Dick by Law Read online

  "...is a dick." Simon nodded. "Yes, Your Honor."

  "A dick," said Judge Bartlebaugh. "As in a person of low character."

  "I see it as doing a service for society," said Simon.

  "I think it's our duty to identify people like him."

  "Your Honor, I ask again that you dismiss this most frivolous lawsuit." Swope combed pork sausage fingers through his shock of wavy white hair. "Suing to have my client branded a dick is an extraordinary abuse of both the court's time and the county's money."

  Judge Bartlebaugh smirked. "You want to talk about abusing time?" He tapped his desk with an index finger. "Try sitting up here day after day dealing with one boring drug arrest or property line beef after another. This dick case is a breath of fresh air!"

  "We will demonstrate that this suit has significant merits, Your Honor," said Quinn. "We seek an injunction under the public nuisance statute. We will prove that Mr. Shaw is a nuisance to the public, and as such, deserving of regulation."

  Judge Bartlebaugh unwrapped a hunk of pink bubble gum and popped it into his mouth. "The statute was written with other nuisances in mind. Are you comparing Mr. Shaw to a strip mine or hog farm?"

  "If the shoe fits." Simon said it just loud enough for Quinn to hear.

  But Quinn gave no sign he'd heard. "Mr. Shaw fits the very definition of public nuisance. He is offensive and annoying to the people of this community and others."

  "Your Honor..." said Swope.

  Quinn wouldn't let him interrupt. "Mr. Shaw actually exceeds the definition under the statute. Not only is he offensive and annoying, but he actively causes pain and suffering on a regular basis."

  "Bullshit!" Face flushed, Horne popped up out of his chair.

  Swope pushed him back down. "I object to Mr. Keegan's characterization of my client!"

  "In ten years as a claims adjustor for 5G5 Delivery," said Quinn, "how many claims has Mr. Shaw paid out?"

  "That is not relevant," said Swope.

  "Zero." Quinn returned his gaze to Judge Bartlebaugh. "He has never paid one penny to a customer."

  "Objection!" Swope's ample jowls jiggled with rage.

  "And you know it's not because there weren't any damages in ten years." Quinn spread his arms wide. "It's a furniture and appliance delivery company, for heaven's sake."

  Simon got a chill up his spine. Listening to Quinn when he hit his stride was hardcore stirring. He was like a super-hero in a black pinstripe suit and red tie.

  "You will see, if you give us the chance," said Quinn, "that Mr. Shaw is at best a nuisance and at worst a genuine threat to the public good."

  Judge Bartlebaugh narrowed his eyes. "But the injunction specifically says dick. How do you plan to prove he's not just a nuisance, but a dick?"

  Quinn held up a sheaf of papers. "We have signed affidavits from dozens of people supporting our..."

  "Yes, but it's subjective." Judge Bartlebaugh rocked back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling, chewing his gum as he spoke. "We might as well call him a fuckwad or a shit-for-brains."

  "Hey!" said Shaw.

  "Your Honor..." said Quinn.

  "Why not change the complaint?" said Judge Bartlebaugh. "Leave out the 'dick' part."

  Quinn stared at Simon with special intensity. The truth was, Quinn had hated the "dick" concept from the get-go and had tried many times to talk Simon out of it.

  But the answer was still the same.

  "That would be missing the point," said Simon.

  Quinn stared so hard, he looked like his eyeballs were about to pop out.

  "He's a total dick." Simon hiked a thumb toward Horne. "People should know."

  Judge Bartlebaugh cracked his gum and got up from his chair. "All right then. The elements of the case are clear to me. It's been fun, but now we're done."

  "Thank you, Your Honor." Swope closed his leather-bound notebook with a crack that echoed through the cavernous courtroom and grinned over at Simon and Quinn. "So pleased we could reach this result."

  As Judge Bartlebaugh started down the steps behind the bench, Simon slumped. He'd known the lawsuit was a long shot, but he was still disappointed at the outcome. Even without a win, he'd hoped to have a little more time to make his point in a public forum. A little more time to get back at that dick Horne Shaw. But now, all his high hopes for revenge zoomed away at once like pigeons from a gunshot.

