Coin of the Realm: A Novel

By Peyton Hooper Hodge

Pete Hodge returns with another lively tale as he faces unforeseen challenges in this ever-changing world. The year is 2011, the real estate market has collapsed, and he can no longer support himself as a small-town dirt lawyer. Desperate for a steady paycheck, he finds work as a foreclosure attorney, persuading himself that he can become the human face of a heartless bank.
But Petes new employer, an erratic narcissist who is pathologically obsessed with money, has hired him for the sole purpose of generating fees. Churning out three lawsuits each week, driving hither and yon for hearings and trials, Pete soon finds himself overwhelmed by a job that brings him no joy. Then the bank unwittingly engages him to foreclose against a neighbor, giving him an opportunity to do justice while also pushing back against his boss.
Undeterred by the obvious betrayal of his clients interest, Pete files a deeply flawed lawsuit in hopes of giving his neighbor more time to save his home. Shortly thereafter, he discovers that his avaricious employer may be engaged in a more deplorable violation of the professions ethical rules. From that point, it becomes a race to see which one of them can get the other disbarred first . . . and the new boss has a considerable head start.
Written in a tone best described as affable outrage, Coin of the Realm portrays a further skirmish in the ongoing battle between the shearers and the shorn.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546250470

Peyton Hooper Hodge

Peyton Hooper Hodge is a native of North Carolina and a graduate of its public schools. He maintains a modest legal practice near Charlotte. Coin of the Realm is his second novel, continuing a saga that began with The Rumble.

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Copyright © 2018 Peyton Hooper Hodge. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 07/30/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-5048-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-5046-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-5047-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018907989

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

The Vigilant Neighbor

Bare Steerageway

Haunt of Jackals

Third-Grade Math

Beyond Eden

Let It Roll

Kilimanjaro

And How Was Your Day?

The Exit Interview

Epitaphs

To My Wife, Our Children

And Our Families

THE VIGILANT NEIGHBOR

T he next time someone tells you our country is going to hell, you might remind him about the Vigilant Neighbor. Our civic discourse may consist of name-calling, our national fabric may be irreparably rent, but the Vigilant Neighbor—sometimes called the Community Watchdog, sometimes That Old Buzzard With Nothing Better To Do—continues to take daily walks around the village, observing things the rest of us are too harried to notice. He counts seven empty wine bottles in the Hodges’ recycling bin, thereby confirming he was right to judge them as intemperate boozehounds. He hasn’t seen Missus Beechum in her yard for over a week, so he looks in to make sure she’s all right. He notices a funny smell coming from the dumpy duplex where those college kids are living and invites the K-9 Patrol over to sniff things out. Maybe the Vigilant Neighbor, in his zeal to shore up property values, has left too many notes reminding us to mow our lawns. Perhaps he has written too many letters to the editor suggesting that climate change is a hoax, high school teachers should be armed, and President Obama was a foreign-born socialist. He may be obsessive, he may be deranged, he may actually measure the length of the grass in our yards; but that doesn’t detract from the real service he provides by keeping a watchful eye over the rest of us.

Some years ago one such neighbor, the hoarse and doughy Citadel Bullfrog, was taking a twilight stroll when he noticed an odd glow coming from within an empty house on Sasanqua Street. That glow was accompanied by a faint crackle and a whiff of burning wood, but it was too late in the season for a hearth fire and too cool to deploy the charcoal grills. The Bullfrog pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911; by the time he’d hung up, flames were visible through the front windows.

Our friend Connie had turned fifty that week, and Elliott had invited our softball team over to commemorate the event. Emma and I were setting out late because she’d been grading papers all afternoon while I’d been at my office playing Solitaire. When we reached the end of Bramble, Arboretum Street was overrun with fire trucks and police cars, blocking our passage onto Concord Road.

Drive around them, Emma suggested. You can cut through that person’s yard.

She might object, I replied, recalling how said person had recently received Deer Path’s Yard of the Month Award.

They can’t block off the street, Emma responded. This is a public thoroughfare.

Just doing their job, I muttered in tepid defense of those entrusted with our town’s peace and security.

What if I had a burst appendix? Emma persisted. This is ridiculous. Go on, drive through the yard.

I slowly eased forward until all four wheels of the Forester were on our neighbor’s immaculate lawn, drawing the attention of a police officer loitering nearby. He motioned for me to roll my window down. Good evening, sir, he grumbled. Exactly where do you think you’re going?

