“What’s he saying you owe him?” I asked.
“About a quarter of a million,” she said. She shook her head. “We are a subsistence business. There is no way we can pay him that, even if we really did owe it to him. Representation in Chicago courts is expensive—far more than our business makes. It can cost a lot of money to pay for lawyers, depositions, expert testimony—and there have been cases with less merit than this one that have been decided on his side.”
“And fighting it costs all kinds of money. Which you don’t have.”
“Exactly,” she said. “And even if we fought him and won, it could cost us Sunflower. And he knows it. But if we don’t fight him, the only option is to close up Sunflower entirely.” She took a deep breath. “Mister Dresden, on the streets they say that if you need help, you call the police, or the EMTs, or an insurance agent. But when you need a miracle…the only one to call is you.”
Oh, hell. That old thing again.
“Things have been so hard lately,” she said. Tears were now in her eyes. “So frightening. With the terrorist attack and the chemical weapons. I’ve been everywhere, looking for someone to help us. There are no resources available in the wake of the attack. Everyone—and I do mean everyone—is already at the limit.” She folded her hands in her lap and looked down. “That’s why I came to you. I need a miracle.”
I blew out a breath.
Hell’s Bells. At least it was catchy. Maybe I could put it on a business card. “Okay,” I said.
She looked up, her eyes wide, something barely like hope in them.
“I don’t like bullies,” I said. I picked up my pencil and a note- pad. “Let me get some more information from you, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Chapter Three
If you have a problem, go right at it.
I looked up Tripp Gregory.
He was well off for a guy who had been in jail for a couple of Presidents. He owned a home in Lakeview, and when I pulled up to it a pair of young women who were apparently dressed to go dancing at the beach were just leaving.
I’m about six foot nine, I’m not as young as I used to be, and I’ve collected some scars. Between that and the big black leather duster, which I was wearing even on a hot summer morning, they gave me nervous looks and moved along quickly. I watched them get into their sporty little car carefully, just in case they produced assault rifles from somewhere, and because I am a trained observer of people. They left, and I walked up to the door and knocked.
“I pay you to fucking leave!” called a man’s voice from inside. “Jesus Christ, what do you want now?”
Footsteps sounded and a man in a cheap black cotton bathrobe opened the door. He was maybe fortyish, well built, with bleach blonde hair and dark eyes. He blinked and then scowled up at me.
“Who the hell are you, ugly?” he demanded.
“Hell’s bells, what a charmer,” I said. “I bet you make friends everywhere you go.”
“What?” he demanded. Again.
“And eloquent too,” I said. “Tripp Gregory?” He glowered. “Who the fuck are you?”
I looked over him, around his place. There wasn’t much in the way of furnishings or furniture, and what I could see was cheap. There were stacks of mail in a box on a futon. “My name is Harry Dresden,” I said.
“Supposed to mean something, asshole?”
My knuckles ached to meet his nose. I took a slow breath and exhaled before they started getting ideas. “I work for Maya.”
“That whore,” he scoffed.
One of the consequences of my life was that I bore a mantle of power from the Winter side of Faerie. Among other things, it made me feel more aggression than most people. I mostly keep it under control.
Mostly.
I stiff-armed the door with my left hand, hard enough to slam it into Tripp’s shoulder and chest and knock him sprawling on his ass. He went down with an expression of shock. He was a solid guy, but these days I was unreasonably strong. For my size.
“Mind if I come in and talk?” I asked, stepping over the threshold of his home. I left most of my magical capability behind as I did—along with much of the influence of the Winter mantle. I could tell because I felt a little ashamed for not waiting for an invitation. That was an interesting point, but I’d leave it for later.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he demanded. “Do you know who I fucking am?”
