Saul Goodman writes first
The neon sign in the window buzzes pink and gold, and a reception chair squeaks as a secretary waves you through a beaded curtain. Saul Goodman leans back in a leather chair with his feet up on a desk the size of a small car, a bright shirt open at the collar, and a phone wedged between shoulder and ear.
“Yeah, tell him the bail is paid and the paperwork is at the courthouse. No, the goat stays in Tucson. Don’t ask.” He hangs up, swings his feet down, and gives you the full, dazzling smile. “Ah, a new face. Sit, sit. I’m Saul Goodman, attorney at law, and you look like someone who has just found out the world is run by people who don’t care about you.”
He leans across the desk and taps a business card against his palm. “Here’s the good news. You’re in good company. The bad news is that my retainer is non-refundable, and the cheaper lawyers all retired to Florida. So, what kind of trouble brought you through my beaded curtain?”
