Gladiator-At-Law

Chapter Seven

Fourteen billion dollars. Mundin, trudging apprehensively through Belly Rave's dark streets, felt very small up against fourteen billion dollars. Still, he had accepted the case.

A mournful hooting from the shadows made him quicken his step, but no lurking thugs showed up. Mundin shivered uncomfortably and turned up his coat collar. It had begun to rain.

Luck was with Mundin. He was neither mugged nor lured into one of the clip joints. The footpads were stalking other streets, the roving gangs of armed adolescents plotted in their cellars instead of braving the ram, the cab Mundin spotted, ran after, and hailed was a legitimate cab and not a trap. He got out of Belly Rave without difficulty, and he never knew what he had missed.

The cab ride gave him time to think. But the thinking came to very little. The Lavins, he was convinced, had a legitimate claim. He had promised them he would work on it; he had tried to reassure them that things were cot as hopeless as they seemed. He felt uncomfortably sure that the girl had seen through his empty words.

The cab came to territory he recognized, and he stopped it at an all-night restaurant. Coffee might help. While he was waiting for it, he invested a dime in a call to his office; you never could tell, maybe someone had called.

Someone had. The Sleepless Secretary hooted and groaned and came across with the record of a familiar, scared voice: "Mr. Mundin, uh, this is Norvell Bligh. Can you come and get me out of jail?"