E. J. Leonard, Esq.

 

All through dinner, Griff could not help but dwell on Lance telling him how well Hannah and Helena got along. They shared a pleasant meal, as always, surprisingly free of the dangers of intimate entanglement, which he was prepared to fend off, if only that one time. Griff half suspected the two women were conspiring against him to tease, torment, and test his mortal being.

Hannah dropped Griff off at Chicago Executive Airport. He departed due east into the pure darkness over Lake Michigan to get out of the Chicago terminal area as quickly as possible. He turned southeast as soon as the air traffic controller called him clear of the Class B airspace and landed at Lunken Airfield in Cincinnati a little over an hour later.

The next morning, Griff sat in the reception area of the dingy law offices of The Leonard Group across the Ohio River in Newport, Kentucky. The decor, which seemingly had not been updated since the Seventies, was a stark contrast to Stein, Baylor & Stein’s legal palace in their Chicago Loop skyscraper. Griff felt thrown back into the frosted-window gumshoe digs of an old black-and-white Humphrey Bogart movie.

Though not audibly snapping gum, the secretary, who might once have been as alluring as Hannah—forty or fifty years ago—silently worked her jaw as she plodded methodically through unkempt stacks of paperwork on her desk, oblivious to Griff’s presence until the ancient intercom on her desk scratched out either a drive-through order of French fries and a chocolate milkshake or his invitation in to see the managing partner and only other employee of The Leonard Group.

“Mr. Leonard, I’m Griffith Crowe.” He could barely see the short, skinny octogenarian in thick-rimmed glasses slouching behind a massive desk drifted high with a blizzard of legal briefs and documents. “From—”

“Call me Johnny. Everybody does,” E.J. Leonard called out in a drawling hillbilly twang as he waved Griff in without standing up. “Come on in and take a load off those tired old dogs of yours.”

“Thank you, Johnny.”

“Yup, yup, yup. I talked to your boss man—what, Baylor, is it? Yesterday. Or the day before? I forget. Anyways, you’re here.”

Griff nodded as he surveyed the office and its dusty collection of no doubt personally priceless, yet publicly worthless, memorabilia. The wall behind Johnny’s desk was tiled with framed eight-by-ten photos of the attorney posing beside dignitaries through the ages, his hair graying and thinning as the photos transitioned from black-and-white to color. Most of the dignitaries were unknowable to out-of-towners, though Griff recognized Pete Rose, Jimmy Carter, and Bill Clinton—who was ironically hung next to Lonnie Anderson from WKRP in Cincinnati. “How long have you been here, Johnny?”

“Criminy, it’s been since the wife and I graduated from U of K. Sixty-seven. We once had half the floor filled with young fellas such as yourself. But, you know, those days have faded away. Just me now. And Patty Ann in the front office.”

“And Mrs. Leonard?”

“She passed. A few years back.” Johnny took off his glasses to wipe a moist eye. “So, it's just me now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah…me, too—least ways around supper time.” Johnny grinned mischievously. “She was a hell of a cook. Best apple pie in the tri-state region. Kind of a tyrant here in the office, so it’s quieter at work nowadays—You like baseball, Griff?”

“I don’t follow it religiously, but—”

“Here, let me give you a ticket to this afternoon’s game.” Johnny put his glasses back on and started digging in his desk drawer.

“You know, that’s okay, I’ve got—”

“Nonsense. I insist. We still have season tickets for the Reds. Don’t know why, but we do.” Johnny reached out across his desk to hand Griff a ticket. “Just don’t get across the river as much as I used to. But can’t let them go to waste. Here, take it.”

“Really, Johnny—”

“See that there Louisville Slugger there on the shelf?”

Griff looked and nodded.

“Johnny Bench himself signed it. Don’t make me tattoo you with it. Now, take the ticket, dang it. Enjoy yourself.”

“Sure thing.” Griff took the ticket and stuck it in his shirt pocket.

“I do believe you’ll find it rather…enjoyable, if not enlightening.”

“Thank you, Johnny. I owe you.”

“You say that now. Anyways, what does your bossman, Baylor, want with this crusty old country lawyer?” Johnny leaned his elbows on his desk and stared at Griff, unsmiling now, his face set hard in cross-examination mode.

Griff met and held his glare. He made a decision, even though he wasn’t under oath. “It’s not Lance. It’s me. I’m the one who needs your help.”

Johnny just nodded.

“You know a Cliff Nickolson?”