  And then zoomed right back.

  "See you Monday, everyone." Judge Bartlebaugh waved on his way through the door to his chambers.

  "Huh?" Startled, Simon turned to Quinn, who looked equally startled.

  "But you said we were done here!" said Swope.

  "Done for the weekend." Judge Bartlebaugh blew a bubble, then popped it and sucked the gum back into his mouth. "No way am I dismissing this case!"

  With that, he slammed the door shut behind him.

  *****

  Chapter 8

  China, 130 Million Years Ago

  Cretaceous Period, Mesozoic Era

  Repenomamus gigantus: the largest known early mammal, over one meter long. The first fossil evidence of this canine species was found in the Liaoning Province fossil beds of China. Thought to have been a carnivore whose diet included small dinosaurs.

  *****

  If the doglike creature had had a name, it might have been Grip. Of all the fur-covered, warm-blooded, doglike things roaming that prehistoric forest, his jaws had the most powerful grip by far. Once he got hold of something, he never let go.

  It didn't matter if he sunk his teeth into one of the four-winged feathered flyers or one of the furry, ratlike mammals...a long-legged frog in a steaming marsh or the egg of a monstrous dinosaur whose head towered among the tops of the pine and fir trees. He never let go.

  On one blistering hot afternoon, for example, Grip's mouth was latched onto the leg of a dinosaur...a small dinosaur, but still twice Grip's size. The gray-and-white striped dino was a runner, upright and skinny, but it wasn't going anywhere fast with Grip clamped onto one leg.

  Blood oozed from the punctures Grip's teeth made in the leg. The salty, metallic taste of it stirred his appetite, making his mouth water and his stomach growl. He couldn't wait to eat.

  And he'd be eating soon, he knew it. Grip had been holding on a while, and the dino was getting tired. Squawking and squealing, it tried to shake Grip free, but with nowhere near the force it had used moments earlier.

  Grip knew it was time to make a move. Red-tipped ears flattened against the mottled brown and white fur of his neck, he twisted his body hard to one side, wrenching the dino's leg out from under it. The dino screeched and flailed, trying to stay erect, but Grip sealed its fate with another twist.

  The dino fell thrashing into the thick ferns. It knew one last instant of freedom, when Grip let go of its leg, and it scrambled to try to escape...but the instant passed, and Grip lunged for its throat with a snarl.

  Grip's teeth sank into the dino's long, slender neck and tore out a tender strip of flesh. Blood gushed from a shredded artery, and Grip kept ripping.

  Ripping and chewing.

  By the time Grip was done, the dino's head was almost completely severed from its body. Grip gulped down hunks of meat and lapped up blood, and soon even the last twitches of the dino's pieces had stopped.

  With relish, Grip ate his fill. He felt an extra flare of pride for bringing down a dino twice his size, and he felt a ripple of relief for knowing he'd be able to feed his family that night.

  Such was life in the Mesozoic Era of the Cretaceous Period in the place that would someday be known as China's Liaoning Province. Kill or be killed, every morning, noon, and night. Survival of the fittest.

  Dog eat dinosaur.

  When Grip had eaten all he could hold, he latched onto the dino's leg again and began to drag it. What mattered most now was getting the meat back to the burrow before something else stole it or it spoiled...getting good meat into the bellies of his mate and pups.

  They were
the reason he hunted so hard and never let go. They made him happier than anything in the world.

  And nothing could ever make him let go of them.

  *****

  Chapter 9

  130 Million Years Later

  Saturday

  Near Melville, Pennsylvania

  One day after his first victory in court, Simon pulled the trigger, and a fresh round leaped from the barrel of the rifle. One of the bad guys who was sneering at him from across the muddy street flipped backward, crashing to the floorboards.

  With a clang.

  "Woo-hoo!" Quinn was shouting from the spectator gallery behind Simon. "Great shooting, bro!"

  Simon smirked and slid the rifle barrel across the rim of the water trough he was using to steady his shots. A stiff April breeze swept over him as he lined up the next target in his sights--an image of an Old West bad guy in black hat and mustache, stamped on a metal plate the size of a man.

