THE MISFIT UNIT: 29) A PISSING CONTEST

My Saturday Evening Post: A Serial Novel of Intrigue & Lunacy

Michael Zudex spends most of the EasyJet flight to London in morose, silent mode.

"It's not so bad." Dalkin uncaps a second quarter-bottle of white wine. "After all, you get to keep living a life of luxury. Not bad for a cold-blooded murderer like yourself."

Zudex glares at Dalkin.

"Sorry." Dalkin toasts the air with his plastic glass. "Just trying to cheer you up."

Upon landing, Zudex trembles as he follows Dalkin to Immigration. Having re-considered his position while sitting in a jet for two hours, Zudex now half-expects to be detained and arrested.

Dalkin senses his nervousness. "See?" he said as they exit Immigration and stroll through Customs. "Everything's fine."

A taxi whisks them to The Lowndes Hotel. It is ten p.m., but even after a day's round-trip travel, Dalkin isn't ready to quit. He picks up the phone. "C'mon over," he says to someone on the other end. "Someone I want you to meet." Then he descends with Michael Zudex to the restaurant downstairs.

Zudex gulps two Scotch and sodas while Dalkin chomps fish and chips.

Richard Thornington enters—and freezes in his tracks when he sees Michael Zudex.

The men study one another like a pair of dogs sniffing.

"May I have a word?" Thornington tugs at Dalkin's elbow.

Dalkin shrugs. "Sure." He follows Thornington into the lobby.

"That's… that’s Michael Zudex!" stammers Thornington.

"Sure is."

"What the bugger is he doing here?"

"I turned him," says Dalkin.

"You did what?"

"Zudex is working for us now."

Thornington's eyes bulge from their sockets. "But he's actually had people killed."

"Another reason we actually want him on our side from now on. Actually.”

"On another front,” says Thornington, “I heard from Igor. He has the file on our MI5 mole."

"Already?"

"I think he had it all along. That's why he settled for half the money."

"Can we meet him tomorrow?"

"I'll check."

"Do that. Then come back and acquaint yourself with Michael Zudex. I want you to spend most of tomorrow de-briefing him."

*****

Next morning Richard Thornington arrives promptly at ten a.m.

Dalkin choreographs the Brit and Michael Zudex into his own junior suite for deep-consultation. Then Dalkin strolls to the Royal Bank of Scotland and initiates a withdrawal of 300,000 pounds sterling, cash that would have to be dispatched by armored car from the bank's City branch.

Mid-afternoon, Dalkin connects to his lawyer at Bacon, Hump for an update. "Have we bailed from the case yet?"

"I met with Bernie Rosen," says Bradley Fatwood.

"And?"

"He doesn't want us out of this case."

"Who the fuck cares what he wants? You told him, if Dillman doesn't pay your bills, we're making a deal, right?"

"It's not that simple," says Fatwood.

"I don't get it. What's not that simple about it?"

"As I thought," says Fatwood. "Ding-a-Ling's legal strategy is based on making this lawsuit as complicated and time-consuming for the plaintiffs as possible. Rosen says if we cut a settlement with the plaintiff, they will name you a third-party defendant."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"It means this: They'll take the position that you violated the plaintiff's rights on your own, without their authority."

"Oh, like I just woke up one morning and said, I think I'll spook Rhoda Rigglesworth today?"

"They'll claim you see went beyond anything they asked you to do and demand that any damages awarded to the plaintiff should be transferred to you. Which means you'll need an on-going defense."

"Maybe what I need is a different lawyer. Someone more willing to take on other big-time attorneys in Washington instead of being part of their brotherhood.”

"Calm down," says Fatwood.

"Calm down? I'm standing in the middle of a pissing contest, getting splattered from all directions—and paying for all the piss that hits me!"