“Heard of the fella. Heard he died hard a while back. A whirlybird wreck or something.”

“Donald Wallace?”

Johnny’s right eye twitched ever so slightly behind the thick lens of his glasses.

“He was killed a few days ago.”

“You appear to know a lot of fellas taking dirt naps, don’t you?”

“Not my doing, Johnny. Not my doing.”

“But you’re involved.”

“That I am.”

“And what brings wanton death to my door and yours, Mr. Crowe?”

“You know Helena Nickolson?”

“Can’t say as I do.”

“Cliff’s daughter.”

“And what’s she to you?”

Griff smiled. He was losing the cross examination. “That, Mr. Leonard, is a very good question.”

“Not my business, I reckon. But I’m suspecting it brung you here to brighten my morning.”

“Not directly. Rather, it’s Blue Wing, LLC. You are listed as their registered agent.”

“Could be.” Johnny slapped the intercom button. “Patty Ann. Blue Wing, LLC. Where’s the file?”

A moment later, Patty Ann trundled in and over to the desk. She stuck her palsied hand in and pulled a file folder out of a stack. She handed it to Johnny, then trundled out.

Johnny opened the folder and read. “Evidently, you are correct. Says here, they’re situated over in Pine Hollow. So?”

Griff smiled. “Man, I would not want to play poker with you, sir.”

Johnny cracked a sly smile. “Just a country lawyer, son. I used to split rail, too, in my younger days.”

“Just like honest Abe.”

“Whall, I ain’t making that comparison, ‘cepting maybe to the honest part.”

“And your arrangement with Blue Wing?”

“I am indeed the registered agent for the company. I drew up the original articles of incorporation nearly a decade ago at the behest of the reportedly late Donald Wallace. I was retained as legal counsel to handle contracts, patents, copyrights, and other such legal matters.”

“Are there any patents or copyrights?”

Johnny smiled. “A matter of public record. No.”

“And these other legal matters?”

“We’d be finding ourselves straying into privileged territory there, Mr. Crowe.”

“Shareholders?”

“Not at liberty, unless you’re a pesky revenuer with a subpoena.” Johnny shook his head. “Privately held.”

“And if one had business with Blue Wing?”

“Pray tell, just what business would that be?”

Griff smiled. “Touché.”

“Your interest gives me pause, young man. You say Donald Wallace, personally his own self, told you of this company?”

Griff nodded his head. “Face-to-face.”

“And he’s since expired?”

“Yes, sir. He has.” Griff looked out the window at downtown Cincinnati across the river. “What if…what if one would wish to acquire Blue Wing, LLC?”

“I reckon, as their registered agent and legal counsel, I’d be obliged to pass on any such tendered offer to the Board of Directors.”

“Hmmm.” Griff pulled a pad of yellow paper out of his brief case. He thought for a moment, then wrote. When he finished, he tore the paper off the pad, folded it, then leaned over to hand it to Johnny.

Johnny’s lips moved as he read. He looked up at Griff. “One million, two hundred thirty-four thousand, five hundred sixty-seven dollars and eighty-nine cents? One might feel compelled to inquire as to how you came upon such a figure…that is if one hadn’t learnt to count in grade school.”

“You will convey my client’s offer to the Board?”

Johnny’s right eyebrow arched above his glasses. “Client? Would this be one said Helena Nickolson?”

Griff sat back and smiled. “I believe we had a prior discussion on issues of privilege.”

“Indeed, we did.”

“The offer will find its way to the Board?”

“Rest assured, I will do my duty, Mr. Crowe. ‘Course, no guarantees of acceptance nor negotiation.”

“Understood. There never are.”

“Very well, then, Griff, if there is nothing else.” Johnny stood up from his desk.

Griff stood up, noting that Johnny was taller than he first imagined, though still four inches shorter than his own six-foot two-inch height. They shook hands across the desk. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Leonard.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Crowe. I hope you enjoy the ball game this afternoon.”

“Right, right. The Reds and…”

“Why the Atlanta…Braves.” The old man winked knowingly. “And whom might you be rooting for?”

A blank look of incomprehension hung on Griff’s face as he turned to leave.

“And Griff…I’m not going to end up room temperature like them other fellas you were acquainted with, will I?”

It gave Griff pause. He looked back over his shoulder. “I look forward to seeing you again. That’s my plan.”

“Good, then.”

“Thanks for the ticket, Johnny.”

 

***~~~***