Scannon, sipping a cappuccino, stared at the black-and-white photograph of the wooden teeter-totter. Just moments earlier, he hung it on the wall next to a photograph of a lopsided merry-go-round. He had taken both of them along with the three other photographs of playground equipment displayed on the walls of the small coffee house he managed. Dozens of photographs of famous prizefighters adorned the walls of a tavern down the street so he thought the Java Depot should have some pictures on its walls.

Often on weekends, walking around town with his vintage Leica, he took pictures of all sorts of things and, as a result, had shoeboxes full of pictures. He decided to display the ones he took of playground equipment because he thought they might put his customers in a good mood because they reminded them of their childhood. He didn't know if that was likely but, as a youngster, he lived across the street from an elementary school and often played on its swings and teeter-totter for as long as he wished. They were his giant toys, every bit as enjoyable as anything he could find at an amusement park.

* * *

At half past ten the bell attached to the front door rang, and, without looking up, Scannon knew Wendell Garber had entered the coffee house. A retired pharmacy technician, he stopped in about that time nearly every weekday morning.

"The usual, Wendell?"

"Please, Lloyd."

As he prepared his café mocha without whipped cream, he was surprised Garber didn't sit down at one of the window tables as he usually did to read the morning Dispatch. Instead, he waited for his drink at the counter.

"Did you want anything else?" Scannon asked, after serving him the mocha.

"As a matter of fact, I do, Lloyd."

"And what's that?"

"I have another legal question I'd like to have your advice on, if you don't mind."

He planted his elbows on the counter. "All right. I'm listening."

"I was speaking with a pharmacist I used to work for the other day and he was absolutely beside himself because he had just received notice from the county that some beach property he's owned for more than thirty years was going to be taken over by the county at the end of the calendar year. Can they get away with doing that?"

"Well, Wendell, the takings clause of the Fifth Amendment prohibits the government from taking private property for private use, even if just compensation is offered," he stated, "but if it's for a public use your friend is out of luck. It's theirs, lock, stock, and barrel."

"I don't really know if the use is public or private."

He smiled sourly. "If the government wants something badly enough, it'll always claim it's for public use."

Garber, disappointed with his analysis, took a sip of his drink.

"The government wields a heavy hand, I'm afraid, and usually gets what it wants."

"So it seems."

It's a hand that often is at the throat of people, forcing them to do what they don't want to do, he believed, stepping away from the retired technician to take the order of another customer.

* * *

Scannon was not a lawyer and did not pretend to be one. However, he did attend law school for one year so he had a rudimentary knowledge of the law and occasionally was able to enlighten customers who had legal questions. He thought of himself as a facilitator, more or less, who was just trying to be helpful to those who needed some guidance. Still, in his heart, he believed he was competent enough to be a practitioner even if he only had one year of training. From what he knew of the curriculum of the subsequent years in law school, it was little more than a repetition of what was taught in the first year. He was sure he was a minority of one but he was convinced one year was sufficient, even believed law school should be reduced to a single year, maybe a year and a half but no longer.

The thought of holding himself out as a lawyer had crossed his mind on occasion but, so far, he had never followed through with the notion because of his fear of being found out and exposed as a fraud. Just a few months ago, he read a report in the Dispatch of a former paralegal who practiced family law for nearly eight years before it was discovered she was not licensed to practice law. After fabricating a diploma and bar exam results, she assumed the identity of a deceased member of the bar in another state. Her deception was so successful for a while that she even served as president of the bar association in her county for one year. Even though she claimed she never ill-served any of her clients, she was required to serve a minimum of two years in prison for posing as a lawyer.

The risk of something like that happening to him was too great to take but still the temptation was difficult to get out of his head.

* * *

"Where's the gimp?" Max Mudjuck, the owner of Java Depot, bellowed as he waddled into the coffee house. A hulking figure whose belly all but concealed his belt buckle, he scanned the room for Scannon. Though accustomed to getting what he wanted, he often had on a frown as if to be sure to make others uncomfortable in his presence.

"Out in back," Janis, one of the baristas, informed him.

"Go get him."

She did as she was told, and shortly Scannon followed her out to the dining area.

"Good afternoon, boss."

"It's only good if you're making money."

"We're making some."

"Some is not enough," he scoffed, sitting down at one of the small brass tables. "You have to make lots or I'll have to find someone who will."

He nodded, half listening to a Bill Evans' recording of "Green Dolphin Street" playing through a small speaker behind the counter. "Understood."

"It better be, chum."

