HE BIRDSONG HOUSE IS IN MIDTOWN, an older, affluent area in the city, only a couple of miles from the law school. The street is lined with ancient oaks and appears secluded. Some of the homes are quite handsome, with manicured lawns and luxury cars glistening in the driveways. Still others seem almost abandoned, and peer hauntingly through dense growth of unpruned trees and wild shrubbery. Still others are somewhere in between. Miss Birdie’s is a white-stone turn-of-the-century Victorian with a sweeping porch that disappears around one end. It needs paint, a new roof and some yard work. The windows are dingy and the gutters are choked with leaves, but it’s obvious someone lives here and tries to keep it up. The drive is lined with disorderly hedges. I park behind a dirty Cadillac, probably ten years old.

The porch planks squeak as I step to the front door, looking in all directions for a large dog with pointed teeth. It’s late, almost dark, and there are no lights on the porch. The heavy wooden door is wide open, and through the

screen I can see the shape of a small foyer. I can’t find a button for the doorbell, so I very gently tap on the screen door. It rattles loosely. I hold my breath-no barking dogs.

No noise, no movement. I tap a bit louder.

“Who is it?” a familiar voice calls out.

“Miss Birdie?”

A figure moves through die foyer, a light switches on, and there she is, wearing the same cotton dress she wore yesterday at the Cypress Gardens Senior Citizens Building. She squints through the door.

“It’s me. Rudy Baylor. The law student you talked to yesterday.”

“Rudy!” She is thrilled to see me. I’m slightly embarrassed for a second, then I am suddenly sad. She lives alone in this monstrous house, and she’s convinced her family has abandoned her. The highlight of her day is taking care of those deserted old people who gather for lunch and a song or two. Miss Birdie Birdsong is a very lonely person.

She hurriedly unlocks the screen door. “Come in, come in,” she repeats without the slightest hint of curiosity. She takes me by the elbow and ushers me through the foyer and down a hallway, hitting light switches along the way. The walls are covered with dozens of old family portraits. The rugs are dusty and threadbare. The smell is moldy and musty, an old house in need of serious cleaning and refurbishing.

“So nice of you to stop by,” she says sweetly, still squeezing my arm. “Didn’t you have fun with us yesterday?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Won’t you come back and visit us again?”

“Can’t wait.”

She parks me at the kitchen table. “Coffee or tea?” she

asks, bouncing toward the cabinets and swatting at light switches.

“Coffee,” I say, looking around the room.

“How about instant?”

“That’s fine.” After three years of law school, I can’t tell instant coffee from real.

“Cream or sugar?” she asks, reaching into the refrigerator.

“Just black.”

She gets the water on and the cups lined up, and she takes a seat across from me at the table. She’s grinning from ear to ear. I’ve made her day.

“I’m just delighted to see you,” she says for the third or fourth time.

“You have a lovely home, Miss Birdie,” I say, inhaling the musty air.

“Oh, thank you. Thomas and I bought it fifty years ago.”

The pots and pans, sink and faucets, stove and toaster are all at least forty years old. The refrigerator is probably of early sixties’ vintage.

“Thomas died eleven years ago. We raised our two sons in this house, but I’d rather not talk about them.” Her cheery face is somber for a second, but she’s quickly smiling again.

“Sure. Of course not.”

“Let’s talk about you,” she says. It’s a subject I’d rather avoid.

“Sure. Why not?” I’m braced for the questions.

“Where are you from?”

“I was born here, but I grew up in Knoxville.”

“How nice. And where did you go to college?”

“Austin Peay.”

“Austin who?”

“Austin Peay. It’s a small school in Clarksville. State-supported.”

“How nice. Why did you choose Memphis State for law School?”

“It’s really a fine school, plus I like Memphis.” There are two other reasons, actually. Memphis State admitted me, and I could afford it.

“How nice. When do you graduate?”

“Just a few weeks.”

“Then you’ll be a real lawyer, how nice. Where will you go to work?”

“Well, I’m not sure. I’ve been thinking a lot lately of just hanging out my shingle, you know, running my own office. I’m an independent type, and I’m not sure I can work for anyone else. I’d like to practice law my own way.”

