Chapter 8: Back Taxes

I looked at the sign-off form.

I looked at Grady's ring on the back of my chair.

Then I closed my laptop and stood up.

"Sue her," I said. "She's got a hockey stick, and I've got forty hours of tape."

I walked out of the conference room before my knees gave out.

In the elevator, I shook so hard I had to hold the rail.

By the time I got to the rink, the editor had emailed me.

The July seventh launch was postponed indefinitely. Pending resolution.

I read it on the loading dock.

Then I went inside to tell Peg she was about to be sued.

She was in the office with the door half shut.

I heard her voice before I saw her.

"I know I'm behind. I know. I'll have something for you by the end of the month."

I pushed the door open.

Peg was at her desk with the phone in one hand and a stack of envelopes in the other.

She saw me, said "I'll call you back," and hung up so fast she nearly dropped the receiver.

"Who was that?"

"Nobody. The ice vendor."

"Grandma."

"The ice vendor, sugar. We buy ice."

"We make ice. We're a rink."

She opened her mouth and shut it again.

I took the envelopes out of her hand.

Multnomah County. Multnomah County. Final notice. A refrigeration company. Multnomah County again, in red.

I sat down on the old brown couch by the wall and opened them one by one.

Peg didn't stop me.

She took out a cigarette, remembered she was indoors, and put it behind her ear.

"How much?" I said.

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