Special Treat: A Bit of Short Fiction Courtesy of the Talented Jim Callan

Jill Elizabeth posted this on July 19th, 2016

So today I have a special treat for you – a very fun piece of short fiction by the talented author James Callan. He sent this tidbit around to those of us on his email list (if you’re not one of said lucky readers, you should definitely do something about that post haste – you can sign up by sending him a quick email at jim@jamesrcallan.com), and I’m reprinting it with his gracious permission. When he’s not sending fun surprise treat emails, Jim writes fun surprise treat books, which you can learn about here. There’s also a blurb about his latest – The Silver Medallion – after the story, definitely check that out too. Happy reading!

The Brain of Will Smith
The law offices of B.D. Suall did not measure up to lawyers’ offices on TV. Joe Smith didn’t notice. He watched a lot of TV, but his tastes ran more to professional wrestling or stand-up comedy shows. He knew B.D. from a local bar, knew he was a lawyer, and that’s all Joe needed to know.

Will Smith, the successful businessman, the man who sat on the boards of more companies than Bill Gates, the man to whom thousands of people turned when they needed help in the business world, and more important, Joe’s father, had died.

Unfortunately, none of Will Smith’s expertise, none of his business acumen, none of his drive to excel had passed down to Joe. But Joe was not stupid. He heard things. He picked up on what people said. He recognized an idea when it smacked him in the face. At least, he did this time. And he remembered one of the things his father had said. Strike while the iron is hot. He didn’t understand the hot iron bit, but he knew it meant act quickly when you tripped over an opportunity.

So, he had sought out his lawyer friend, quickly, before his greedy sister got to her lawyer. Susan always sucked up to their dad, worked with him, tried to be like him. Why didn’t the all-knowing Will Smith see that she was just trying to please him? What a phony. Joe didn’t try to please anyone but himself.

“So, what exactly is it that you want to do, Joe? Is this about your father’s will—your inheritance?” B.D. Suall slouched in his worn chair, which no longer swiveled and was likely to tip over if he leaned back even a little.

The lawyer closed his eyes, lest Joe realize his eagerness. Will Smith was rich, bound to be. B.D. could see dollars, lots of dollars, landing in his lap. He brought his emotions under control and opened his eyes to look at his client. It was hard to think of sloppy Joe as a client. It was not hard to imagine the money involved.

“Naw,” said Joe, resting his elbows on a stack of yellowed papers cluttering B.D.’s desk. “Dad made it clear where his money was going, and I’m not getting any. Well, maybe a little. But nothing like suck-up Susan will get. Her and a bunch of do-gooders.”

“So, you think maybe we could break his will, cash in a bit more?”

“Naw. Dad always had a bunch of lawyers. I don’t think even you could break it. I got a better idea.”

B.D. studied the man sitting in front of him. Could Joe generate a better idea? Could Joe generate any idea? But B.D. could feel money close by, could almost smell it. Maybe some of it might fall where it rightfully belonged—in the lawyer’s hand. B.D. hadn’t had any good luck in quite awhile.

“Okay. Tell me about your better idea.” He leaned back cautiously, steepled his fingers, and tried to look professional—bored, detached.
“I think we can make lots of money selling pieces of Dad’s brain.” Now, Joe sat back and smiled, proud of himself.

“Sell pieces of a dead man’s brain?” B.D.’s balloon deflated. This guy is as loony as I thought.

“Yeah. To clone.”

The lawyer’s brow furrowed and he cocked his head to the side. He said nothing.

“Don’t you get it? Dad was a great businessman. People from all over the world used to pay big bucks to get his ideas on how to make money. He used to say that people wanted to pick his brain.” Joe’s face split with a wide grin. “We’re gonna give ‘em the chance to do that. We can sell little bits. Then, people can clone it, be able to pick Dad’s brain whenever they want.”

“Clone his brain?”

“Yeah.” Disappointment fell over Joe. He thought his idea would blow the lawyer away. “Don’t you read nothing? They can clone anything now. You just get a little piece of his brain, clone it, and now you got his brain.”

B.D. thought about that. Of course, he knew they cloned things. Everybody had heard about Dolly the sheep. But clone a human brain? From a dead human brain? He didn’t know about that. Still, if they could, people would pay for that. Pay a lot. Even for the chance it might work.

B.D. moved into negotiating lawyer mode. “That’s a complicated and expensive process, Joe.”

Dumb lawyer, Joe thought. Whatever it cost, people will pay it. And more. “I don’t have to do the cloning. I just sell the pieces. Them guys that buy it do the cloning.”

B.D. smiled. “Right. But there are a lot of legal expenses. We have to protect it. We have to protect ourselves. We have to advertise it. We have to draw up contracts.” He folded his hands in his lap and sat back in his chair, careful not to tip it over. How much could he stick this guy for? “Are you prepared to invest, say $100,000 to get this started?”

First, Joe just stared at the man. Then he laughed. “If I had that kind of money, I wouldn’t be here talking to you. I’d be at the beach.” His smile looked more like a smirk. “How ‘bout I give you ten percent of the profits? Could be a lot more than $100,000.”

B.D. nodded several times, tried to look serious, doubtful. “Just how much money can you put into this?”

Joe squirmed. “A few thousand. Most of my, ah, funds is tied up in the, ah, right now.”
B.D. sat motionless and said nothing. One thing he had learned: a long period of silence often accomplished more than talking.

