Call Me Joe Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Steven J Patrick
closest to my heart, right up there for anyone to see. I've often thought that a truly perceptive person could look at that wall, my bookcase, and the contents of my pantry and know everything they'd ever really need to know about me. Fortunately, I don't know many truly perceptive people.
I had six messages: two from Scott Landry about our fishing trip in three weeks, two from Lee that I had already gotten from home, one from Clyde's vet about his next check-up.
The last one was from Art D'Onofrio, a Spokane attorney I had done a few corporate things for a year earlier. He was sitting on what he called an "odd" situation over near Colville and might need a fair chunk of my time, not urgent, at my convenience, and so on.
"Ka-Ching," I smiled. Art paid well and promptly, as I recalled. I made a note to call him in the morning and drew a red line under it.
As I left the office, Chip Carroll was just locking up at Carroll Kirk Brickhouse, the ad firm across the hall.
"Boy," I smiled, "No perks at all for senior partners, huh? You're still locking up at 9:30 at night."
Chip laughed and checked his watch.
"Gets worse," he grinned. "I told Maggie I'd be home at 8:45. And I am not the senior partner at home. I'm somewhere below the grandkids, the cats, and a potted plant or two."
"Why are you here, now that I've mentioned it?" I asked. "I haven't seen you in...a month?"
"I just wined, dined, and slam-dunked a new account, m'boy," he smiled. "Dinner at El Gaucho, Cohibas, bottle or two of Shafer Cab, Warres '90 Port with dessert. The works."
"Ouch," I chuckled. "Was your expense account air-lifted to Harborview after?"
"Chump change, compared to what's coming the other way," he sighed. "Two-point-six annual budget for six years."
"Jeez," I murmured. "I'm in the wrong line of work."
"So come over," he shrugged. "I've always thought we could use a leg-breaker for those occasional slow-pays."
"Waaal," I yawned, "I may have my own rather tiny gravy train after tomorrow. Attorney from Eastern WA, a man with a lightning checkbook, needs a goodly chunk of my romantically unencumbered time. I feel a rate increase coming on."
"Bravo," Chip nodded. "Hey, how's about beers Friday, after the cows are in the barn?"
"Done," I smiled. "Palomino?"
"Nah," he frowned. "Like Yogi Berra said, 'Nobody goes there anymore because it's too crowded'. Let's do the ol' Virginia Inn."
"I like it," I grinned. "Nostalgic."
"Back to the days when we both had no money, eh?" he laughed.
"Chip," I groaned, "I still don't have any money."
"Okay, I'm buying," he snorted. "No money, my ass."
I sighed and slapped him on the back. We walked out together and said our goodbyes at my parking space. I watched Leroy, an ageless black street musician who was there the first day I came to Seattle and would doubtless be there after I'm gone, tuning his ancient Martin on a bench in Occidental Square. He looked up and saw me and nodded, grave and silent as ever. Leroy rarely spoke and I once asked him why.
"I speak all the time, man," he said softly, "I just do it while I'm singing."
Hard to argue with that.
The game had just ended when I reached the corner of South First and Royal Brougham, in front of the brewery.
It felt strange not to be at the ballpark. I have season tickets and rarely miss a game. Tonight, though, I had promised Scott all four so he could take Pam's parents, from St. Paul, to watch the M's play the Twins. I heard the wrap-up on a sausage vendor's radio as I walked down Occidental. The M's won 11-2. I had a feeling it had been a long night for Scott with Pam and the in-laws.
Lee was already at a table and had two ambers in place. I slid into a chair, picked up one of the mugs, and downed about a third of it at one go.
“Well,” Lee smiled, “hello to you, too.”
“I looked at you and looked at the beer
I had six messages: two from Scott Landry about our fishing trip in three weeks, two from Lee that I had already gotten from home, one from Clyde's vet about his next check-up.
The last one was from Art D'Onofrio, a Spokane attorney I had done a few corporate things for a year earlier. He was sitting on what he called an "odd" situation over near Colville and might need a fair chunk of my time, not urgent, at my convenience, and so on.
"Ka-Ching," I smiled. Art paid well and promptly, as I recalled. I made a note to call him in the morning and drew a red line under it.
As I left the office, Chip Carroll was just locking up at Carroll Kirk Brickhouse, the ad firm across the hall.
"Boy," I smiled, "No perks at all for senior partners, huh? You're still locking up at 9:30 at night."
Chip laughed and checked his watch.
"Gets worse," he grinned. "I told Maggie I'd be home at 8:45. And I am not the senior partner at home. I'm somewhere below the grandkids, the cats, and a potted plant or two."
"Why are you here, now that I've mentioned it?" I asked. "I haven't seen you in...a month?"
"I just wined, dined, and slam-dunked a new account, m'boy," he smiled. "Dinner at El Gaucho, Cohibas, bottle or two of Shafer Cab, Warres '90 Port with dessert. The works."
"Ouch," I chuckled. "Was your expense account air-lifted to Harborview after?"
"Chump change, compared to what's coming the other way," he sighed. "Two-point-six annual budget for six years."
"Jeez," I murmured. "I'm in the wrong line of work."
"So come over," he shrugged. "I've always thought we could use a leg-breaker for those occasional slow-pays."
"Waaal," I yawned, "I may have my own rather tiny gravy train after tomorrow. Attorney from Eastern WA, a man with a lightning checkbook, needs a goodly chunk of my romantically unencumbered time. I feel a rate increase coming on."
"Bravo," Chip nodded. "Hey, how's about beers Friday, after the cows are in the barn?"
"Done," I smiled. "Palomino?"
"Nah," he frowned. "Like Yogi Berra said, 'Nobody goes there anymore because it's too crowded'. Let's do the ol' Virginia Inn."
"I like it," I grinned. "Nostalgic."
"Back to the days when we both had no money, eh?" he laughed.
"Chip," I groaned, "I still don't have any money."
"Okay, I'm buying," he snorted. "No money, my ass."
I sighed and slapped him on the back. We walked out together and said our goodbyes at my parking space. I watched Leroy, an ageless black street musician who was there the first day I came to Seattle and would doubtless be there after I'm gone, tuning his ancient Martin on a bench in Occidental Square. He looked up and saw me and nodded, grave and silent as ever. Leroy rarely spoke and I once asked him why.
"I speak all the time, man," he said softly, "I just do it while I'm singing."
Hard to argue with that.
The game had just ended when I reached the corner of South First and Royal Brougham, in front of the brewery.
It felt strange not to be at the ballpark. I have season tickets and rarely miss a game. Tonight, though, I had promised Scott all four so he could take Pam's parents, from St. Paul, to watch the M's play the Twins. I heard the wrap-up on a sausage vendor's radio as I walked down Occidental. The M's won 11-2. I had a feeling it had been a long night for Scott with Pam and the in-laws.
Lee was already at a table and had two ambers in place. I slid into a chair, picked up one of the mugs, and downed about a third of it at one go.
“Well,” Lee smiled, “hello to you, too.”
“I looked at you and looked at the beer
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