  Simon squeezed the trigger, and another round of live ammunition burst across the muddy street. The shot struck the bad guy target dead on, right between the glaring eyes, and it fell with a clang.

  As the crowd of twenty or so fellow cowboys and cowgirls in the gallery applauded, Simon put down the rifle and slid a pistol from the holster at his left hip. He cocked the hammer, took aim at a third target, and fired.

  He hit that one, too. The third bad guy--a mountain man type with a coonskin cap, bushy beard, and blood-drenched axe--dropped out of sight.

  Simon grinned and reached for the shotgun leaning against the trough. On the heels of his great day in court, he was having a kick-ass day of Cowboy Action Shooting. He thought he might even beat Quinn for the first time in ages.

  Simon loaded the shotgun, then tipped back his light brown cowboy hat and braced the gunstock against his leather vest. Old West costumes were part of the sport of Cowboy Action Shooting, as were the single-action guns, live ammo, and sets straight out of Dodge City, erected on the property of a sportsmen's club twenty minutes outside Melville.

  The nickname "aliases" were part of it, too. "The Lone Appraiser picks up a time of 25:20 on Stage 2!" That was what the announcer said after Simon--otherwise known as the Lone Appraiser--knocked down a fourth target (a wicked-looking dance hall girl dressed in blue, both hands gripping Derringer pistols).

  It was corny as hell, and Simon loved it. So did Quinn--Mr. Knight Ranger himself.

  "Great job, Sy!" Quinn marched out of the gallery and slapped Simon on the back. "You're giving me a run for my money today!"

  Simon grinned as he holstered his revolver and gathered up his rifle and shotgun. "I guess I'm on a roll, man."

  "In more ways than one." Quinn took hold of Simon's shoulder and steered him toward the gallery. "There's someone I want you to meet."

  A man stepped out of the crowd and waved. He was dressed like Hoss Cartwright from Bonanza--white hat and shirt, brown vest and pants--and built like him, too--tall and broad-shouldered, with a general beefiness and a belly that was ample but not flabby.

  "This is Jim Lassiter," said Quinn. "Sarsaparilla Slim in the Cowboy Action Shooting Society."

  Cowboy hats bobbing in the sun, the rest of the crowd ambled off to the next event, or stage. But Jim stayed behind. "Good to meet you." He stuck out his hand.

  "Jim's visiting from the Kentucky Wildmen," said Quinn.

  "Welcome to the Melville Avengers." As Simon shook Jim's hand, he caught a whiff of B.O. and too much cologne. "I'm Simon Bellerophon."

  "Great outfit you got here." Jim looked around at the shooting range with its mockups of Old West settings: a saloon, a sheriff's office, a general store, a Boot Hill graveyard. Sunlight gleamed on the metal cutout targets painted with Wild West bad guys that were propped up at every location. "Takes my mind off my problems."

  "Jim's in town to settle his aunt's estate," said Quinn. "I'm handling the legal side."

  "I could use an appraiser right now, too," said Jim. "Lots of antiques and jewelry in the estate."

  "How does your schedule look, Simon?" Quinn raised an eyebrow.

  Simon nodded. "I have some time available." He was always happy when Quinn lobbed a business referral his way.

  "Fantastic." Jim clapped him on the arm. "I'll call in a week or three."

  "Just one problem." Simon patted his pockets and shook his head. "I don't have a business card with me."

  In a blink, Quinn whipped a gold-plated business card holder from his coat pocket, flipped it open, and flicked out a card. "Fortunately, I came prepared." Smiling, he handed over the card to Jim.

  Jim chuckled and took the card. "Where'd you two learn this kind of teamwork?"

  "We're foster brothers," said Quinn. "We grew up together."

  "Which one of you was the foster child?" said Jim.

  "Both," said Simon. "Neither one of us was raised by our birth parents."

  "And now you work together," said Jim.

  "And shoot together," said Simon.

  "Not that we're always on the same wavelength, of course." Quinn shot Simon a look.

  "Still, I wish I got along that well with my brother." Jim sighed and turned to go. "Well, I'll be in touch."

  As Jim ambled away, Simon elbowed Quinn in the ribs. "Don't tell me you're still stuck on the dick situation."

