Caught in the near-incapacitating embrace of a deep leather chair in the foyer of Lance & Marez, Art studied the receptionist from the corner of his eyes. She had told him to wait here. Short, black hair topped her head, and her face was hidden behind an armor of make-up and blood-red lipstick. The woman watched Art with the beady, calculating scrutiny of a bird of prey. She was perched behind the bulwark of a curved counter of polished, honey-colored wood.
A young man wearing a dark suit, a tie, a stack of files, and a preoccupied expression passed the counter in quick steps. Predator eyes followed his progress. His footfalls were swallowed by the expanse of dark gray carpet, the only sound being the subdued rustle of expensive wool. Executive silence returned after his passage.
In his blue sweater and jeans, Art felt underdressed, almost naked. He hadn't had time to dress for the occasion. Rudi Marez had been willing to see him right this Monday afternoon. Even if Art had had the time to visit his apartment before this meeting, his wardrobe mostly contained sweaters, t-shirts, and jeans but none of the textile armor required for survival in the jungle of business.
Wearing a sweater seemed appropriate because his hands were sweaty—more appropriate than the European designation of the garment, jumper, because he didn't feel like jumping at all.
This morning, his conversation with Rudi Marez had been brief. It had fallen on Art to do most of the talking. After having heard him out, the lawyer had handed him on to his secretary for scheduling an appointment. The woman had made it clear that her boss' only free time slot was today, 3 p.m. Art, not having a legal star's busy calendar, had obliged.
A subdued ping from an elevator to his left drew his attention. A petite redhead emerged from its opening maw and made a beeline for Art, smiling. "Mr. Sharpe?"
"Yes, that's me." With a grunt, he escaped the chair's intimate grasp and got to his feet.
"I'm Eve, Mr. Marez' secretary."
She offered her hand. Art shook it, wondering if the occasion called for him mentioning his first name, too. But before he could open his mouth, she detached herself from his grip and gestured towards the elevator's still open maw.
"Please."
The silent ride took them to the building's top floor. The foyer there was smaller, and its desk was unmanned, or unwomanned. The secretary knocked at a massive door set into a wall beside it and, without waiting for an answer, pushed its fat, golden handle. Art followed her inside.
The room was large enough to house a small army of lawyers. But it held only one, Rudi Marez. The man got up when Art entered and navigated around his battleship of a desk.
"Mr. Sharpe!" His voice was as firm as his smile.
"Mr. Marez." Art strived to give his words volume, but they stood emaciated beside the stately greeting that had preceded them.
The man's grasp was even firmer than his voice and smile.
"Please sit." Rudi Marez motioned towards a chair at the battleship's guest side and retreated to his own. He sat down and steepled his fingers, like in the photograph on the website. And, in fact, also like in that photograph, his back was guarded by a wall of books. Gold and silver lettering adorned the dark spines of the fat volumes. But the shelf didn't reach the ceiling—above it was a section of white wall dominated by an animal's head. Some kind of buffalo, huge, horned, stuffed, and dead. It looked startled.
"So, you know Monica."
"Yes, she's my neighbor." Art sat up straight, noting that his head was below Rudi Marez' receding hairline, even though the man wasn't tall. He wondered if the visitor's chair was lower than the host's.
Unsteepling his hands, the lawyer leaned back. He waved towards a framed picture sitting on the window-facing bow of the battleship. "Monica," he said. "She's my daughter. But, to be honest with you, I haven't seen much of her in the last few years."
The frame displayed a photograph of a family—a woman, a man, and three kids. Obviously the Marez clan, at a time when the children still did their parents' bidding.
Beyond the frame, the large window offered a scenic view over the city below them, the lake beyond it, and—in a rare moment of meteorological splendor—the dazzling mountains in the distance.
"So, are you two together? A couple?"
The commanding voice tore Art's eyes away from the breathtaking scenery. "No, we're just friends." Art had decided that they were friends, in a lowest-common-denominator sort of way at least. "And when I heard she'd been arrested, I wanted to see her. But the police have told me that only family is allowed to visit."
"We'll see about that..." A grim smile played around Rudi Marez' lips. It disappeared moments later, and coal-black eyes bored into Art. "What do you know about that murder?"
The words rolled over the expanse of desk and loomed up when they reached Art, surrounding him like a gang of bullies, tempting him to confess to a crime he hadn't committed.
He took a breath and recounted what he knew about the events at Dumstreet 9, repeating what he had told Savage in the first interview.
After he had finished, the bull and the lawyer studied him, the former's expression still startled, the latter's intense.
"And what about Monica? Did she do it?" Rudi Marez leaned forward.
Once more, Art sat straight. "No." He was astonished at the conviction the word carried.
The lawyer nodded. "Good. You seem to know what you're talking about."
