1 Motor City Shakedown by Jonathan Watkins

died that morning.
    Instead, he folded his hands together in his lap and nodded his head faintly. He was small in stature, unlike his enormous brother, and looked significantly older than the man Issabella had only briefly seen in the hospital bed. Eugene’s hair was white and cropped very short, his face lined with deep wrinkles. He wore corduroy jeans and a flannel shirt that looked to have been washed and worn so many times that Issabella guessed it was probably his “comfortable” shirt—the one you couldn’t throw away even though it was faded and threadbare and ready to disintegrate.
    “I see,” he said, very softly.
    “I’m so sorry, Mr. Pullins. And I’m so sorry you have to hear it from me like this. The hospital never recorded an emergency contact for him, or lost it if they did.”
    “I see.”
    “They…” she started, then stopped. ‘Keep going. Just keep talking.’ She continued, “They, the hospital I mean, say that he never regained consciousness. There wasn’t any pain. I know that doesn’t make it better, but…”
    “No, it does. It makes it a little better. It’s good to know he wasn’t suffering. I’d hate to think that.”
    They were both quiet for a minute. Issabella wanted to be eloquent, wanted to be the sort of lawyer—the sort of person –who could handle this kind of conversation with real, professional aplomb. Law school was full of professors who would talk about being “good on your feet”. They’d hammered it home over three years: a good lawyer is fluid and adapts in a split second. A good lawyer has a briefcase full of different faces, and knows exactly when to pull the right one out.
    Sitting there, watching the slight and unassuming man digest the news of his brother’s sudden death, Issabella felt like a fraud. She was supposed to be doing something, wasn’t she?
    Eugene stirred and looked at her with eyes that were bright with unshed tears.
    “I was always scared I’d go before him,” he said. “Vern was such a big kid. He never had much sense about things. Even with the business and him doing alright with money. He’d get himself all turned around. Believing in things too much. Feeling too much, I guess. I just…I was scared what trouble he’d get into if I wasn’t around to talk him down, keep his feet on the ground. I guess I was wrong about that. I couldn’t stop…whatever happened to him.”
    “I’m so sorry, Mr. Pullins.”
    ‘That’s been established, hasn’t it? Maybe if you say it a few more times he’ll cheer right up and skip on out of here. Ugh. This is horrible.’
    “That kid. I know you didn’t have time to know him, ma’am, but that boy had a heart as big as the world. Too trustin’. Too many ‘friends’. Too many people wanting to take advantage of how much he needed to belong to something, I guess…
    I don’t know. I had my job. Thirty-seven years, I put in at Fords. And all those guys on the line, all those years, I don’t talk to a one of them since I took my pension. Didn’t need ‘em. But he wasn’t like that. Vern needed to belong to something.”
    He lapsed back into silence and a deep sigh rustled up out of his slight frame.
    “Are you sure I can’t get you some coffee?” she said. “Or a glass of water?”
    “Yes, ma’am, I guess maybe a cup of coffee would be fine, thank you.”
    She stood and walked out of her office, into the adjoining room that was disguised to look like a reception area. There were client chairs, a wooden rack stuffed with magazines, some pamphlets with very general information on different legal topics with titles like What Everyone Needs to Know about Wills , Bankruptcy is Not the End and Your Rights: a Review .
    There was also a desk and chair for the non-existent receptionist, a computer that looked fine but really didn’t work, a desk calendar, scattered office tools and a bowl of Tootsie-Rolls. And on a small coffee table, a coffee-maker and stacks of Styrofoam cups.
    She