The Lawyer, The Ghost and The Cursed Chair
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 by Untreed Reads Publishing, LLC
Cover Art Copyright 2010 by Untreed Reads, Photo By Pukalski, Fonts By Dara England
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Time and Age. They make bottoms sag, legs shake, and arms wobble. Every time the old chair was moved it left a trail of little Hansel-and-Gretel tufts of ancient gray stuffing. In the world of furniture it had once been a duchess. Now it was a bag lady.
H.L. (Horatio Lamar) Snodgrass IV never gave the old chair another thought after he placed it in the storage room of his office to await the junk man. He was too busy sniffing and stroking its replacement, experiencing almost orgasmic pleasure in the smell and feel of the tall-backed chair made from the hides of Pamplona fighting bulls, a chair fit for a king. Or a damn good lawyer. He was the best. When he spoke judges melted. When he spoke Justice took off her blindfold, winked, and hiked her skirt to the thigh.
His clothes were custom made. One car was foreign and expensive. Another was American and expensive. His favorite was old, low-slung, and expensive. His wife, who was visiting the baccarat tables and roulette wheels in Las Vegas, was petite and expensive. Larry, his long-time boyfriend, was not petite in any way, and less expensive than his wife.
A series of bone-shattering blows against the door interrupted his thoughts. Normally he would have let his secretary answer the door, but since this was Saturday she was not there.
On his way to the door, H.L. had to pass the time-faded oil portrait of his Great-great-great Grandfather, Hawkins Forsythe Snodgrass, and he felt a brief twinge of conscience. After all, the old fellow had brought the chair from England generations ago. Hawkins had been a famous barrister in his homeland and he became more famous in his adopted country. Part of his fame was due to the eccentricity of never abandoning the English wig and robe even after becoming an American citizen. Hawkins was the founder of six generations of Snodgrass lawyers, each more successful and richer than the last.
“Perhaps,” H.L. thought, “I should keep the chair as a memento...but what the hell.”
The explosive knock came again. H.L. opened the door and came eye-to-Adam’s-apple with a hulking individual who sported a turned-about Chicago Cubs cap and a bushy beard. A fine gold chain led from the gold hoop in his left nostril to a large gold hoop in his left earlobe. His shirt was unbuttoned to the waist and a gold skull on a chain glinted upon a chest of black fur that a grizzly bear would have envied. Clamped between his teeth was a cigar that, judging from the smell, had been made from a mixture of rotten eggs and old rags.
“Are you the junk man?” H.L. asked.
“No, I ain’t no friggin’ junk man,” the Neanderthal growled. “I’m Vyvyan Smucker from Smucker’s Reclamation, Recycling, and Haulage.” He took a drag on the cigar and exhaled a choking cloud of smog. “Show me the junk.”
H.L. led him to the storage room and pointed to the chair. Like a harem virgin about to be mounted by a five-hundred-pound Maharajah, it seemed to shiver and huddle within itself.
“Five bucks,” said Smucker.
H.L. was pleased. He hadn’t realized he would make five dollars off the deal. However, Smucker did not move toward either the chair or his wallet.
“Well?” said H.L. “I haven’t got all day.”
“Me either. Gimme my five smackers and me and the piece of junk are outta here.”
“What? I’m supposed to pay you?”
Smucker removed the cigar from between his teeth. “Well, whadda you think?”
“Oh, hell,” grumbled H.L. as he forked over the five. “That’s the trouble with this country today. Everybody’s out to screw everybody else.”
Smucker’s eyes brightened. He replaced the cigar and thoughtfully looked H.L. up and down. Twice. After a minute he shrugged. “Nah. You ain’t my type. Too flimsy.” He hoisted the chair up under one arm and strolled out.
As H.L. shut the office door behind him, he mumbled, “Damned cretin. Probably drags his knuckles on the ground when no one’s looking.” As he turned from the door he caught his reflection in the ornately framed square mirror on the reception area wall. He scowled at himself, squared his jaw in a manly way, and imagined himself naked, muscles bulging, in a Mr. Universe pose. “What did he mean I wasn’t his type? What’s his type? King Kong?”
That night, after a splendid gourmet supper and a bottle of expensive Condrieu wine, H.L. sank torpidly into the comfort of his new double-king-size round waterbed with Larry. Long past midnight he woke to find that he was wet. The waterbed had sprung a leak and he was lying in Lake Michigan.
Larry leaped up, yelling, “What the—? I told you not to drink so much!” Larry gathered his clothes and left in a soggy snit.
“Aw, shit...” H.L. surveyed the damage to his priceless Persian rug. “Aw, shit...” he said again.
“I could have predicted that,” said a deep voice behind him.
H.L. gasped and grabbed his pistol from the bedside table and waved it around. He saw no one. “Come out, you coward,” he yelled.
A shadow quivered and took shape beside the bed. H.L. screamed and jerked the trigger. The gun went off, blasting a crystal vase, circa 1749, into costly smithereens. In front of the window was a portly man in a black robe and a side-curled, pigtailed barrister’s wig. And yet… and yet… H.L. could see the window. Through him.
