Bronson Chapel was part of the litigation team of SJPS, the team leader being Paul Hutchison. Bronson had an office on the first floor, as indeed had all the partners. It was, by a clear country mile, the most extravagant in the building. He despised the notion of minimalism. The thought of having a clear desk appalled him. He was a collector. He loved things. Especially expensive things. His office was large, with an oval window, looking onto the grounds behind the building. He sat behind a mahogany desk, complete with brass edging and handles. The chairs, both for himself and his clients, were also mahogany, of Victorian design. On the desk were various ornaments – an abstract bust sculpture fashioned from differing shades of marble; a rough-hewn art deco jaguar made of bronze; other oddments, all of them exquisite and expensive.
On the wall, dotted randomly, was a bright array of framed cinema posters, each original and collectable and bearing signatures. There – Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. And there – a rare print of Humphrey Bogart, relaxing on a chaise longue, a secret half-smile on his lips, smoking. A scene from Casablanca. Also autographed, and worth a small fortune. Plus, Bronson was a devotee of post-modern paintings, all vivid colours and startling scenes, and all original. The walls were a contrast to the dark sombre furniture. Bronson loved contrasts. He also loved to spend money. He couldn’t help himself. A flaw in his personality, he assumed. A habit he couldn’t kick. But for the equation to work, it was important to have the money in the first place, which was where, for Bronson, the equation collapsed.
To compound his problems, Bronson also had another habit, one which he was now feeding on a daily basis, and as such, was consuming his life – to the extent he had become involved with men who were both dangerous and unsympathetic towards those customers who failed to pay promptly.
Bronson had been ignoring the repeated calls on his mobile for most of the day. Calls from the same number. It was 4.45. He could no longer avoid the issue. He was in his office. In the bottom drawer of his desk, which he kept locked, was an envelope. He needed courage. He unlocked the drawer, took out the envelope, carefully tapped out white powder on the desktop, arranging it into a neat line. He crouched over, hoovered the stuff up his right nostril. He never used his left. He didn’t get the same suction power, due to a fractionally twisted septum. He sat back, took a full breath, let the buzz suffuse his body, his mind. Lately, the buzz was taking longer, was less sharp. But he still felt damned good. In control.
He phoned the number back, which was answered immediately –
“You been avoiding me, Bronson?”
Bronson sniffed, licked his lips. He felt invincible.
“Been busy all day,” he said. “Court, meetings, court, meetings. Never ends. A conveyor belt of constant shit. But here I am. Always ready to return your calls. Always available.Twenty-four/seven.”
Silence. Then the voice spoke.
“You been partaking, Bronson? You’re speaking awful fast.”
Bronson laughed, but even to his own ears, it sounded way too loud, and way too false. He was too wired to care.
“You don’t have to worry about a thing. It’s under control.”
“That’s reassuring. But you need to be more specific, Bronson. When you don’t pick up my calls, I get anxious for my old friend.”
Old friend, thought Bronson. Hardly that. The friendship bullshit stops when the money stops.
“Don’t be anxious. Everything’s fine.”
“Everything’s fine. It’s under control. This is what you’re telling me. But I’m concerned it’s not, Bronson. You know why I’m concerned, old pal? Specifically?”
“As I said…”
“You’ve not answered my question. Think that powdery stuff you sniff up your nasal cavities is making you deaf. Do you know why I’m concerned?”
Bronson felt his heart race. It pulsed in his chest as if about to explode. A consequence of drugs and nerves and fear.
“I know why you’re concerned. But my point is, you don’t have to be…”
Now the other man laughed. A heavy booming sound.
“You lawyers! Incapable of a simple answer. Round and round, making people dizzy with the slick words and the games you play, and the shit which trips off the tongue so easy. You don’t make me dizzy, Bronson, because I play the game too. But my game has rules. And you’ve broken them. Big style. I’ll answer the question for you.” His voice lowered to a hiss. “You’ve not been paying for your fucking cocaine, you fucking lawyer fucking sleazebag. It was due this morning. Which means you’re late. Again. Which means you have one huge fucking problem.”
The sudden vitriolic attack buffeted Bronson’s drug-induced confidence. He took a second to regain his composure.
“But the money’s coming,” he spluttered. “I’ll have it together by next week. No problem. You’ll get paid in full. This I can guarantee.” The words fairly rattled out of Bronson’s mouth.
Another barking laugh. “Guarantee? I don’t think so. That promise was lost long ago. The thirty grand has now gone up to thirty-five, and will go up by five grand a day. Call it… penalty interest. You understand the concept. Next week, Bronson. Tuesday. Then, we will come to collect. At your house. Let’s say 9pm? Is that okay? We’re not interrupting any good TV? Any dinner engagements? Good. If you fail to pay, or suddenly discover you have to be elsewhere, or anything at all, and we don’t get what we’re owed, then the niceties end, and I lose my pleasant disposition. Things become… unsavoury.”
Bronson licked his lips. His throat was dry. He always felt thirsty after a score.
“Unsavoury? I’ll not be threatened. I don’t care who you are. I won’t be intimidated.”
The man responded, apparently unfazed by Bronson’s bluster. He spoke, his voice easy. “Sure you won’t. But I’m doing it anyway. Listen carefully. I know you can listen when you put your mind to it. No money, and we’ll hammer a nail in your eye, and melt the skin off your face. With acid. Down to the bone. You’ll lose your boyish good looks, but hey! Looks aren’t everything. Your fancy law firm will have to keep you locked away in a cupboard, so you don’t scare the clients. Plus, you’ll still owe us the money. Get it together, Bronson. A man like you, with your conniving mind, and ferret-like cunning, should think of something.” Another sudden booming laugh. “You could start by selling some of that shit on your desk.”
He disconnected.
Bronson took a deep breath. The drugs didn’t dispel fear. He felt it, fresh and raw.
But he had an answer. Something which would make his problem go away, and make life a little easier. Considerably easier. He flicked through the photographs on his phone, stopped at one in particular. He gazed at the figure.
This was his solution. Arrangements were in place. Monday morning, and then his life would change.