From Red Righter . . .
Three telephone books and several advertisements promoting Baltimore lawyers were spread across Cuffs’ booth at the North Street Hotel. As my friend saw me approach, he held up a hand and announced, “I don’t have time for your nonsense today. I’m on a mission, and I gotta focus like a laser.”
Knowing Cuffs was a king of multi-tasking, I wondered what enterprise had consumed Elkton’s most overlooked and unappreciated brain thrust.
“Censure,” he said, scanning several pages of small print listings and boxed ads under the LAWYERS section of the Yellow Pages.
“What’s the deal?” I said, sliding into his booth and ignoring his earlier warning that I should hit the road and leave him be.“I need to get censured,” Cuffs said.
Since my face had most probably turned into a human question mark, Cuffs snapped, “I wanna deal like that guy Rangel wrangled. So I won’t have to pay my back taxes and fines to Big Brother.”
Before I could reply, Cuffs shoved some papers aside and added, “Look. I’m in a bind. I owe Uncle Sam a hefty bill from that little money printing operation I was involved in years back. They gave me a fine that won’t stop running up my pay meter. I’ve been to Tax Helpers. Tax Cutters, Income Tax Is Us and We Pay So You Can Play. But nobody has come anywhere close to wrangling me a Rangel wrangle. I mean, they want a large size chunk of change for getting those IRS bums to cut me a break.”