  Quinn shrugged. "I'm just saying. Who has the deeper pockets--national delivery company 5G5 or two-bit flunky claims adjustor Horne Shaw?"

  "Read my lips," said Simon. "I...don't...care."

  "Because you're not in it for the money." Quinn took off his gray suede ten-gallon hat and batted dust from the crown. "What's the matter with you, Simon? Don't you like money? Because I sure do."

  Simon swung his rifle up on one shoulder and his shotgun on the other. "Money won't stop Horne from hurting other people."

  "And calling him a dick will?"

  "You bet." Simon headed for the next stage of the match--a mockup of an Old West saloon. "If everyone knows what he is up front, they'll be more likely to steer clear of him."

  "Here's what I'm saying." Quinn drew one of his revolvers and swung out the cylinder. The spurs on his black boots jingled as he walked. "Horne acts like a total dick, doesn't he? You mean to tell me people don't realize he's bad news the first time they deal with him?"

  Just then, Simon heard the announcer call the start of the next stage and quickened his step. "Horne's a menace to society. I want him marked for life."

  "I never steer you wrong, bro." Quinn holstered his revolver and reached for the rifle slung on his back. "Promise me you'll think about the deep pockets, okay? We can still amend the complaint."

  "Never," said Simon.

  Quinn blew out his breath in frustration. "Just sleep on it, will you?"

  "Never in a million years." Simon's hands clenched around the rifle and shotgun resting on his shoulders. "No fucking way. Not after what that dick did to me."

  *****

  Chapter 10

  Monday Morning

  In Court

  "My client is very community-minded, Your Honor." It was first thing Monday morning, Day Two of the "Dick" hearing, and Quinn was singing the praises of Simon's character in the main courtroom of the Tucker County courthouse. "He runs his own charity, In¢entive$, which provides young people with tangible rewards for community service."

  Naturally, that drew cheers from Josie and Chip in the gallery. The rest of the audience whispered to each other in the gallery benches and around the courtroom walls.

  Simon guessed there were two hundred spectators in the vast courtroom that day...standing room only. His unique case was getting some attention.

  "In addition to operating In¢entive$," said Quinn, "Mr. Bellerophon works as an appraiser and authenticator of antiques and collectibles. In this capacity, he frequently assists members of the community in obtaining fair market value for their possessions."

  Simon heard Horne mutter something, though he couldn't make out the words. Looking over,
he saw Horne's flushed, pitted face in profile, lips curled in a sneer.

  "What about you, Mr. Shaw?" Judge Bartlebaugh, looking down from the bench at the front of the room, cupped his chin in his hand and cracked his chewing gum. "Anything in the good deeds column?"

  "This is highly irregular, Your Honor," said Swope. "Since when do so-called good deeds have any bearing in a court of law?"

  "Too bad I make the rules here." Judge Bartlebaugh rolled his eyes. "Tell me or I'll rule for the plaintiff right now."

  Swope smiled and plopped into the chair beside Horne. "One moment please, Your Honor."

  The consultation took considerably longer than a moment. Simon couldn't hear what Swope and Horne were saying, but he guessed from their agitated gestures that it wasn't going well. He thought he could smell their flop sweat from across the room.

  "Your Honor." Swope huffed to his feet. "Mr. Shaw is a supporter of the Greenpeace organization."

  "Greenpeace?" Judge Bartlebaugh frowned. "As in 'save the whales' Greenpeace?"

  "One and the same, Your Honor." Swope's jowls jiggled when he nodded.

  Judge Bartlebaugh grinned. "Let me see if I've got this straight." He stifled a chuckle. "Mr. Bellerophon is suing to have Mr. Shaw labeled a dick."

  "Correct, Your Honor," said Quinn.

  "So the man who's being called a dick," said Judge Bartlebaugh, "wants to save Moby Dick." With that, he broke into open laughter.

  All two hundred-plus people in the courtroom joined him, except Swope and Horne. Even Quinn, who kept a poker face firmly in place at all times, couldn't hold back some chuckles.

  Judge Bartlebaugh wiped tears from his eyes and looked at the court stenographer. "You got that, right?" She nodded briskly. "I love this case."