Part 1

Satan is a lawyer. He bills at an eminently reasonable rate and his practice covers most areas of the law, and on a Thursday morning last fall and against my better judgement I spun the same slow-motion carousel -- or time lapse -- of the county courthouse, the pay-by-the-hour motel, and the main Missouri church as I circled the block until I found a parking spot sheltered enough that I wouldn't get a ticket if I didn't pay.

The sky was bright, the sunlight was filigree gold, and most of the "E"s in the decals writing Oleniczak & Partners LLC and its business hours across its door were missing at least one bar. Inside, the waiting room was small, dead air and four chairs in a dense purple-and-red print with pebbled black plastic armrests and a coffee table that had passed through at least two thrift stores and-or estate sales, which was slightly too close to my knees for me to be able to sit comfortably. On the tabletop an Audubon bird guide weighed down a stack of back issues of Our Wisconsin, shadowed by a thriving, freshly watered jade plant. The only sound was bubbles popping as the water soaked into the soil. Three of the room's four walls were mostly glass and when I caught myself slackly watching a squad car roll out of the police department's underground parking garage just because it was moving and nothing else was I felt like a fish staring into eternity through the dyed-aqua water of a restaurant fishtank.

I checked the time on my phone. 8:58. I'd thought it was later -- they didn't open until nine -- but the door had been unlocked, and I doubted he cared whether I waited inside or outside. I picked up the bird guide and flipped through it, more for the slick feel of the photo paper than anything, and wondered who "& partners" were.

"Good morning."

"Good morning," I said, automatically, and then I remembered.

Satan looked like he was in his late forties. His hair could have been black and could have been brown. He wore a dark blue suit that was marginally too big for him only because he was marginally too thin, with a forest-green-on-black tie that, on paper, should have complemented it. I was certain I'd seen it recessed deep in the reject rack at Macy's, obscured by the other unwanted ties like a bear staring through palms in a Henri Rousseau painting. He would not have stood out at a YMCA board meeting.

Satan held out his hand. For some reason he wore a wedding ring. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

I shook it. "You too."

His smile was smooth, professional, and unforced. "Why don't you come in."

The office itself was about the size of the waiting room, smaller accounting for the fortress of filing cabinets lining the walls. A long string of illegibly spidery cursive wrapped around the edges of each label on every drawer. Two chairs, slightly nicer than those outside, faced an expanse of deeply polished wood desk frosted with empty wire inboxes and outboxes, a squared stack of lawbooks, heavy pen cases, and no clutter; Google Maps listed the firm in the "20+ Years in Business" category and the website still displayed an Area's Best award from 1993, unless that was fake, but the desktop could have been an Architectural Digest spread. Sun slanted through the yellowing blinds gently knocking against the windowpane in the updraft from the radiator, laying a ladder of sun across the room and leaving Satan, seated in front of the window, mostly in silhouette. He leaned back in his chair, sweeping a stripe of light across his reading glasses and flinging it off the upper rim to the ceiling, and smiled.