Those Canny MacDougalls, Chapter III

The MacDougall Office Building in downtown Excelsior City was dark and as quiet as the grave when the great man let himself in at the side door that late-summer Sunday evening. His being there was not particularly unusual; he often visited the office for an hour or so on a Sunday evening, in much the same manner as a general surveys the terrain and the dispositions and armaments of his troops on the eve of battle. Clem MacDougall looked first into his office. The cleanup crew had done a creditable job of removing the litter of shredded paper. The surfaces were scrubbed clean of fingerprint dust and the ravaged file drawers had been closed. The appointment book, Rolodex, Dictaphone, note pads, billable time slips and sharpened pencils were laid out in their places like a surgeon’s instruments. He sighed with pleasure at the sight. We’ll be back tae normal afore ye know it. Clem MacDougall regarded the subject of computers in general in much the same way a builder regards the subject of power tools, the way a concert pianist regards a Steinway grand. He knew how to use it; he expected it to function properly, to be in tune with his intentions, to respond to his touch. With that in mind, he sat down at Claudia Aikens’s desk, switched on the computer and waited for the familiar desktop display. True, the hands-on computer work in the office was almost exclusively Claudia Aikens’s province. Despite a certain pragmatic tendency to be forward-looking, MacDougall still had a trace or two of the professional’s disdain for people who worked with keyboards. He had not, however, become the most sought-after divorce lawyer in all of Green County and perhaps the state by being indifferent to trends. He’d seen the law-review types at the University tap-tapping away on their notebook computers and researching the newest appellate decisions on the Internet. A tool’s a tool, and this one looks like a beauty. Just the year before, he’d bought a solar-powered, turbocharged Excelsior-Dot-Com 5000 Sports Model GeniusPad laptop computer with all the latest law-office software and eighteen zillion rams of memory and lots of gigabytes and a modem that worked at twice the speed of light – or some such blasted thing, whatever all that gibberish means – couldn’t describe the bloody thing if his life depended on it, but, by God, now he could carry his practice wherever he went. Even to auld Soppy’s cabin – sorry, cottage – in the hills. As Soppy had predicted, the office system was blank. Dead. Defunct, croaked, asleep in Jesus, gone to a better place. But every Sunday evening for the last year, I’ve doonloaded all me office files intae me laptop system and I keep a’ the diskettes, indexed by client and cross-indexed by file number, in me bomb-proof safe at home, with copies in me safe deposit box at the Excelsior National Bank. I’ll manage, thank ye, whoever ye are, ye bloody bugger. I’ll manage. Ye’ve got tae rise fair early in the mornin’ tae steal a march on the Pride o’ the MacDougalls. He didn’t even bother to check the backup tapes. If they were intact, wonderful. If they weren’t, who gave a tinker’s damn? Pretty clear who the culprit is. But why? Is she takin’ kickbacks? Has she got a scunner for me for some reason? How could that be? I’m a decent chap to work for, aren’t I? Clem MacDougall shut down the computer and made himself a note to start re-programming the system the following day – keeping the file disks in his possession or within reach at all times. He joined Soppy Doyle for a nightcap at the Fox & Hounds. MacDougall picked up the tab. Whatever else they might say about him, MacDougall never welshed on a bet. As the two friends began to wax philosophical after their fourth round of boilermakers, Clem MacDougall suddenly spotted Claudia Aikens and a bulky, stupid-looking man in a black motorcycle jacket sitting at the far end of the bar. She wore tight pants. His belly hung over his belt and there was a pallid, hairy gap between where his black Harley-Davidson T-shirt ended and his big ugly skull-shaped brass belt buckle began. They were pretty far gone on hard booze of some kind and seemed quite pleased with themselves. Sly Talbott joined Doyle and MacDougall, bringing another box of bootleg Cuban cigars he’d carried in the false bottom of his suitcase from his last business trip to the Caymans. After the umpteenth toast to the canny MacDougalls, offered by the gentleman of the same name, Talbott asked what all the mirth was all about. MacDougall smiled and hummed “Scotland the Brave.” TAE BE CONTINUED,