The initial blast of her temper used to thrill him. Early on, when she came at him, he would catch her by the wrists and hold her and tell her that he was sorry and she would wear herself out trying to tear away from him. Then he noticed the bruises. Over the years he began to realize the toll those flashes of extreme anger took out of her. He learned the things that triggered the conflagrations and how to walk gingerly around them.

Say for instance if he were to offer some constructive criticism of one of their daughters he had to be very, very careful. And her brothers and sisters, she conceded they were a mess, but they had good reason to be. Sympathy and understanding were in order here. As to her father (God rest his soul) you'd best utter nothing less than complete awe and reverence over the old man's ability to feed and clothe eight children, at least one of whom was not his own.

This last one was actually pretty easy for him to do. He had always marveled at the old man's patience and courage. Eight kids are frightening enough under the best of circumstances. He thought of Thanksgiving at her mother's house. The old man at the piano with his Parkinson's and his Stamps-Baxter songbook. Grandkids and great-grandkids everywhere, in-laws and ex wives and not one drop of booze in the whole house. Everybody kept it cool out of respect for the old man. Most of them knew the secrets that he wished the house still held.

He thought of all this while driving east/southeast on autopilot. He didn't remember the stop signs or the right turn towards Woodlake but there it was, Road 76 and Ray Dominguez, the truck driver's house. Again he drove slowly by the place, his sensors gathering data. A well kept old white house on a narrow, deep lot. Small yard surrounded by a shoulder high chain link fence. There was a detached garage back at the end of a 25 yd. gravel driveway where a blue Reagan era F-250 that had been parked for quite a while. There had to be at least one dog somewhere.

He turned around and drove up the driveway a bit and stopped. Sure enough he was greeted by a seemingly friendly old black McNab. He gave the horn a couple quick honks and watched the front door of the house. A huge fawn colored pitbull wandered around from side of the house and watched him intently from behind the fence. Neither dog barked at all.

He looked at the McNab and rolled down his window. "Nobody home eh boy?" The dog sat back on it's haunches and cocked it's head a bit. More data was processed.
He dangled his arm out the window and the old dog came over and smelled his hand and let him pet his face. He reached around the back floorboards and pulled out a half eaten bag of Chicharrnes and offered the old dog a crunchy bit of pork rind.

That got the old guy's tail going, so he got out of the car and gave him a couple more. Dogs were good medicine and before he knew it he was down on one knee kneading the old dog's cheeks and neck and shoulders. Then he noticed the pitbull was whining so he went over to the fence and gingerly poked a couple treats through the chain link.

The hair on the back of his neck stood straight up with the dog's powerful jaws so close to his fingers, but the dog was equally careful in taking the food. "Fearfully and wonderfully made" in the old King James came to mind as he noted the dogs muscled frame and shark dead eyes. He needed to get going, he was loafing on Pembroke's dime. "Guess I'll see you guys later."

Back in his car, he noted the date and time on the worksheet along with a dog alert. His next stop was a copy job at Trident Claims Management in Visalia. Some plaintiff's attorney wanted a copy of a claim file. He always carried a laptop computer and a small portable scanner in his car.

Trident was a regular stop. Judy, the receptionist buzzed him through the security door with a wave and a smile. "You're going to be here awhile, shall I tell you about our lunch special?"

"You people! All you think about is food."

"That's not all I think about." Judy said with a mischievous smile.

"Oh that's right, I forgot about Brad and Kenny and Alan back there."

"And George Strait too! I just got my Bakersfield tickets online!"

Her work area was covered in publicity photos. Lots of guys wearing hats and smiles. Some were even autographed. Judy was a fan.

"Judy, have you ever heard of a guy named Buddy Miller?"

"No, what's he look like?"

"He wears a hat, plays the guitar, great voice...I'll burn you a CD."

She was already tapping away on google then "Oh...he's kind of old...I mean...frumpy."

"Hey us old, frumpy guys gotta stick up for each other."

Judy (God bless her) blushed a little.

"Well...somebody needs to get some work done around here, where's that file?"

Judy led him back to a vacant cubicle with a stack of thick file folders about two feet tall waiting on the desk and said "I wasn't kidding about lunch, we're having Chinese, I could order you a plate."

"Thanks Judy that'd be nice."

He did some quick math and figured he'd be there pretty much the rest of the day, making some big money for his boss. Sometimes Pembroke got lucky. He called his dispatcher on the Nextel and let her know what jobs he'd completed so far and what he wouldn't get done.

"Okay but Maria says to swing back through Woodlake on your way home and try to serve that truck driver."

"Will do. Thanks Sandra."

Soon he was feeding pages through the scanner at the rate of about $3.00 a minute. He did some more math and thought of what Pembroke would bill the attorney and then what the attorney would pass on to their client. It all came down to inches and minutes and money.

He was under a very strict confidentiality contract, but this didn't keep him from reading the file. Pulling out staples and guiding pages into the scanner nice and straight , you couldn't help it. Claim forms, doctor bills, depositions and lab reports.

In this case it was a 57 year old man trying to win a stress claim. Psychiatrist notes described symptoms of insomnia, fatigue, lack of concentration, bouts of sudden weeping, dizziness and chest pains. Depositions of his coworkers drew a picture of a downsized staff being driven to increased productivity by an erratic and at times even cruel supervisor.

The claim had been going on for years, hence the large multi-volume file. Doctors and therapists, adjusters and lawyers and even a judge or two were all trying to determine the extent of his disability and if the poor guy's problems were the result of his work environment or simply modern life in general. And that was tough (and very lucrative for some) these days.

Is a man or woman driven into a weeping fetal ball by a sadistic boss or years of alcohol abuse? Is it a bad job description or an adjustable rate mortgage? A son in Afghanistan, a wild/stupid daughter? How about bad childhood memories? I mean real bad.

Scary monsters were everywhere.