed.”

Corey’s eyes swept around the shop. It was larger and neater than he expected, its walls lined with floor-to-ceiling glass cases displaying typewriters, vases, bowls, silverware, plates, binoculars, eyeglasses, odd contraptions Corey didn’t recognize, and jewelry. Lots of jewelry.

There was one other customer, a handsome, apple-cheeked guy in his teens or twenties. He was wearing a tan, wide-brimmed cowboy hat, a bright plaid shirt with a string tie, a leather vest, loose jeans, and cowboy boots. At his feet were a beat-up old canvas satchel and a coiled rope. He tipped his hat to Corey, revealing thick, slicked-down brown hair. “Robbed, huh?” he said. “Hoo-ee, sorry to hear that, Corey Filcher. Back home, they told me if you didn’t want to lose your money in New York City, you had to sew it to your skin! Guess they was right!”

Corey smiled for the first time that day. “I’m Fletcher, he’s Filcher.”

The guy burst out laughing. “Now that’s funny. This whole city’s like a burlesque show, ain’t it? I’m Quinn. Quinn Roper. From Casper, Wyoming.”

“Haak, my good man,” Filcher said, ignoring the conversation, “the theft in question befell my client a mere hour or so ago. After an unfortunate fall into the pit of doom that has split our fair neighborhood—”

“The cursed Seventh Avenue subway!” Haak spat. “We need that like we need a hole into the head.”

“It’s in,” Quinn Roper said. “Hole in the head.”

“So there he was, an unconscious and helpless boy of eleven,” Filcher said, rising to his full height and gripping his lapel, “discovered by the lazy, drunken, immoral dregs of our fair city—in other words, your customers, Haak. And they, rather than show the decency we are used to in the higher classes, brutally set upon him and tore the possessions from his very pockets. Every last cent.”

Haak’s eyes had grown moist. “You always had a way with words, you old grifter.”

“Mr. Filcher, I’m not eleven,” Corey whispered. “I’m—”

Filcher elbowed Corey in the ribs. “I put myself at your mercy, Haak,” he barreled on, “on behalf of this innocent, orphaned babe with not a cent to his name.”

“Orphaned? Oh . . .” Now Haak was openly sobbing.

Quinn gave Corey a silent, quizzical look, and Corey shook his head. Not true.

“Don’t let anyone say Haak ain’t got a heart,” Haak said. “You can sleep on the floor, kid. Nice and warm. And I can give you work. I need a boy to take out the chamber pot, kill the vermin, clean up the spit—”

“He doesn’t need that!” Filcher leaned over the counter. “He needs money. As do I. I send you customers, Haak. They bring priceless goods—”

“Stolen goods,” Haak pointed out.

“Which you cheerfully sell. And from which you owe me a cut. I calculate your debts to me have risen to seven hundred ninety-three dollars and thirteen cents!”

“I can’t pay that!”

“I’ll take half,” Filcher replied, “or expect the full weight of the New York court system on your shady enterprise. Now, tell me, Corey, the name of the thieves were . . .”

“Hans and Benny-boy,” Corey offered.

“Regulars,” Haak grumbled. He lumbered around behind a glass-topped desk, pulled a fistful of dollars out of a drawer, and spread them out on the case. “A bunch of those fellas did come in to buy. Told me they inherited some cash from a wealthy aunt. Of course I didn’t believe them. But greenbacks is greenbacks. Go ahead. This is all I can give you, Filcher!”

Corey eyed the bills, but he wasn’t really interested in them. “What about coins? Did they bring any coins?”

“Of course they did,” Haak said, pulling open a drawer behind the desk.

Corey peered over. The drawer was deep and wide. It was piled at least two feet high with pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters. Thousands of them. There was no way in the world he would find a random coin from the twenty-first century.

Haak dug his fleshy hand into the pile, pulled out a fistful of coins, and dumped them on the table next to the bills. “There!” Haak said.

“How about a weird subway token?” Corey said. “Did they return anything like that?”

“A what?” Haak replied.

“Or—or a little metal gizmo? With a digital clock and a selfie on it?”

Haak shook his head, staring at Corey as if he’d just spoken in Sanskrit. Quinn was staring at him, too.

Filcher quickly leaned across the counter, sliding all the bills and coins toward him. “Thank you, Haak, you are the soul of compassion and gullibility.”

“It’s my sweet, generous nature,” Haak said with a modest smile, as Filcher dumped all the money into a valise.

Quinn glared at the old man. “Hey, what about Fletcher?”

“I don’t know how they do it in Montana, young man,” Filcher sniffed, “but here in civilized society the attorney collects the money, extracts his proper fee, then pays the client his share.”

“Wyoming!” Quinn protested.

“Same thing.” Filcher turned to the door, hooking the valise over his shoulder. “Come now, Fletcher, before I choke on the smell of stupidity.”