Freedom Beer, Part 2

After he finished unloading the truck, Hank followed the police to the station to give his statement. He'd had to follow closely behind the squad car with his bitchin' hog, as quite a crowd had gathered to crane their necks and build rumors.

By the time that Hank swung the nose of his bitchin' hog onto the dirt lane that led to his ranch, the February sun had long fallen beneath the horizon. The chill of the nocturnal New Mexican desert poked its fingers into Hank's leather jacket. The motorcycle's rear light left a blood-red tail slinking through the cloud of dust kicked up by the wheels.

The only light on the property came from the groundskeeper's cabin.

Now that he came closer, he could also see a tiny floating ember of a cigarette glowing at lip-height on his porch. Hank pretended not to notice and let his motorcycle idle him by the interloper on his way into the shed. Once there, he quickly cut the engine to his motorcycle, removed his helmet, and leapt into the shadows.

He could see the entrance from his vantage point behind a rack of gardening tools at the back of the shed. Anybody entering would be backlit in the frame of the doorway. He selected his weapon from the rack in front of him and waited.

"Hello?" said a voice.

A silhouette entered the frame.

And what a silhouette, Hank thought. The woman – and Hank was sure that it was a woman – had a perfect hourglass silhouette. She wore a tailored jacket and a tight, professional skirt that led down to a set of legs that reached all the way to the floor. Tiny triangles of light shone from beneath her high heels.

Still, he knew to be careful. A beautiful body could be covered in guns. Or knives. Or the keys to a padlock, which doesn't sound so bad unless the padlock belongs to the gates of an alligator pen and you're on the inside. That had been painful.

Hank pulled a small flashlight off of his belt and flashed it in the woman's face while charging forward with his weapon.

"Who the hell are youuuuuooohhhh," Hank said, catching a foot in his stomach. The heel nestled into his belly button like a bear digging a hibernation den. From experience he knew what brand. Those were some Michael Hisenburgs. You could tell by the distance from the heel to the toe, and the offset from the centerline. This woman made quite a lot of money to afford designer shoes.

Hank let himself fall, then rolled to the side as the other heel stomped to the ground where his face had been only moments before. He hadn't let go of his weapon. He jammed the rake into the dirt and climbed up the handle. By pivoting on the ball of his foot he was able to swing it in a long, hissing arc.

The rake caught the woman square in the back and sent her tumbling forward uncontrollably – but only for a moment. With a powerful thrust she propelled herself into a roll, followed by a flip, followed by a perfect landing on her high heels. Hank was impressed.

"I can only assume that you're Hank Rockjaw." She held a knife in one hand.

"Who's asking?"

"The woman who is going to sue you for assault and battery."

"You can't sue me for assault. I didn't threaten you with violence. I just attacked you. Believe me, I should know. You'll face a counter suit."

"For what?"

"Criminal negligence. Did you arrive here in the daylight?"

"Yes."

"And you noticed the pines on my property."

"I couldn't miss them."

"They're part of our national forest system. If you start a fire you're wide open to criminal charges. And that is one smoking hot outfit."

The woman rolled her eyes and relaxed.

"Your reputation precedes you, Hank. Zelphia Dipthong, attorney at law." She extended her hand.

Hank shook it.

"Pleased to meet you, Zelphia. If you've been waiting here since the sun went down you must be parched. Will you have a drink with me?"

Hank led the way into his house. It looked like an ancient, well-kept ski lodge, made out of piles of logs. The ceilings soared. The floors creaked. The granite kitchen countertops shone. Soon the logs in the fireplace crackled.

Hank picked a bottle of wine out of his wine pantry.

"May I have a glass of water, please?"

"Of course." Hank gave her a glass of water. He dug the cork out of the wine bottle with a thumb and drained half of it in one, long chug.

When he looked down, Zelphia had placed an envelope on the counter. He picked it up and read the contents.

"You're serving me?"

"Yes."

"The trial starts tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"That ain't right. I've been sued many times and I'm supposed to have more notice."

"I tried to bring it to you this afternoon but you seemed very busy. I came here but a man told me that you volunteering at the liquor store."

"Hiram. My gardener."

"So I went down there but you seemed busy committing assault."

"Battery. I battered him. Nobody messes with a man's beer."

"Yes, right. You battered him."

Hank scowled at the letter.

"It also says that a certain Zelphia Dipthong is representing the plaintiff." He looked up. "Can a prosecuting attorney serve the summons?"

"Yes. I simply couldn't wait any longer to meet the man who caused the judicial system to create the charge of 'egregious punching' for my client."

"And what's your client's name?"

"Josh Spurlock."

"Asshole!"

"Save it for your defense."

"That bastard exploited a bunch of villagers in the Sonoran desert and forced them to work at his shoe factory because he'd bought up all the water rights. You know those fancy high heels? They were made at that factory by a bunch of poor Mexican villagers." Hank chugged the rest of his wine.

"What a heartwarming story. And then how did you resolve the problem?"

"To make a long story short, the sister of a friend of mine lived in that village and had just been fired for writing a letter to her brother describing the horrible working conditions."

"Yes, that's how you found out. But how did you resolve the problem?"

"I tried to buy the factory. I've done it before. Josh wouldn't sell. Asshole! So I did what any right-minded person would do: my friend and I drove for three days, found the place, found Josh, and I punched him so hard that he thought he was Frank Sinatra for three days."

"Please repeat your story tomorrow exactly as you've told me tonight." Zelphia turned to leave.

"For three days the asshole could croon."

"I'll see you tomorrow."

"One last thing before you go. Did you tell Hiram why you wanted to see me?"

"Yes."

"Good, because he'll have gotten my dress pants pressed."

"Is Hiram also your assistant?"

"And my attorney. He's had plenty of experience defending me in battery cases. You'll have your work cut out for you tomorrow."