Chasing Deadbeats

PART II: DEADBEATS



"What can I do ya for today, Mr. Palomo?" I asked. Out of his wet, oily, smelly jeans, Mr. Palomo produced a scrunched copy of my lien with my signature at the bottom and my office letterhead at the top and uttered, "Look, ah Ellison, ahh, yeh, aahh attorney, please take care of this. Ya see I sold the Ramoses that truck and it's theirs now. Ya gotta take care of this, attorney."

I grabbed his copy of the lien and, like a graduate of the William Shatner school of poor acting, I said, "Mr. Palomo, that truck was mine and you sold it to the Ramoses. Where's my cash from the sale of my truck?" Mr. Palomo responded with a cool, "Yoo chill, attorney. The money be in the bank, man. Let's go to the bank you and me, ahee heee."

At that nonsense, I called marshal Reoglio in and had Mr. Palomo arrested. "I know what to do with you," Reoglio said as he cuffed Palomo and hauled him to the courthouse. I felt a surge of adrenaline and yelled down the hall and in front of the whole staff something I had waited years to say: "Read 'em his rights, will ya?!" Then I slammed my door loudly.