The attorney, Peter Find, doesn’t try to find me again. Rather, I find him. I leave work on my lunch hour and make the block-walk to his office, which sits in the middle of Candor Avenue. I take the elevator to the fifth floor and enter his law firm’s lobby: real palm trees, a fish tank holding two koi, and imported Spanish tile on the floor and walls. His secretary, Beverly (big-shouldered, wide ass, frame like a linebacker for the Steelers), takes my name and tells me to have a seat. At first, she thinks I’m joking with her about my name, but realizes I’m not.
This is serious stuff, lady. Don’t rock my world.
I wait in the not-too-shabby lobby for a minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. Beverly finds me sitting next to an end table decorated with the latest Forbes magazine and a marble h