I acknowledge there’s a sound policy reason for hiring former linebackers to patrol our streets, but that doesn’t make these encounters any easier for the normal-sized, generally law-abiding citizen. Trying to get to Concord Road, I said cheerfully, smiling to express my gratitude for his desire to keep hardened criminals in line.

Is it an emergency? he groused.

Not exactly—we’re going to a party.

Well, I advise you to call your host and tell him you’ll be late. You’re not going anywhere until we get this situation under control.

Excuse me, officer, countered Emma, leaning over to engage him. It’s fifty feet to Concord Road, and we’ll have a clear path once we get past your car. What if my husband were taking me to the hospital? Would you stand in our way as I suffered and died?

He regarded her impassively. But you’re not going to the hospital, are you, ma’am? Your husband just admitted you were going to a party.

Emma retreated to her side of the car and sighed heavily, leaving me to wonder whether she was expressing impatience with the officer or her husband of thirty-some years. But in my view, if you’re going to lie to law enforcement, there should be more at stake than getting to a birthday party unless it’s your mother’s and she’s turning ninety-nine.

The sound of shattering glass drew our attention away from the inquisition, and we glanced over to see four firefighters chopping their way into the house. The officer grumbled again. Beg pardon? I said.

I said, you have exactly three seconds to put ’er into reverse and back ’er onto the street before I write you up for reckless driving.

Certainly, officer. The smile of appreciation offered at the beginning of our conversation was replaced by the anxious expression of an appropriately daunted citizen contemplating the prospect of spending the night in jail.

Idiot, muttered Emma, thereby clarifying the object of her ire—she uses the term Simple Man when she’s annoyed with me.

It’s nothing personal, I remarked while backing up with commendable haste and skill.

We pay taxes. He works for us. Did you get his badge number? I’m going to file a complaint.

Six twelve, I responded, even though I hadn’t a clue—sometimes you just play along. Here, use my cell to call Elliott.

She plumbed my phone’s directory and then sighed again. Why isn’t his number in your phone? This is ridiculous. We’ll have to call from home.

In the heat of the moment I neglected to mention that Elliott’s number appears in my cell phone directory under the name Scooter Risotto. We returned home and she called to apologize for our delay; but when I walked outside half an hour later, they still weren’t letting anyone through. I came back in and suggested that we open the bottle of shiraz we’d purchased and have a private celebration of Connie’s passage into middle age. Emma poured and then settled in to watch an episode of one of those shows where women with diamond necklaces sit around in garish mansions and berate each other for not coming to their daughters’ Little Miss Rich Kid pageants. I drained my glass as Brittany hurled a heavily censored stream of invective at Stella, then went back outside to see how things were going.

There’s nothing like four fire trucks and five squad cars shrieking down your street to draw your neighbors out of their cozy dens. Although many of those neighbors had retreated by then, a sizeable crowd remained—some couples who’d hired me to close mortgage refinance loans or prepare simple wills, along with several familiar faces I’d never gotten names for. I’m not the worst neighbor in the world—that distinction belongs to the inconspicuous killer who buries his victims in the crawl space underneath his house—but I’ve never been good about keeping in touch with whatever’s happening three doors down. The recession had caused me to reconsider that, and I’d recently attended a marketing seminar wherein the speaker suggested that you could bring a moribund legal practice back to life within a year by making ten new contacts each month. He told of one lawyer who was surviving the downturn by bringing a box of doughnuts to a different real estate agency each week and another lawyer who’d taken advantage of his stature by promoting himself as an expert in short sales. I’d begun by taking fruit-and-nut bars to one of the local agencies, but that had no effect. I’d sent a box of grapefruits to another office—not the brightest idea considering that ninety percent of those agents were women. I spent two hundred dollars on coffee coupons to pass out to clients, but then Java Goose went out of business and those coupons became as worthless as Confederate scrip. The half-price special for settlement services was the only promotion that seemed to work, although mostly with cheapskate buyers who had contracts on properties with complicated title issues they expected me to resolve within a week, time being of the essence. Just so you know, a half-price special doesn’t guarantee repeat business—two years later that client will be asking for a copy of his title insurance policy so he can refinance the same property with another lawyer who serves chai lattes at the closing table. I’ve always relied on fees from those who understand a law office isn’t where you go for caffeinated beverages; and although it’s gratifying when former clients return, there are certain disadvantages to running a low-profile real estate practice in a small town, the main one being that there’s not always a lot to do. But here was an opportunity to meet potential clients without making an overbearing ass of myself; and even if it didn’t generate any business, at least I’d be practicing the vanishing art of gracious engagement with fellow humans.