She just stares at me. The smile is gone. The eyes are frozen on mine. She’s puzzled. “That’s just wonderful,” she finally says, then jumps up to fix the coffee.

If this sweet little lady is worth millions, she’s doing a marvelous job of hiding it. I study the room. The table under my elbows has aluminum legs and a worn Formica top. Every dish and appliance and utensil and furnishing was purchased decades ago. She lives in a somewhat neglected house and drives an old car. Apparently, there are no maids or servants. No fancy little dogs.

“How nice,” she says again as she places the two cups on the table. There is no steam rising from them. My cup is slightly warm. The coffee tastes weak, bland and stale.

“Good coffee,” I say, smacking my lips.

“Thanks. And so you’re just gonna start your own little law office?”

“I’m thinking about it. It’ll be tough, you know, for a while. But if I work hard, treat people fairly, then I won’t have to worry about attracting clients.”

She grins sincerely and slowly shakes her head. “Why, that’s just wonderful, Rudy. How courageous. I think the profession needs more young people like you.”

I’m the last thing this profession needs-another hungry young vulture roaming the streets, scavenging for litigation, trying to make something happen so I can squeeze a few bucks out of broke clients.

“You may wonder why I’m here,” I say, sipping the coffee.

“I’m so glad you came.”

“Yes, well, it’s great to see you again. But I wanted to talk about your will. I had trouble sleeping last night because I was worried about your estate.”

Her eyes become moist. She’s touched by this.

“A few things are particularly troublesome,” I explain now with my best lawyerly frown. I remove a pen from my pocket and hold it as if I’m ready for action. “First, and please forgive me for saying this, but it really troubles me to see you or any client take such harsh measures against family. I think this is something we should discuss at length.” Her lips tighten, but she says nothing. “Second, and again please forgive me, but I couldn’t live with myself as a lawyer if I didn’t mention this, I have a real problem drafting a will or any instrument which conveys the bulk of an estate to a TV personality.”

“He’s a man of God,” she says emphatically, quickly defending the honor of the Reverend Kenneth Chandler.

“I know. Fine. But why give him everything, Miss Birdie? Why not twenty-five percent, you know, something reasonable?”

“He has a lot of overhead. And his jet is getting old. He told me all about it.”

“Okay, but the Lord doesn’t expect you to finance the reverend’s ministry, does he?”

“What the Lord tells me is private, thank you.”

“Of course it is. My point is this, and I’m sure you know it, but a lot of these guys have fallen hard, Miss Birdie. They’ve been caught with women other than their wives. They’ve been caught blowing millions on lavish lifestyles -homes, cars, vacations, fancy suits. A lot of them are crooks.”

“He’s not a crook.”

“Didn’t say he was.”

“What are you implying?”

“Nothing,” I say, then take a long sip. She’s not angry, but it wouldn’t take much. “I’m here as your lawyer, Miss Birdie, that’s all. You asked me to prepare a will for you, and it’s my duty to be concerned about everything in the will. I take this responsibility seriously.”

The mass of wrinkles around her mouth relax and her eyes soften again. “How nice,” she says.

I suppose many old rich people like Miss Birdie, especially those who suffered through the Depression and made the money themselves, would guard their fortunes fiercely with accountants and lawyers and unfriendly bankers. But not Miss Birdie. She’s as naive and trusting as a poor widow on a pension. “He needs the money,” she says, taking a sip and eyeing me rather suspiciously.

“Can we talk about the money?”

“Why do you lawyers always want to talk about the money?”

“For a very good reason, Miss Birdie. If you’re not careful, the government will get a big chunk of your estate. Certain things can be done with the money now, some careful estate planning, and a lot of the taxes can be avoided.”

This frustrates her. “All that legal gobbledygook.”

“That’s what I’m here for, Miss Birdie.”

“I suppose you want your name in the will somewhere,” she says, still burdened with the law.

“Of course not,” I say, trying to appear shocked but also trying to hide my surprise at getting caught.

“The lawyers are always trying to put their names in my wills.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Birdie. There are a lot of crooked lawyers.”

“That’s what Reverend Chandler said.”