Joe didn’t know who else he could get to help. B.D. was the only lawyer he knew. His dad always had lots of good legal guys. But Joe didn’t even know their names. “Since I’m supplying the brain, how ‘bout you supplying the money? And I up your cut to twenty percent.”

B.D. pursed his lips, tried to look concerned. Time to get tough. “Joe, I’m going to be doing all the work. Now you want me to supply all the seed money. And all you’re doing is bringing your dead dad’s brain.” He waited a moment. Not long enough to let Joe think—if he could. Or even start talking. “But I’ll help you out, Joe. I’ll handle all the legal matters, file all the papers, get all the necessary documents, go through court records, draw up contracts, clearances, file motions, conveyances …” He paused, trying to think of any more gobbledygook he could snow this guy with. “I’ll handle … everything on that side. There’s a lot to do.” Again, he paused. Let Joe think about that. “But, I need sixty percent of the gross. Can’t do it otherwise.” He spread his hands and smiled. “Hell, we’ve had a lot of laughs and fun at the bar. I’ll probably lose money, but what are friends for?” Wait. But not too long. “What say? Shall I draw up an agreement?”

Joe’s face drooped. Sixty percent sounded like a lot. But where else could he turn? Still, sixty percent. “How about fifty? We go fifty-fifty.”

“I’m doing all the work, paying all the legal fees. All the time I spend on this, I’m turning away other clients. Clients who pay up front.” B.D. almost choked on those words. “I wouldn’t do this for anybody else, Joe. But as a long-time drinking buddy, I’ll cut it down to fifty-five. How’s that?”

Joe didn’t like it. But B.D. had come down. Met Joe half way from his fifty-fifty offer. “Okay. Let’s just get it done. We can both make money.”

“Good. I’ll draw up the papers and we can sign them on …” He could crank out something in a few minutes. But he had to make it look like he was working hard on this. Besides, before he completed the agreement, he needed to look into how much money was really out there. “Thursday. My secretary’s out today. I’ve got court tomorrow.” Both lies. “I’ll work overtime Wednesday night and get it done. Thursday, say 2:30.” A well drawn contract and B.D. would make a lot more than sixty percent.

“Great.” Joe stood up and stuck out his hand. “Partner.” B.D. rolled his eyes, but stood and shook his new partner’s hand.

Joe bounced out to his twelve-year-old Plymouth, hoping it would start. He wouldn‘t have to put up with it much longer.

The clanging of the telephone woke Joe. He knocked it off the table. By the time he retrieved it, the caller had hung up. Damn. Probably B.D. Joe thought about calling him, just in case, but didn’t know his number. Maybe he’d drop by to see him later.

The telephone rang again, and he grabbed it.

“Yeah?”

“It’s Wednesday, Joe. Are you coming to the service?”

Suck-up Susan. “Yeah.”

“I’ll pick you up at 10. Don’t go back to sleep. Get ready now.”

On time, of course, Susan pulled up in front of Joe’s apartment. Joe was sitting on the front steps, reading the funny papers.

He hopped in the car, picked up a funny looking vase from the seat, and put it in his lap. “Right on time,” he said.

“I try to be,” Susan said.

“Not you. Me. I was on time.”

“Yes, you were. Thank you.”

Joe fastened his seat belt. “Where’s the service?”

“Dad loved the lake so much. I thought, why not there?”

“The lake?” Joe scrunched his eyebrows together.

“We’ll sprinkle the ashes on the water, where he loved to fish.”

Joe tried to process what she said. Ashes. “What are you talking about? We’re going to the funeral, aren’t we?”

Susan looked at her brother. “There is no funeral, Joe. Dad wanted to be cremated. You and I, and his brother, are going to sprinkle his ashes over the lake. We can each say a few words remembering Dad. He wanted it to be simple. Just family.”

For minutes, Joe huddled against the door, speechless. He looked at the urn he held, shook it, heard something sliding around inside. In a halting voice, he said, “You cremated all of him?”

Susan furrowed her forehead as she looked at the brother she had never understood. “Yes.”

“His head? His brain?”

Susan shook her head in disbelief. “Certainly. What are you getting at?”

“Nothing.”

It was the last word Joe spoke the entire day.

The Latest Offering from James R. Callan: The Silver Medallion – A Crystal Moore Suspense

Young, bright, unadventurous Crystal Moore comes face-to-face with slavery in today’s Dallas, Texas. A woman is held, not by chains, but by threats to her two small children left behind in Mexico. Should she escape, or even tell anybody of her situation, her children will be killed. Crystal would like to walk away and forget she ever heard this. But her conscience won’t let her. Her parents were killed when she was just seven. She knows the heartache these children suffer. And she can’t sleep without hearing the cries of the two young girls and their mother. Crystal knows the woman will never try to escape as long as her children are held hostage. Crystal realizes the only way to free her is to go to Mexico and rescue the girls first, for only if they are safe will the mother ever be free. Crystal goes to Mexico and secures the help of the mysterious Juan Grande. But now, two powerful and ruthless men, one in Mexico and one in Texas, want Crystal dead.
She will need all the help she can get from a former bull rider, Crystal’s streetwise housemate Brandi, and Crystal’s seventy-six year-old, feisty grandmother.