At that point we’d lived on Bramble Street for more than twenty years, long enough for most of the homes in our neighborhood to have changed ownership several times. A few of our neighbors worked at the College—a history professor and her family on Dahlia Drive, an admissions officer further down Sasanqua Street. But the majority of those who resided in College Park were half a generation younger, people who were playing Super Mario and collecting Beanie Babies when Emma joined Zephyr’s English Department. As for those who’d been there as long as we had—well, they seemed to have achieved equipoise. Fifteen more civilians may have been blown to bits in Baghdad yesterday, but what was that to them? When you met them out walking, they might mention a new grandchild or a recent trip to the Bahamas or ask whether you thought the Gamecocks would beat the Tigers this year. I acknowledge that everyone runs out of energy at some point, and there’ll come a time when most of us won’t be able to keep our chins above our chests. I further acknowledge there’s a genetic component to the speed at which we age, and that some people start to deliquesce more quickly than others. But with the average American life span now exceeding threescore-and-ten, is there any reason to retire from active duty before you turn sixty?

On the other hand, we’ve all heard about The Millionaire Next Door. He’s the former probation officer whose retirement is fully funded and can’t be touched by corporate raiders. He made some smart investments during the Clinton administration and cashed out before the market collapsed under Bush, invested his capital gains in annuities and treasury bills, then worked just long enough to maximize his state pension, with a monthly deduction to maintain full coverage from Blue Cross/Blue Shield. The mortgage on his home in Deer Path was paid off years ago; he’s currently building a lodge with breathtaking views near Caesar’s Head. Will Social Security still be around in fifteen years? He couldn’t care less—he can live off dividends until hell freezes over. During my jogs around the neighborhood, I began to suspect that many of these Hangers-On were actually among the Set-For-Life. The new Mercedes parked in the driveway, the enormous Winnebago sheltered underneath a massive awning—those weren’t the toys of people looking for loose change between the sofa cushions. Some long-standing clients had recently come by to execute new wills before crossing over to spend two months in France—he’d accumulated more than a year of vacation time over a long career with Duke Power and she’d always wanted to do the Peter Mayle tour. I’d also like to spend a month in Provence eating ratatouille and drinking Beaujolais, but who’d cover my law practice while I was gone? Just because the phone only rang twice today doesn’t mean it won’t ring ten times tomorrow—although in those days, that was an exceedingly rare occurrence.

My first encounter, because I couldn’t avoid him, was Harry Blart, a psychology professor who lived two streets over on Laurel Lane. Harry was a gifted mimic—he did a great impersonation of Senator Graham—and always greeted me the same way: Howdy, Pete. I thought I smelled something.

I emitted a mirthless chuckle.

How’s the shyster biz these days? Harry inquired. Swindled any chumps recently?

Got a big fee out of a doofus last week, I responded in kind, but I haven’t snookered any widows or orphans in months.

Yikes! Sounds like you might actually have to start working for a living!

Suffering produces character, I replied.

But, hey, this fire could turn into a great opportunity for you, Harry continued. Wait a day or two, then put a flyer in everybody’s mailbox offering to represent them in a class action for post-traumatic stress.

So far as I could tell, the only near-term stress my neighbors might have experienced that evening would be returning home to find they were out of booze, all the liquor stores having closed at seven p.m. Besides, who would you sue in that situation? Building code enforcement? The fire triangle? A watchmaker God?

I kid you not, Harry persisted. Fire frequently triggers a subliminal fear of the inferno that awaits the unrepentant reprobate after death. There are studies that show …

Wait a second, I interrupted. Isn’t that Miz Duchesne’s house? Any idea whether she got out okay?

Harry guffawed. Where’ve you been? She moved into assisted living two years ago and the house has been empty ever since. There was a for-sale sign in the yard last year, remember?

Although I could summon forth with perfect clarity a vision of an elderly lady sitting in a rocking chair on her front porch, I had only a dim memory of seeing a for-sale sign in the yard—or rather, hadn’t distinguished it from the other for-sale signs that had popped up as people kept trying to determine whether the real estate market had rebounded. (It hadn’t.) Yet a literal fire sale three blocks from campus would surely draw the attention of a clever investor. He could buy it at a deep discount, reinforce the charbroiled timbers and paint over the scorch marks, then rent it out to clueless students who’d never suspect they were inhaling carcinogens as they slept. There was even a chance that transaction would become my only closing in July. Add a fee for seller’s document preparation and I’d be a quarter of the way towards paying my office expenses in August.