“Who are you? How did you get in? Are you—are you—are you—are you—”
“Stop flopping your jaw,” replied the apparition in a crisp British accent. “It makes you look like a fish. I am your forebear, Horatio. Hawkins Forsythe Snodgrass. In the flesh...metaphorically speaking.”
H.L. squeezed his eyes shut. “You’re not real. I had escargot and wine for dinner. That’s all you are. Undigested snails swimming in corked wine.”
His ancestor snorted. “‘More of gravy than the grave,’ eh? Horatio, why in the name of Sir William Blackstone, did you get rid of that chair?”
H.L.’s eyes popped open again. “The chair? What chair? Omigod, your chair?”
“Precisely. You imbecile! Didn’t you realize there had to be a reason why the Snodgrasses kept it all these decades? Did you think I carted it to America because of its aesthetic charm? All the success the Snodgrasses have had for over a century and a half was due to that chair and now you’ve queered the pitch.”
“I’ve...huh?”
“Queered the pitch. Booted the ball. Cut the wrong stallion. Gutted the wrong goose. Eh? What, what?” There was a little grumble of thunder. The apparition cocked his head as if listening. Then he glared at H.L. “Your father instructs me to say you fucked up.”
“Oh,” whispered H.L. He plopped down on what was left of the bed. So this was what going crazy was like. You sat in a puddle listening to your great-great-great grandfather pass along messages from your deceased father. “Well. Tell Dad hello for me.”
The shade of Old Hawkins groaned and covered his face with his hands. “You must be a foundling. You could not be the ultimate fruit of my loins.”
H.L.’s panic ebbed away. Since he was cuckoo there was no point in fighting it. His twisted mind had produced this hallucination; he might as well go along. Likely there wasn’t anything really the matter with the waterbed. He settled back in the puddle, put his hands behind his head, and crossed his ankles.
“What did I do that was so wrong?” he asked.
Hawkins said ominously, “You mean your father never told you about the chair?”
“He told me never to get rid of it. But since the old coot was such a pack rat, I just figured—” There was a louder rumble of thunder. “Sorry, Dad. I mean, he was a sentimental old gentleman.”
Hawkins hovered beside the bed. “Very well, then. I’ll tell you the whole story. I suppose I owe you that much.” He pinched snuff from an ivory box, inhaled, gave four explosive sneezes, and began.
“It pains me to admit I was a colossal failure as a London barrister. Then I defended an old Gypsy woman on a charge of theft. She was acquitted. All she had to give me in payment was that chair, but she put a Gypsy spell upon it: so long as it remained in the family unchanged by anything but the passage of time success would belong to the Snodgrasses. And it worked. Until you gave it away. And now it will rot on a trash heap somewhere until rain and worms and weather ruin it!” He snatched off the wig and hurled it to the wet floor.
“But I didn’t know—” H.L. protested. “I didn’t think—”
“Obviously! Well, I was inclined to let you stew in your own juice. But your father and his father and the others thought you deserved another chance. We cast lots and I lost. Now they’re Out There trying to pacify Old Magda, trying to explain why her chair was disposed of.”
H.L. sank down further. Damn, he thought. This is too uncomfortable to be a hallucination! He sprang to his feet and flapped his hands at the “ghost.” Whatever it was, it wasn’t supernatural.
“Curses!? How idiotic,” he said. “Beat it. I’m awake now. Scram.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” said the apparition.
**
At nine o’clock on Monday morning two things happened. A registered letter arrived from the Hoggswine Bank and Trust Company. They regretfully would not be renewing his retainer. And his secretary announced she was quitting to take a job for twice the salary with Snark, Snark, Bork, Boonwhistle, Jones, and McClunkey.
Tuesday morning he hired a secretary who was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, a live Barbie doll with a brain. Not only was she gorgeous, she was super-efficient. Briefly he wondered if he could possibly juggle a wife, a boyfriend and a girlfriend. Unfortunately, he thought it out loud. She slapped his face and quit. That afternoon he was notified she was suing him for sexual harassment. Her attorney was his worst enemy, Giovanni Ponchielli, whose godfather was rumored to be a Godfather.
Wednesday, while H.L. was at work, his wife returned home, closed out all the joint bank accounts and left again, taking everything but the wallpaper and the family dog.
Wednesday evening a man who sounded suspiciously like Vyvyan Smucker answered Larry’s telephone.
Thursday morning the transmission quit on H.L.’s new Cadillac.
Friday evening the brakes failed on his new Lamborghini, leaving it with a crumpled hood.
Saturday night someone stole his lovingly restored ’57 tomato-red Corvette with the white leather upholstery.
As the new week began, his golf score shot up. He clobbered his handsome head playing racquetball and had to have eight stitches that made him look like Frankenstein's monster.
His three-time Best of Breed Lhasa Apso bitch, Sri-Sri Tutawi of Inhknar’s Folly, escaped from her kennel and when he found her she was blissfully being humped by a very ugly mutt. And when the mutt sank his teeth into H.L.’s leg, he had to have rabies shots because the damn dog had not.
