The Sirena Quest by Michael A. Kahn Page B

of the Lost Ark .
    The assistant probate court clerk turned back to them. “What can I say, gentlemen?” He sighed and placed his hands on the waist-high counter that separated the clerks and their files from the public. “Sometimes a probate file goes missing.”
    The clerk drummed his fingers on the counter. “Sometimes the file gets itself misplaced. Sometimes, well, gentlemen, sometimes the file gets itself stolen.”
    â€œStolen?” Ray shook his head. “Who would steal a court file?”
    â€œWho, you ask?” The assistant probate court clerk gave a weary chuckle. “Well, sir, a judge cannot hear a case, cannot issue a ruling on the merits, cannot even enter a continuance, without the file. Alas, lawyers are aware of that.” He turned to Lou. “Am I correct, counselor?”
    If this guy were a steer, Lou thought, he’d have the word PATRONAGE branded on his hip.
    â€œLet us conjure the following scenario,” the assistant probate clerk said, pausing to purse his lips. “A particular member of the bar is not quite ready for the trial call but he fears that the judge will refuse to grant him yet another request for continuance. What to do, eh? How to deal with this conundrum? As I say, sometimes the court file gets itself lost. Around here—”
    He paused to chuckle.
    â€œâ€”around here, we call that a five-fingered continuance.”
    â€œI can’t fucking believe this,” Ray said.
    Lou asked the clerk, “Do you suggest we start by checking the probate judge’s clerk to see if she has the Marshall file?”
    The assistant probate court clerk nodded solemnly, ignoring Ray’s outburst. “That would be a prudent first step, counselor.”
    Thirty minutes later they were back in the Office of the Clerk of the Probate Division. This time the assistant probate court clerk they drew was a fat middle-aged black woman with reading glasses that hung from her neck on a gold chain that rested on an ample bosom.
    â€œWhere else could it be?” Lou asked her.
    She raised her eyebrows and glanced to her right. “I suppose it could be in the refile bin, honey. We’re just a little behind.”
    They leaned over the counter to see where the clerk had glanced. At the far end of the room behind the counter was a large canvas bin filled to the top with court files. Dozens and dozens of court files, piled helter-skelter.
    â€œWhen will those be refiled?” Gordie asked.
    She shook her head. “We been real busy down here since March, honey. We might get to them, oh, maybe next month.”
    â€œNext month?” Ray repeated, incredulous.
    She shrugged. “This is Cook County, child.”
    Lou asked her to wait a second while he walked the other three over to one of the reading tables. Then he went back to her. After ten minutes of good-natured wheedling, she agreed to look through the refile bin for the probate court file in In re Estate of Graham Anderson Marshall III .
    They waited at a table while she sorted through the files.
    â€œLook at that dude.” Gordie nodded toward a clerk who was approaching the counter carrying a court file.
    He was a skinny white guy in a fat brown tie and a wrinkled beige short-sleeve shirt that was at least two sizes too large and ballooned over his black pants, which were belted so high on his waist that his hips looked like they were fused to his rib cage. They watched as he handed the file across the counter to an attorney.
    â€œKeep your eye on him,” Gordie said.
    The skinny clerk moved deliberately, almost mechanically, down the counter toward a manual pencil sharpener bolted to the wall at the end. He was still holding the slip of paper with the court file number. Slowly, carefully, he crumpled the slip of paper, pressed it against the pencil sharpener and cranked the handle several times. Then he stuffed the wad into his bulging shirt pocket.
    â€œI’ve