Gymnozeas -2- Esquire

It took nearer three hours than two to reach Latterman Village, in part because Clark belatedly discovered that the easy way to move an unbalanced load in a wheelbarrow is to pull, not push. With Mr. Latterman packed into the bowl of the ‘barrow, and Clark between the arms in leading position, there was less strain on Clark’s own arms and less fatigue.

The Citgo Service Station at the end of town arrived just as Clark found a rhythm he could have kept up all day. He was almost sorry to bear his load under the shade of the canopy where he was greeted by Dennis Plummer, the resident pump jockey.

“Afternoon,” Dennis called out cheerfully. “What you got in the ‘barrow, friend?”

Clark only grunted in reply, but Mr. Phillip Latterman responded with a whistling snore, a noise he made through his nose, not his mouth.

The snore intrigued Dennis even more, and he approached with an eye to discovering what might be hidden in the nest of burlap. “Is it a litter of piggies?” he guessed.

Clark shook his head. “It’s my employer,” he said simply. “He needs to visit Mr. David Schultz.”

“Huh,” said Dennis. “Don’t know anyone by that name in town.” He peered even more curiously at Clark’s cargo, where a thin, somehow pointy, but still bulbous nose protruded from the nest, emitting another whistling snore.

The coolness under the canopy did not go unappreciated by Clark, but he wanted to complete his errand. Yet he hesitated to jostle his employer to wakefulness to get better directions. He peered around cool shadows stretched across the grease-stained pavement as if he might find an answer to questions he hadn’t asked yet among the pyramids of canned oil products.

But Dennis spoke first. “You got business with this Schultz guy?” he asked. The man buried among the gunny sacks, was obviously still alive and had evidently chosen his conveyance himself and hired someone to do the hard part.

Busy thinking about that, Dennis had lost the thread when Clark answered his question.

“He’s a lawyer,” said the one-time infantry rifleman.

“Him?” Dennis asked, confused and pointing at the man in the wheelbarrow.

“No,” said Clark. “Mr. Schultz is the lawyer my employer,” a nod here toward the ‘barrow passenger, “needs to see.”

“Eejit,” said a reedy voice. “It’s Shute. Mr. Devon Shute is my lawyer.”

Dennis and Clark both looked at the ‘barrow first, then at each other. “Oh,” said Dennis. “Mr. Shute’s office is down on Main Street.” He pointed, “Turn left at the light.”

“Devon Shute,” Clark repeated, determining not to get the name wrong again. He was really terrible with names.

Dennis nodded. “He’s a lawyer,” he said, unnecessarily. “Office on Main Street,” he added, a fount of redundant information now. He pointed again. “Turn left at the light.”

#

Devon Shute, Esq. did indeed have an office on Main Street in front of which Clark soon rested the wheelbarrow full of Phillip Latterman. Clark politely knocked on the door and inquired of a young lady at a desk inside if Mr. Shute was available for a meeting. In fact, Mr. Shute eagerly came out to the sidewalk to offer help to Clark getting the old man into the office and settled onto a couch, still nestled in burlap blankets.

“How are you today, Mr. Latterman,” Shute inquired with all the unctuous charm of his breed.

“I’m dying,” said Latterman. “And it’s about time. I’m older than dirt and I will soon be napping beneath a coverlet of the same.” He cackled like a geriatric hen.

“Um,” said Shute, glancing toward Clark who only shrugged.

“Thirsty,” said Latterman. He parted shriveled lips and offered a gummy grin, his remaining few teeth yellowed and sticky with phlegm.

The young lady in the outer office was sent to fetch drinks. Coca Cola for Mr. Latterman, and coffee for Clark and Shute.

Latterman sucked at the bottled cola like some monstrous insectoid infant until he had satisfied his need for liquid.

Shute watched nervously as Clark balanced his coffee cup on a knee, but apparently decided to ignore the danger to his carpet in order to find out what help he might be to the wealthiest man in four counties. “What can I do for you, Mr. Latterman?” he inquired when the old man had leaned forward precariously to place his empty bottle on the wide mahogany table between them.

“Four cents,” said Latterman, and he belched.

“Pardon?” asked Shute, staring at the bottle.

Clark, with a hobo’s attention to the smaller matters of money and income, supplied the answer. “Deposit.”

Shute looked at him.

“He means you should get your deposit back,” Clark explained.

“To be sure,” agreed Shute. “But what has brought you to my office this day, Mr. Latterman?”

“Wheelbarrow,” said the old man, with another cackle.

Clark stifled a chuckle and shared a sideways glance with his employer.

“I see,” said Shute. “Perhaps you need to rest for a bit, Mr. Latterman?”

“Had a long nap already,” said the would-be client. “Wasted half the day getting here.”

“Perhaps you should have called ahead,” suggested Shute. “I could have sent someone with a car to bring you here and take you home later.”

The old man grunted. He appeared to shake himself, like a dog coming in from a rainstorm, perhaps getting rid of the lethargy that had enveloped him during his ride in the wheelbarrow.

“The problem with telephones,” he said, “is that if you have one, someone is going to use it to call you.”

“Well, yes,” the lawyer agreed.

“I told Mr. Bell himself that, but the damfool invented the thing anyway.”

Shute let that absurdity pass. “Your errand must be important?” he offered as a prompt.

“Mm-hmm,” Latterman murmured. “I want to sell my property to this young man.”

Clark looked startled, but the old fellow paid him no mind. “And I want it to be legal after I’m dead.” He frowned. “Papers to write up and get signed and all that. I expect it will take all the rest of the day to do the thing right and proper.”

It did too.