Firm
© 2023 by Walter Reimer

Thumbnail art by :iconmarmelmm:

“They do great work for the price, Larry,” his friend assured him as they left the jail.  The weasel had just been released on his own recognizance after getting caught with weed in his pocket at a festival in the park.  His friend, a fellow weasel named Paul, had come down to pick Larry up after he’d been released.
“Damned cops,” Larry muttered.  “Why can’t I get a public defender, instead of shelling out for a lawyer?”
Paul rolled his eyes as they walked across the parking lot to his car.  “Public defenders are all overworked and underpaid.  You saw the woman at your court appearance, right?”
“She had a nice tail, for a husky,” Larry said, chuckling as Paul rolled his eyes again.  They got in the car and Paul started the engine.
Fortunately, Larry’s car was still at the festival parking lot and hadn’t been towed away after his arrest.  It hadn’t even been stripped or keyed, which made it one of the bright spots in the weasel’s day.  “Thanks for picking me up, bro,” Larry said, “and for the lift out here.”
“Don’t sweat it,” Paul said.  “Friends, remember?  Just do me a favor.”
“Yeah?”
“At least go and talk to the guy, okay?” the weasel pulled a business card out of the car’s glove box and offered it to Larry.  “I think you’ll like him.”
Larry took the card and read it.  “Merle Fynch and Gladys?  Sounds like a mom-and-pop operation.”
“Heh.  You’ll see.  Just go and see ‘em, okay?”
Larry got out of the car, still holding the card.  “I will,” he said to his friend.  “Not like I had anything else planned for today.”
After he got into his own car, the weasel got his cell phone restarted and glared at it sourly.  One of his asshole friends who’d been at the festival had gotten a picture of him being arrested, and had sent it to him.  He snorted at it, brought up his traffic app, and entered the address on the business card.
The route took him past a fast-food joint, and he smiled.  He was hungry.
The law office of Merle Fynch & Gladys was in a strip mall located midway between the city and the nearest large town.  There were only three other businesses in the strip mall.  One, next door to the lawyer’s office, was an ice cream parlor; a taxidermist’s business was on the other side.
A sign directed people around the back to the aptly-named After Hours Dance Club, with a smaller sign adding that the Club employed ‘All Nude Girls.’
Larry got out of his car after parking in the strip mall’s largely-deserted parking lot, looked at the business card again, and shrugged.
No harm in at least looking.
A group of kids wearing Little League uniforms erupted from the ice cream parlor as he walked up to the law office’s entrance.  All of them held an ice cream cone and were being shepherded by a harried-looking pair of coaches toward a pair of SUVs.  
Kids.  The weasel chuckled before stepping inside.
“Good morning!” a pretty beagle femme said as he stepped inside.  The décor was wood paneling, decent furniture, and quite clean.  “May I help you?”
“Um, yeah,” Larry said.  “I got arrested last night, and a friend of mine referred me to here.”
“Okay,” the beagle said.  “I’ll let Mr. Fynch know.  Please have a seat.”
“Thanks.”  The weasel sat down and busied himself with checking his social media.
“Excuse me?” Larry looked up and the secretary said, “Mr. Fynch is coming out to see you.”
“Oh?  Oh, thank you,” and Larry stood up as the door to the back office opened and a slightly elderly hound in a suit stepped out.  “Hello, sir,” he said as he recalled his manners.
“Good afternoon, young man,” the hound said, and he and the weasel shook paws.  “I’m Merle Fynch.  You are?”
“Larry Andrews, sir.”  Was it his imagination, or was Fynch’s paw . . . sticky?  He flexed his fingers as he said, “I got arrested – “  He paused as Fynch held a finger up.
“Let’s talk in my office, Mr. Andrews.  Come with me.”
The back office held a desk, several chairs, and a filing cabinet.  It also had framed diplomas and pictures on the walls.  Part of the desk . . . Larry blinked.
Scraps of fur, bits of wood, tools, and a pot of glue took up maybe a third of the desk.
So that’s why his paw was sticky.
Fynch saw Larry’s face and chuckled.  “I can’t help tinkering between clients.  I also run the taxidermy shop next door.”
“You what?”
“Seemed like a perfect setup.  Some of the folks around here like to hunt ferals, and sometimes they want trophies,” the lawyer said while he got out a notepad and a pen.  “I own the building, so I have to make it pay.  My wife runs the ice cream shop.”
“You own the building?”
Fynch nodded.  “Looks can be deceiving,” and he grinned.  “Goes well in court at times.  You get some fancy prosecutor thinking I’m out of my depth, and I blindside him.  Now,” and he scribbled the date and time on the pad, “suppose you tell me your problem, Mr. Andrews.”
The questioning started with the weasel’s full name and other standard questions like date of birth and address, and the lawyer listened carefully as Larry related what had happened to him the previous night at the festival.  “How much marijuana did they confiscate?” the hound asked.
Larry sighed.  “I had about enough for two joints, with papers and a lighter.”
“Hmm.  So, misdemeanor possession and paraphernalia.  Any priors?”
“No.”
“Not even a traffic ticket?” Larry shook his head and the hound smiled.  “Shouldn’t have any trouble.  We’ll discuss money in a little while, and I’ll have a talk with my son.”
“Your son?”
Fynch nodded.  “He’s a lawyer, and my partner.”
Larry said, “You say you own the building.”
“Yeah.”
“That include the strip joint around the back?”
Fynch laughed.  “Yeah, as a matter of fact.  My daughter’s the boss.”
Larry blinked.  To say his train of thought had been derailed was understating the case.  “Y-Your daughter?”
The hound nodded.  “I have a few paralegals on my staff that earn extra dancing at the club.  Prostitution’s legal here in the county, so I think they earn more doing sex work.”  He grinned and tapped his nose.  “I call them my paradoxies.”
Larry blinked.  “That’s a terrible pun.”
“Yeah, they think so too.”  Fynch jotted a few more notes.  “Please have a seat outside, Mr. Andrews.  You might want to have some ice cream while you wait.”
Still blinking a little, the weasel got up and returned to the outer office.