“We’re meeting downstairs on the land deal,” Scott said to the top of Tom’s head. “Should have it closed soon.”

Tom’s head started shaking slowly back and forth.

“I didn’t call you about that.”

Tom was fifty-five, nearly bald so he had recently gone to a comb-over, he stood five seven in his trademark cowboy boots, and he was a pudgy bastard, but for $3 million a year, Scott described him as stocky. He had been married four times to progressively younger women; the current Mrs. Dibrell was twenty-nine. Tom raised his head and Scott instantly knew it was a female problem. He sighed. His best client couldn’t keep his hands off the help.

“Who was it this time, Tom?”

“Nadine.”

Scott shook his head; he didn’t recall a Nadine.

“Brunette, tall, built? Jesus, Scott, she’s got hips like a boy!” He paused, and his eyes glazed over, as if reliving the moment. Then: “She’s threatening to sue, sexual harassment.” Tom held out a letter. “She’s got a fucking lawyer!”

Scott grabbed the paper; his eyes went straight to the letterhead: Franklin Turner, Esq., famous plaintiffs’ lawyer. Scott exhaled heavily. “Shit.” Twenty thousand lawyers in Dallas and she finds Frank Turner.

Scott skimmed the letter. Frank Turner was threatening to file a lawsuit against Dibrell Property Company and Thomas J. Dibrell individually on behalf of his client, Nadine Johnson, unless a financial settlement was reached within ten days.

Tom said, “Is Turner as tough as they say?”