The man's statement felt like a legal trap snapping shut, holding him responsible for his word and Monica's behavior. He considered adding a disclaimer, but his instincts told him that this was a skirmish he could not win.
Rudi Marez' hands traced a dark leather pad laid out before him. "You see... Monica's my daughter. And of all of my kids, she's probably the smartest. But she's stubborn, headstrong, and wild. Someone as smart as she could have been anything... And what does she do with her life?" He shook his head, then pressed his lips together. "She works as a waitress. And now she's in detention, accused of murder."
Art was tempted to explain that a certain behavior was apt to make your kids do the exact opposite of what you wanted, but he remained silent.
"And she won't even accept her family's help. I've offered her the best team of lawyers that money and connections can buy." The emphasis on the word 'connections' told of a deeper meaning that was beyond Art's grasp. "But she won't have that, sticking with some mediocre public defender instead." He got up with a sigh. "Come, I want to show you something."
Curious, Art joined Rudi Marez as the man approached the wall opposite the window. It was dominated by a massive, built-in shelf and cupboard construction sculpted from solid wood. It held books, plaques, antiques, photographs, and collectibles. A framed image showed a dead bull lying on dusty ground and five men standing behind it. Only one of them was white and armed, and he stood in the center.
A wide glass pane covered part of the furniture's front.
The lawyer pressed a button, and a niche behind the glass lit up in warm light—a niche populated by an army of tin soldiers. The thumb-high figures were hand-painted and minutely crafted. Most of them carried toothpick-sized spears, some held banners.
"This is a historical set. It shows one of the famous battle scenes of Tavetian history. These..." Rudi motioned towards the host on the left side, at least a hundred tiny, tinny heads strong, "are the Austrians. The emperor's army. He was ruling the land, suppressing the peasants and extolling taxes to fund his court and power."
Art nodded. The emperor's men wore blue and white uniforms that clearly prioritized gaudy show of spirit over the merits of camouflage. They had tin horses—or ponies, by the size of them. Most of the fighters had metal armor.
"And, opposing them..." Rudi's hand pointed to the soldiers on the right side, "we have the Tavetians, the men of the mountain districts around here. They had risen against the emperor. They challenged his power with steel, courage, and cunning."
The Tavetians' clothing was red instead of blue. They lacked steeds, metal armor, and numbers. Their future looked bleak, bloody, and short.
"Theirs was a smaller army. They didn't have the equipment and training like the emperor's men. But they knew the ground and lured their enemy into the swamps near a lake." He indicated a lovely lake scenery artfully painted on the exhibit's back wall. "There, on the soft ground, the horses faltered, and the soldiers' armor was too heavy. Tavetia won the battle. And the war."
Art nodded at the precursor of 3D cinema before him, fascinated and bewildered. "I see."
"The Tavetians won because, together, they were more than the sum of their parts. They became a power to be reckoned with."
Non-linear interaction. Add two things and get more than their sum.
The concept made sense.
"To achieve that," Rudi Marez continued, "they had to collaborate. And they needed strong, smart leaders." He singled out a group of better-clad men on a hillock to the right. They looked less like peasantry than the rest of the Tavetian fighters.
"So, do you see what I mean?" He turned to face Art, dark eyes searching his face. "It's good to be wild, strong, and ferocious. But to win, you need to work together, and there must be leadership."
"Yeah..."
And there's no doubt who's the leader in this war.
Rudi Marez switched off the exhibit's light and returned to the desk. They both sat down again.
"This is what we'll do." The leader sat back and held Art pinned in his gaze. "I'll talk to a friend of mine. A lawyer specialized in criminal law. He'll arrange for you to visit Monica. In return, you'll convince her to accept our help, to work with that attorney. Will you do that?"
Art nodded. "I can try." Even though he sympathized with her refusal to accept this man's help, he agreed that only the best should defend her. "But, as you said, she's headstrong."
And I do know where she got that strong head of hers.
"Yes, you're right." Rudi Marez laughed and got up again. "And you speak your mind, I like that. But I'm sure you'll do your best, won't you?"
"Of course."
On the way out of the office, Rudi Marez stopped and turned to face Art. "What do you do, by the way? What's your line of work?"
"I'm a mathematician... at the Institute of Technology." It felt good to show that he wasn't a waiter.
Already trapped in this man's point of view.
"Great. Math is important, and I respect anyone who can make sense of it." He opened the door for Art and offered his hand. "Leave your phone number with my secretary. We'll call you. And I do rely on you." His eyes were all sincerity.
The secretary's call reached him the next day. She told him he could see Monica on Wednesday morning. He had been officially promoted to be Monica's boyfriend to merit visiting rights.
He wondered how she'd receive the news of his new role in her life.