Free The Gray Zone by Daphna Edwards Ziman

seducing a jury and the media for a bill-collecting hit man? I don’t think so.”
    “It’s a retainer. Fifty G’s, to be exact.” Shrake had peered expectantly at Jake’s face. Jake’s eyes flicked to the briefcase, then back to the singer.
    “Well?” pressed Shrake.
    “Know what I need more than that? Spiritual balance.”
    Shrake’s jaw twitched. “You could buy a whole bunch of spiritual balance with this.”
    Jake had tipped the last of his drink into his mouth, keeping his eyes on Marilyn. Then something in Kelly’s look caught his attention. While her seduction act was razor-sharp, he noticed a sense of purpose with every movement. She was searching every corner of the room. For a split second, their eyes locked. There was a sudden sense of recognition in her expression. But in an instant a protective shield came across her face.
    Who the hell
are
you?
he had said to himself. Aloud, he’d replied to the mobster, “Here’s where we differ, hombre. You see cash in that briefcase. I see a media circus, grueling, tedious work, and boredom.”
    Shrake raised his voice. “This guy saved my life once. I promised him I’d convince you to get him off.”
    “Relax. Lawyers make up eleven percent of the world’s population. Seventy percent of those lawyers live here in the U.S. of A. You’ll find somebody.” Jake had enjoyed pulling statistics from midair and making them sound real. “I don’t represent bill-collecting hit men,” he had added, noticing the chanteuse just inches away. With his elbow, he had pushed the briefcase closed.
    Shrake had scuttled angrily away.
    Now, Jake sauntered over to Shrake’s table and planted both hands on it as he leaned over the small man.
    “What the fuck?” Shrake shouted. The Britney Spears showgirl took a drag on her cigarette.
    “I hear your prized possession didn’t show up today. I’d like to lay an eye on her again.”
    “You’re right. Bitch isn’t here. Those kinds of girls disappear overnight.”
    “What’d you do, try to rape her?”
    “Fuck, man, are you kidding?” whined Shrake. “That one was untouchable. Tough as nails.” The girl next to him smirked. Jake smiled at her. “You’ll never see her here again.”
    “I want her address.”
    Shrake’s eyes narrowed. “Well, get in line.”
    “I can turn you into a quivering mass of snot in the courtroom.”
    “You’re not scaring—”
    “The juvenile prostitutes you’ve got working at your bar. Your friend with the fifty G’s. Your needle dick—”
    “Alright, alright,” the club owner scowled. Jake followed him back to his office, which stank of beer and dirty socks. Shrake undid the combination lock on a small black filing cabinet. Shuffling through a stack of papers, he mumbled to himself, “Fucking lawyers.” He threw a page at Jake. “This is what she filled out when she started working here.”
    Jake looked at the paper. NAME: KELLY JENSEN. AGE: 24. ADDRESS: 2518 MANZANITA LANE . Stapled to the sheet was a Xerox of her driver’s license. Jake squinted at the picture. The woman wasn’t smiling, but her eyes were intensely focused, set above high cheekbones. Her hair looked sleek and glossy, even in the photocopy. She looked nothing like Marilyn Monroe. But she did look familiar, even without her costume, in a beautiful-showgirl sort of way. Jake folded the papers in half lengthwise and slid them into his inside jacket pocket to keep himself from staring too hard.
    Shrake had seen him looking, though.
    “That girl thinks her shit don’t stink,” he said, running the back of his wrist across his nose. “She ain’t gonna give you the time of day.”
    “You know, Shrake, you’re the kind of guy who thinks it’s raining when someone spits on you.”
    Shrake grumbled as he put the folder away. “You got what you wanted. Get the fuck out of my club.”
    * * *
    Jake’s heart pounded as he drove to Kelly Jensen’s house. He wasn’t sure what he would say if he found her