H.L.’s dentist yanked the wrong tooth.
And then came the capper. His client, Sister Maria Josefa, an 85-pound, 4-foot-11-inch, 75-year-old nun who was recovering from hip surgery, had foiled a purse snatching by tripping the thief with her wheelchair. The thief, Dick Rodent, eighteen and built like a Humvee, broke his collarbone in the fall. He had sued her for criminal assault and intent to kill or maim. Rodent appeared in court on crutches and wearing a body cast. The jury did not even leave the jury box to deliberate. They found Sister Maria guilty on all counts.
**
Weeks passed.
Clients avoided his door in droves. “Oughtta hang a bell around my neck, I suppose,” he said sourly, “and go around yelling ‘Unclean! Unclean!’”
Day after day he sat alone in his beautiful office, sunk into the comfort of the handsome chair, drinking putrid coffee he made himself. His life was crumbling like the Titanic’s hull and he didn’t know why. His logical legal mind told himself it was all coincidence. And then he remembered the dream.
He stared at the portrait of his thrice-Great Grandfather. Suddenly it grinned. “Well, H.L.,” said the painted lips, “are you ready to try lifting the curse?”
“Curse?” H.L. squeaked. His knuckles pressed against his teeth, his face paled, his composure melted. “There really is a c-curse? You’re real? It wasn’t a dream?”
“Yes, there is. Yes, I am. No, it wasn’t.”
“What—what’s going to happen to me? How much worse can things be? Oh, my God—That old Gypsy—she’s going to make me a werewolf or something?”
“Ha. Being a werewolf would be a blessing. Now listen to me. She said you have only twenty-four hours to lift the curse before it starts its final phase.”
“What’s…the …final phase?”
“She says you don’t want to know.”
“She—she couldn’t have that kind of power.”
“No? She says she’s responsible for certain presidents, televangelists, infomercial hosts, and text messaging. You want power? That’s power.” In his agitation, he shook his head and his barrister’s wig fell out of the picture. It lay on the floor next to the wall, beneath the portrait.
“All right!” By now H.L. was sobbing. “I believe you! Tell me what to do. I’ll do anything. Anything.”
“You have to get the chair back. Unchanged.”
“Yes. Yes. I’ll find the chair. I’ll find it if I have turn this town upside down.” He was shocked to realize he was babbling like a teenage girl.
“That’s the old spirit. Get it? The old spirit? Hee-hee. Never mind.”
The painting lost its animation and became just a painting once more. Then abruptly it came to life again. “Where the blue hell is my wig? Oh, there it is.” Hawkins leaned out of the picture, picked up the wig and clapped it back on his head, crookedly. “You young chaps ought to wear these. Add some dignity to the profession. Nowadays you all look like chartered accountants.”
H.L. squeezed his eyes shut. None of this is happening. I’m hallucinating again. I have to see a shrink before the week is out. When he opened his eyes he gave a shaky laugh and looked at the portrait. The eyes were just lifeless, painted eyes. The thin lips were just lifeless, painted lips. The wig was—sideways, with the tail dangling in front of one ear.
H.L. moaned and seized the telephone book. “Shit,” he whimpered. “Shitshitshit.” He couldn’t remember the name of the junkyard. The Yellow Pages had no listing for “Junkyard” and he couldn’t think of a euphemism. He turned back to the A’s and began working his way down. At long last he dialed a number and was answered by a familiar, hulking snarl. “Smucker’s Reclamation, Recycling and Haulage. This here’s Vyvyan speaking.”
It was the same voice that had answered Larry’s phone. Screw that. In the face of a curse it didn’t matter.
“Vyvyan!” cried H.L., his voice high-pitched and quivering with raw emotion. “This is H.L. Snodgrass. Thank God I found you! I’ve been going crazy trying to reach you. Vyvyan, I need you. I really, really need you!”
There was a long silence. “Aw, I hate when this happens,” said Vyvyan. “Listen, Snoddy—I can call you Snoddy, can’t I?—seein’ that we got…stuff…in common? Dude, not to, like, hurt your feelings or nothin’ but like I told you, you ain’t my type. Tell you what, Snoddy. You go, like, pump some iron, work on your lats and your abs, lose the love handles, get some black leather chaps, coupla tattoos, maybe a tit ring or two, and we’ll talk. ’Bye now.”
Even as H.L. winced in pain at the very notion of tit rings, he protested, “No! No! You don’t understand! I want my chair back.”
Another long pause. “Chum,” growled Vyvyan, “I thought you was a few ants short of a hill when I met you the first time. So long.”
“Wait! I’m serious! I have to have it back.”
The gravely voice became crafty. “Have to, eh? Well, I ain’t got it no more but if you was to make it worth my while I could tell you where it is.”
H.L. thought rapidly. He could go as high as twenty-five dollars if necessary. “How much is your while worth?”
“Five hunnert bucks.”
H.L.’s voice hit a C above High C. “What? That’s highway robbery!”
“Ciao, baby. Stay in touch.” Vyvyan snickered.
“Wait. Wait! Don’t hang up. I’ll give you...I’ll give you fifty dollars.”