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. "Speak up!" she snapped. "I've turned on the privacy curtain."
"Please tell Mr. Garsch that Rudbek of Rudbek would like to see him."
Thorby thought that she was about to tell him not to tell fibs. Then she got up hastily and left.
She came back and said quietly, "The Counselor can give you five minutes. This way, sir."
James J. Garsch's private office was in sharp contrast with building and suite; he himself looked like an unmade bed. He wore trousers, not tights, and his belly bulged over his belt. He had not shaved that day; his grizzled beard matched the fringe around his scalp. He did not stand up. "Rudbek?"
"Yes, sir. Mr. James J. Garsch?"
"The same. Identification? Seems to me I saw your face in the news but I don't recollect."
Thorby handed over his ID folder. Garsch glanced at the public ID, studied the rare and more difficult-to-counterfeit ID of Rudbek & Assocs.
He handed it back. "Siddown. What can I do for you?"
"I need advice . . . and help."
"That's what I sell. But Bruder has lawyers running out of his ears. What can I do for you?"
"Uh, is this confidential?"
"Privileged, son. The word is 'privileged.' You don't ask a lawyer that; he's either honest or he ain't. Me, I'm middlin' honest. You take your chances."
"Well . . . it's a long story."
"Then make it short. You talk. I listen."
"You'll represent me?"
"You talk, I listen," Garsch repeated
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