Before I even opened my eyes I felt the presence of soothing hands rushing to comfort me and heal my wounds. Through the haze of my semi-consciousness I heard a chorus of hushed voices, all in white, assuring me that I'll feel better soon and that my wretched, bruised body will quickly be better than before. Under a bright light and comforted by these "healing angels" I was about to rest quietly. Then I detected a sinister presence just out of my view and a chilling aura of impending evil. I sensed an unworldly spirit and felt that a devilish pall had fallen over the room. Then the haze overtook me. My dreams were wracked with frightening images of fire and smoke, creatures struggling with the eternal questions of good and evil. My body possessed and my mind turned to impurity. I fought with the notion of immediate gratification versus life everlasting. It was all too bewildering for this lost soul.
When I woke a second time, I found myself in a medical recovery room informed that I had suffered a terrible fall. An emergency room crew had struggled to stabilize me and bind my wounds. And that through all the stitches, plaster and wraps, I was told that my "good friend" had never left my side. He stood guard over me and seemed even to recite some healing words to soothe me. That was when I realized that Satan was here on Earth.
His real name was Lou Wasserman, Esq. All others saw him as tall and gaunt with fine, sharp
features. He was forever impeccably dressed and had an aloof, patrician manner with everyone. His style was pure elegance and there was always a toothy smile and a limp, bony handshake that was more foreboding than warming. You had to readily concentrate even to see his cloven hooves, horns and serpent's tail.
My name is Bill. I've spent the worst part of thirty years conning people and talking my way into and out of trouble. After appearing once-too often infront of the same night-court magistrate; I was given a "choice." Spend a couple of years in jail for my numerous transgressions or intern for a couple years with a prestigious law firm where I might learn to put my manipulative ways to good use. The court felt that my life could be turned around, they didn't know what they were doing. Having no friends in the room, I quickly agreed. A few papers were signed, an oath was sworn, and next thing I knew, I belonged to him. I was sentenced to indentured servitude and put under the tutelage of Dear 'Ol Lou.
The morning we were introduced, his staff was celebrating a huge settlement that would enhance the prestige of the company and significantly raise it's coffers. Ironically, on the television at the same time, the opposing lawyers were telling the world that they had won a major decision. Lou simply sat back with a smug expression to his face. I heard him tell a subordinate, "the Indians sold Manhattan for beads and blankets and they thought they got the better end of the deal."
Around the firm, the associates and even the partners, shivered in his shadow and only spoke of him in hushed tones. He was Mr. Wasserman and "Old Sir." And adversaries that had the painful assignment of facing him at the bar referred to him as "Loucifer." But only out of earshot.
I asked him once why his name was not on the company's letterhead. "I can't be bothered with company pissing games. Besides, I get what I want my boy. I'll give you a little secret. When you've got them by the short hairs, their hearts and minds will follow." I laughed at his expression but saw that he was deadly serious. It was then that I made a point of listening to Lou's words of wisdom, even if they were often pearls before swine.
Since I wasn't really on the payroll, or maybe because I was too stupid to know better; Mr. Wasserman didn't intimidate me, much. My duties included picking-up parcels and running errands, and serving some of my community service during the afternoons. So the late evening hours often found Lou and I sitting around his polished walnut conference table dining on cold burgers and stale coffee. In between depositions, we told dirty jokes, talked about sports and made crude sexual remarks about women in the firm. We formed a friendly alliance. I even took to calling him Uncle Lou. He usually called me S.O.B., which he told the staff meant Sweet Old Bill. But I wasn't so sure.
One thing though, without sensing it, I was learning a lot from Uncle Lou. He had many clever sayings that I keep with me to this day. Like on the occasion when I slipped on the ice.
I was living in a run-down building owned by a well-connected, absentee slumlord. With the cracked, gravelly walk and the packed ice; I took a hell of a fall. My beat-up gym bag stuffed with legal pads, sweat shirt, The Sporting News, and thermos, went flying. I cut my back and knees, broke my wrist, sprained my neck, got a concussion, and various other scrapes and bruises. When I woke up in recovery and gathered my faculties, Lou was standing over me sipping coffee. He said, "it's time to take this hog to the butcher."
About ten months later, desperate to avoid jail and bankruptcy, the building owner cut me a check for three million dollars. After taxes, the firm's cut and Lou's commission, I pocketed alittle over one and a quarter mill. "Money is just a way of keeping score," Lou reminded me. "You truly win when you crush their spirit and bend their will to fight. Someday I'll show you a few techniques, if you stay loyal, because I think you are talented enough to put them to good use. But remember this: even a dog won't shit where he eats." It was a not too subtle reminder that Lou was in charge and that I was fortunate enough to be his apprentice.
Among the many trophies was an old Victorian-style house that I had always passed on my way to work, and dreamed about owning someday if I ever won the lottery. It was an old dilapidated mansion which I now intended to restore to it's original Gothic splendor. Though how I would do it flat on my back, was a dilemma. Again, it was good to have Uncle Lou on my side. He arranged for a sweetheart deal, and called-in some favors from others he had helped.
In the mean time, since I technically worked for the firm; and to garner good press, and especially to keep Lou happy, the company put me up in a posh, rehabilitation hospital. I was pampered and powdered until my scars faded. Pretty young girls attended to my every desire, from morning Mimosas to bedtime sponge baths. In the time I was on my back, I was kept abreast of the furnishings and updating of my new/old mansion from it's four spiraled turrets to it's hidden-accessed basement wine cellar. I was inundated with pictures and reports from "generous" contractors working on the estate. I had eaten fruit from the forbidden tree.
One of the pleasures of rehab was a cute little nurses-aide named Evie. She had short brown hair, heavy legs and an average-sized chest. Not exactly the fantasy woman of my dreams. I always pictured those noir-comic book goddesses; leggy blondes built like Amazons with double-d's and lip gloss. The kind who would fight to the death while dishing-out maximum punishment but could be subdued by a master-mind like myself.