Harry soon found another neighbor to pester, and I wandered over to join a trio of middle-aged women who frequently walked together and were known to me as The Weird Sisters. I don’t mean to suggest they were bearded hags—far from it. They were aggressively combating the ravages of age with frosted hair and whitened teeth; and one of them had a set of knockers that the Almighty, for all his mercy, doesn’t bestow upon a fifty-year-old. Each was carrying a large plastic cup filled with some magic elixir that allowed their voices to carry above the rumble and clatter. They were planning a golf-and-shopping extravaganza to Myrtle Beach; and I waited for a moment before sidling up to one who’d recently stood behind me at the liquor store and asked if the boxed wine I was purchasing was actually drinkable. Hello, I smiled. Any guesses as to when they’re gonna open the gates again?

She stared at me vacantly, making it abundantly clear that our exchange in the checkout line had made no lasting impression. I admit to owning an unremarkable face.

Pete Hodge, I said quickly. We spoke at the Toddy Shop last week.

At this point her features began to harden as if I’d propositioned her; but let me assure you, if I were in the philandering business, I’d be going after the one with the surgically-enhanced bazooms. It’s also possible she hadn’t heard me—fighting fires is a noisy business. Pete Hodge, I repeated. We’re at 56 Bramble. I gestured vaguely in the direction of our home.

She pivoted left and moved closer to her companions, who regarded me judgmentally as they slunk away.

Next up was Clyde Jenkins, who lived across from us on Bramble Street. Neither Clyde nor his wife Lillie would qualify as a potential marketing target—although I’d closed several transactions for their rental company over the years, I’d recently referred them to a certified estate planner after learning that their net worth exceeded five million dollars. But Clyde was standing next to a live prospect, a man who’d recently moved into one of the new homes at the creek-abutting edge of our enclave where a developer had torn down several sturdy ranch houses and replaced them with replicas of Lowcountry plantations sited within inches of the boundary lines. If my geography was correct, his was the clean-lined neo-Palladian that resembled Drayton Hall and was guarded by an annoying wiener dog that barked maniacally as I jogged past. By the way, if someone in your subdivision happens to be a real estate lawyer, be sure to hire him as your settlement agent. Not only is he likely to give you a welcome-to-the-neighborhood discount, there’s also a chance you can wheedle free legal advice out of him for the rest of your life. But this gentleman had engaged a Rock Hill firm to close the purchase—his agent still hasn’t forgiven me for advising some buyers to terminate a contract after her sellers refused to treat an active termite infestation. On the other hand, with mortgage rates at or near historic lows, he might have been considering a refinance; and why drive thirty miles and pay a thousand dollars for title services when you could walk a few blocks and close the same deal for a third of the price?

Howdy, Clyde, I began.

He regarded me quizzically before discharging an impressive belch. Even those who’ve known me for decades aren’t accustomed to seeing my features illuminated by flashing lights. Oh, hi, Pete, he eventually responded.

The new neighbor looked over and briefly scanned my attire—the rumpled polo shirt I occasionally do yard work in, the baggy khakis I’d spilled shiraz on less than an hour ago. Both he and Clyde were wearing crisp Hawaiian shirts with colorful leis hanging down from their necks; and the newbie’s condescending demeanor suggested that he’d amassed at least equal if not greater wealth than Clyde. It was the same arrogant and impatient expression I’d glimpsed in my rear view mirror two days earlier as his sleek red Corvette rode my bumper before blowing past me on the highway to Filbert. But even though he’d proved he was a jerk behind the wheel, he deserved a second chance while standing on his own two feet. Pete Hodge, I said, reaching over. We’re at 56 Bramble.

He granted a brief handshake. Duncan Pasta, he brusquely replied.

Now, a lawyer who searches real property indexes for a living frequently comes upon unusual names. I’ve certified titles on properties owned by Meadow Larkin and Constance Sorrow; I’ve prepared general warranty deeds for Hap Jellyman and Pearl E. Gates. I’ve represented an insurance agent named Arthur Baloney for years and once closed a reverse mortgage loan for a delightful couple surnamed Booty. But my amusement over such monikers would always pass long before I sat face-to-face with the owners thereof, nor do I normally consume ten ounces of shiraz in the hour immediately preceding such gatherings. So perhaps you can appreciate why, under the circumstances, this man’s name struck me like the punch line of a joke. I’m sorry, I snickered. Did you say Pasta?

Yes—Pasta. He regarded me sternly.

I smiled impishly. As in what spaghetti is?

He continued to glare. Yes, as in what spaghetti is. Do you find that amusing?

I blushed. Oh, no, I just … well, I’ve never known anyone with that last name, although there was a guy at college named Toby Alfredo.

Clyde burped even