The man strode into my office dressed to the nines: Austin Hewitt glasses, Sergio Frank herringbone suit tailored to perfection, crisp white dress shirt and blue Hermes neck tie. Five G’s at least…plus Bruno Malis…make that seven. With a flick of his wrist, a business card appeared in his long fingers. Another flick and the card spun gracefully through the air towards my desk, settling upright before me as though he had placed it there by hand. In embossed gold letters it read, ‘Jesper Tillow Rensfield Esq., Attorney at Law’.
Dark hair, dark eyes, tall and lanky, he sauntered along my wall of fame, scanning the pictures, trophies, and awards.
“Nice shot of you with Anwar Sadat,” he commented. “Hmmm, screen guild award, key to the city, a purple heart, two Grammys, a Pulitzer prize, and even an ESPY.” He flashed me a smile that could melt the heart of every bastard who ever sat in a jury box. “No Nobel Peace Prize?”
“What, with MY reputation?”
“Pfft,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “Obama got one, and you haven’t done half as much damage as he has.”
“Maybe you’ve got a point,” I admitted.
“Damn right I do!” He gesticulated grandly. “You’re an American icon, for God’s sake. Nobody’s done more than you have to further the cause of literary excellence. Day after day you shun the temptations of pettiness, nepotism, and avarice, and resolutely soldier on in the face of…” he turned and pointed to a table stacked with piles of slush, “unimaginable filth!”
He glanced my way and I swear he had tears in his eyes.
Looking both somber and humble, he pointed to me. “That, my friend, is heroism.”
I stood and shook his hand. “You’re hired.”
He smiled and winked. “Call me JT.”