“I’m sure he did. Look, I don’t wanna know all the specifics, but could you tell me if the money is in real estate, stocks, bonds, cash or other investments? It’s very important for estate planning purposes to know where the money is.”

“It’s all in one place.”

“Okay. Where?”

“Atlanta.”

“Atlanta?”

“Yes. It’s a long story, Rudy.”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

Unlike our conference yesterday at Cypress Gardens, Miss Birdie is not pressed for time now. She has no other responsibilities. Bosco is not around. There is no lunch cleanup to supervise, no board games to referee.

So she slowly spins her coffee cup and ponders all of this as she stares at the table. “No one really knows about it,” she says very softly, her dentures clicking once or twice. “At least no one in Memphis.”

“Why not?” I ask, a bit too anxiously perhaps.

“My children don’t know about it.”

“The money?” I ask in disbelief.

“Oh, they know about some of it. Thomas worked hard and we saved a lot. When he died eleven years ago he left me close to a hundred thousand dollars in savings. My sons, and especially their wives, are convinced it’s now worth five times that much. But they don’t know about

Atlanta. Can I get you some more coffee?” She’s already on her feet.

“Sure.” She takes my cup to the counter, dumps in slightly more than a half a teaspoon of coffee, more lukewarm water, then returns to the table. I stir it as if I’m anticipating an exotic cappuccino.

Our eyes meet, and I’m all sympathy. “Look, Miss Birdie. If this is too painful, then perhaps we can skip around it. You know, just hit the high points.”

“It’s a fortune. Why should it be painful?”

Well, that’s exactly what I was thinking. “Fine. Just tell me, in general terms, how the money is invested. I’m particularly concerned with real estate.” This is true. Cash and other liquid investments are generally liquidated first to pay taxes. Real estate is used as a last resort. So my questions are prompted by more than just sheer curiosity.

“I’ve never told anyone about the money,” she says, still in a very soft voice.

“But you told me yesterday that you had talked about it with Kenneth Chandler.”

There’s a long pause as she rotates her cup on the Formica. “Yes, I guess I did. But I’m not sure I told him everything. I might’ve lied just a bit. And I’m sure I didn’t tell him where it came from.”

“Okay. Where did it come from?”

“My second husband.”

“Your second husband?”

“Yeah, Tony.”

“Thomas and Tony?”

“Yeah. About two years after Thomas died, I married Tony. He was from Atlanta, sort of passing through Memphis when we met. We lived together off and on for five years, fought all the time, then he left and went home. He was a deadbeat who was after my money.”

“I’m confused. I thought you said the money came from Tony.”

“It did, except he didn’t know it. It’s a long story. There were some inheritances and stuff, things Tony didn’t know about and I didn’t know about. He had a rich brother who was crazy, whole family was, really, and just before Tony died he inherited a fortune from his crazy brother. I mean, two days before Tony kicked the bucket, his brother died in Florida. Tony died with no will, nothing but a wife. Me. And so they contacted me from Atlanta, this big law firm did, and told me that I, under Georgia law, was now worth a lot of money.”

“How much money?”

“A helluva lot more than Thomas left me. Anyway, I’ve never told anyone about it. Until now. You won’t tell, will you, Rudy?”

“Miss Birdie, as your lawyer I cannot tell. I am sworn to silence. It’s called the attorney-client privilege.”

“How nice.”

“Why didn’t you tell your last lawyer about the money?” I ask.

“Oh him. Didn’t really trust him. I just gave him the amounts for the gifts, but didn’t really tell him how much. Once he figured out I was loaded, he wanted me to put him in the will somewhere.”

“But you never told him everything?”

“Never.”

“You didn’t tell him how much?”

“Nope.”

If I calculated correctly, her old will contained gifts totaling at least twenty million. So the lawyer knew of at least that much, since he prepared the will. The obvious question here is exactly how much does this precious little woman have?

“Are you gonna tell me how much?”

“Maybe tomorrow, Rudy. Maybe tomorrow.”

We leave the kitchen and head for the rear patio. She has a new water fountain by the rosebushes she wants to show me. I admire it with rapt attention.

