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country?”
    “You got me, Only. It’s not like the old days, is it?”
    “No way. When Clinton was president, he understood. Even though he didn’t inhale, he knew what the score was. So what do I
     do?”
    “Smoke less, work more,” I said. “And don’t skateboard off any more roofs.”
    He frowned. Then smiled. Then frowned. Then smiled again. Like Stan Laurel.
    “That’s really good advice, man. Thanks.”
    It’s nice when you can change a person’s life for the better.

9
    M Y NEXT “CLIENT” was a woman—short, round, and fortyish—who wanted to sue her insurance company for bad faith. She had driven her Prius into
     her neighbor’s garage door. The front end of her car was turned into an accordion. She put in a claim.
    Which the insurance company refused to pay.
    “Maybe I’m missing something,” I said. “But didn’t you drive your car into the door?”
    “By accident, yeah.”
    “You were the cause of the damage,” I said.
    “No,” she said. “The garage door caused the damage.”
    I spent the next ten minutes trying to explain the rules of causality to her. She did not get it. Or refused to. She said
     I was a hack and she was going to sue the company herself and then maybe me for malpractice.
    I wished her well.
    She cursed at me.
    This is now my life in the law. Drunk Santa Clauses. Toking telephone store employees. People who drive cars into garage doors
     that are not their own, then want money for it.
    In many ways, it’s a lot more interesting than the white collars I used to rep at one of the biggest firms in L.A., Gunther,
     McDonough & Longyear. Most of those clients were of a piece. You don’t get as much diversity in corporate America as you do
     at the Ultimate Sip.
    Of course, you don’t get much money at the Sip, but I was in a whole reassessment mood about that. I’d sold my real estate
     before the southern California land bust of ’07, and the funds were sitting in some CDs, breathing along.
    It was kind of nice for a change not to be thinking about money.

10
    W HEN WE GOT back to St. Monica’s, I thought the rest of my day would be like one of those old ranchero deals. That was L.A., originally.
     Rancheros and hammocks in the shade and everything moving to the rhythm of a slow burro.
    Not to be. Pulling into the lot, I saw a knot of nuns outside the office.
    “Not good,” Father Bob said as we got out of my car. He has a sense of these things, especially after getting hit with that
     false accusation of child molesting during the pedophile priest scandals. He’s sort of a walking Catholic radar system.
    As we approached, we got looks. Wide eyed. Sister Perpetua, the oldest nun in the community, motioned us over.
    “The devil is behind it all,” she whispered.
    She looked seriously spooked.
    The office door opened, and there stood Sister Hildegarde. She does not wear the habit. She favors off-the-Walmart-rack specials.
     Her short, graying hair is dead straight and parted in the middle.
    “Come in,” she said.
    Sister Mary was sitting in the office, her face devoid of color.
    “What’s going on?” Father Bob said.
    Sister Hildegarde shut the door. “I’ll tell you what’s going on. There has been an incursion. An e-mail.” She motioned to
     the monitor on the desk. This was the computer Sister Mary usually handled.
    On the screen was an e-mail, sent to St. Monica’s:
    Mary, Mary, quite contrary.
    I will do to you what you deserve.
    Don’t fear God.
    Fear the one you don’t know.
    I can’t wait to get to know you better.
    I looked at Sister Mary. Her eyes were more frightened than I’d ever seen them.
    “Who would do this?” Sister Hildegarde said.
    “A punk,” I said. “It’s cyberstalking. The address is no doubt fake, but we need to get the cops on it.”
    Father Bob said, “Wouldn’t this be an FBI matter?”
    “The feds leave this to the states. They haven’t got the manpower, unless they think it’s terrorist related.”
    “Is it