Mudjuck only acquired ownership of the Depot three and a half months ago, having inherited it from an uncle who perished in a boating accident, but Scannon was already used to his implied threat of closing the coffee house and opening a more profitable business. Of course, if that happened, he likely would be out of a job so he always tried to keep on the good side of him though he detested the man. His left leg was three inches shorter than his right so he walked with a noticeable limp which, as a kid, prompted others his age to refer to him as a gimp. He hated the word and hadn't been called that to his face in years until he came in contact with Mudjuck who somehow found it amusing. It wasn't, though, and he suspected Mudjuck knew it wasn't but it was his crude way of reminding him of his limitations. He didn't dare complain about his use of the term because he was certain he would be let go so he suffered the indignity in silence.

"You shouldn't let him call you that," a customer said to him one morning after he took her order.

He nodded in agreement.

"You should let him know you don't appreciate it. Not one bit."

Easy for you to say, lady, he thought, but I can't afford to lose another job. I tell him to cut it out, I'll be out the door. I'm sure of it.

"I need you to make a delivery, Lloyd," Mudjuck announced, ignoring a call on his cell phone.

"Right now?"

He shook his gleaming bald head which was as bright as a light bulb. "After you close tonight."

"Where's the delivery to?"

"Back to my store," he answered, referring to the pawn shop he and his brother-in-law operated in the north end of town.

"I'll get it there."

"You're damn right you will."

* * *

That evening, around a quarter to eleven, Scannon pulled up in front of the storage unit Mudjuck rented and loaded half a dozen large boxes into his car and delivered them to the pawn shop. He had no idea what was contained in the boxes and doubted if the worker he delivered them to had, either. This was the third such delivery he had made for Mudjuck and each time he was tempted to ask him what he was delivering so late at night but was sure he would tell him it was none of his business. Maybe it was for the best he didn't know, though, because he worried the deliveries might be something suspicious.

Two weeks ago, a frequent customer at the coffee house who knew he went to law school for a while expressed concern about being arrested for receiving stolen property.

"Are you serious?" he asked, surprised by the disclosure because the customer seemed too dignified to be involved in doing anything against the law.

"Very much so."

"Well, sir, you'll have to provide me with some more information before I can offer an opinion."

"The other day, on my birthday, a nephew of mine gave me a laptop which I assume was very expensive and I don't know how in the world he could afford it since he only works part-time at a fast food restaurant. He claimed he got a good deal on it from a friend. That well might be the case but my nephew has spent time in juvenile detention for petty larceny so I am worried the laptop he gave me might be stolen."

"You don't know that, though?"

"I do not."

"One is guilty of receiving illegal takings if he knows the property is stolen. You say you don't know that so you're not culpable."

"That's a relief."

"But if you have a suspicion you have been given stolen property I would advise you to return it to your nephew. It's always better to be safe than sorry."

After the delivery, sitting in his car outside the pawn shop, he wondered if he should take his own advice and not have anything more to do with Mudjuck who possibly might be a fence for stolen property for all he knew and the pawn shop a safehouse from which he sold the property. He just didn't know, not yet anyway.

* * *

"What is it?" Janis wondered.

Scannon spun around on his stool. "Sorry?"

She nodded at the photograph of the teeter-totter on the south wall. "What do you find so interesting about that picture? I've noticed you look at it a lot."

"Do I?"

"You do, Lloyd, a lot."

He shrugged, not aware he looked at it so often. Maybe because it depicted so vividly his relationship with Mudjuck. He had all the power so at any moment he could plant himself on one end of the teeter-totter and cause him to twist in the breeze like a frayed ribbon. He probably believed he could compel him to do whatever he wished even if it was in violation of the law.

* * *

In another week, Mudjuck again asked him to deliver some boxes to the pawn shop. He was reluctant to comply but knew he had to if he hoped to remain on good terms with the odious man. As usual, the delivery was to be carried out after hours when only a few people, if any, would be at the storage facility. Still wondering if Mudjuck might be a fence, he decided to open one of the boxes before he loaded any of them. Anxiously he looked all around to make sure no one was watching him then took out his pocket knife and sliced open the seal on the largest one. The first thing he noticed was a price tag attached to a camera that was four times the cost of his camera.

Immediately a pulse began to throb in the middle of his forehead.

He picked up another camera and it also had a price tag and his heart sank to the bottom of his stomach. He didn't know for certain but he would not be surprised if all the items in the box were ill-gotten and knew he had to take leave of Mudjuck before he got in some serious trouble with the authorities. Quickly he resealed the box then left it and the other boxes in the locker and headed back to the coffee house where he intended to leave a letter of resignation on the counter.