It’s clear to me now. Miss Birdie is a rich old woman, but she doesn’t want anyone to know it, especially her family. She’s always lived a comfortable life, and now arouses no suspicion as an eighty-year-old widow living off her more than adequate savings.

We sit on ornamental iron benches and sip cold coffee in the darkness until I finally string together enough excuses to permit myself an escape.

TO SUPPORT this affluent lifestyle of mine, I have worked for the past three years as a bartender and waiter at Yogi’s, a student hangout just off campus. It’s known for its juicy onionburgers and for green beer on St. Patrick’s. It’s a rowdy place where lunch to closing is one prolonged happy hour. Pitchers of watery lite beer are one dollar during “Monday Night Football”; two bucks during any other event.

It’s owned by Prince Thomas, a ponytailed rumhead with a massive body and even larger ego. Prince is one of the city’s better acts, a real entrepreneur who likes his picture in the paper and his face on the late news. He organizes pub crawls and wet tee shirt contests. He’s petitioned the city to allow joints such as his to stay open all night. The city has in turn sued him for various sins. He loves It. Name the vice, and he’ll organize a group and try to legalize it.

Prince runs a loose ship at Yogi’s. We, the employees, keep our own hours, handle our own tips, run the show without a lot of supervision. Not that it’s complicated. Keep enough beer in the front and enough ground beef in the kitchen and the place runs with surprising precision.

Prince prefers to handle the front. He likes to greet the pretty little coeds and show them to their booths. He’ll flirt with them and in general make a fool of himself. He likes to sit at a table near the big-screen and take bets on the games. He’s a big man with thick arms, and occasionally he’ll break up a fight.

There’s a darker side to Prince. He’s rumored to be involved in the skin business. The topless clubs are a booming industry in this city, and his alleged partners have criminal records. It’s been in the papers. He’s been to trial twice for gambling, for being a bookie, but both juries were hopelessly deadlocked. After working for him for three years, I’m convinced of two things: First, Prince skims most of the cash from the receipts at Yogi’s. I figure it’s at least two thousand a week, a hundred thousand a year. Second, Prince is using Yogi’s as a front for his own little corrupt empire. He launders cash through it, and makes it show a loss each year for tax purposes. He has an office down below, a rather secure, windowless room where he meets with his cronies.

I couldn’t care less. He’s been good to me. I make five bucks an hour, and I work about twenty hours a week. Our customers are students, thus the tips are small. I can shift hours during exams. At least five students a day come here looking for work, so I feel lucky to have the job.

And for whatever else it might be, Yogi’s is a great student hangout. Prince decorated it years ago in blues and grays, Memphis State colors, and there are team pennants and framed photos of sports stars all over the walls. Tigers everywhere. It’s a short walk from campus, and the kids flock here for hours of talking, laughing, flirting.

He’s watching a game tonight. The baseball season is young, but Prince is already convinced the Braves are in the Series. He’ll bet on anything, but his favorite is the Braves. It makes no difference who they’re playing or

where, who’s pitching or who’s hurt, Prince will take the Braves heads up.

I tend the main bar tonight, and my principal job in this capacity is to make sure his glass of rum and tonic does not run dry. He squeals as Dave Justice hits a massive home run. Then he collects some cash from a fraternity boy. The wager was who would hit the first homer-Dave Justice or Barry Bonds. I’ve seen him bet on whether the first pitch to the second batter in the third inning would be a ball or a strike.

It’s a good thing I’m not waiting tables tonight. My head is still aching, and I need to move as little as possible. Plus, I can sneak an occasional beer from the cooler, the good stuff in the green bottles, Heineken and Moose-head. Prince expects his bartenders to nip a little.

I’m gonna miss this job. Or will I?

A front booth fills with law students, familiar faces I’d rather avoid. They’re my peers, third-year students, probably all with jobs.

It’s okay to be a bartender and a waiter when you’re still a lowly student, in fact there’s a bit of prestige in working at Yogi’s. But the prestige will suddenly vanish in about a month, when I graduate. Then I’ll become something much worse than a struggling student. I’ll become a casualty, a statistic, another law student who’s fallen through the cracks of the legal profession.