A Kind of Justice Read Online Free Page A

in a dark room where the only other light is a curved-arm desk lamp with its beam focused on a neat stack of papers and a neat stack of files on the desk.
    The desk is cleaner than an operating room. More organized than a Japanese factory.
    We shake hands. He manages not to recoil at my dainty fingertip offering. He’s not comfortable with me being a woman. He tries to hide it, but I recognize it in him just as clearly as I feel ill at ease in such an unnaturally tidy room.
    We sit down, the desk between us, and he straightens the papers in front of him. He has been doing due diligence for me on the salon’s books. He passes me the written report and starts on the verbal. “Roger’s books are in order, his annual audits are thorough, and the business looks to be in good shape,” says Don. “Cash flow is excellent, receivables are small, bills get paid on time. The net profit isn’t going to make anyone sell their Google stock, but it’s solid and consistent,and from what I’ve been able to glean, has a good margin for a retail beauty salon.”
    He continues on for another ten minutes with only a few pauses. The bottom line: the business is in great shape and probably worth more than I’m paying for it. Don doesn’t see any obvious places to expand sales, though he hastily adds that he doesn’t know the salon business at all.
    I’m not feeling all that knowledgeable myself.
    â€œYou like to have an idea when you buy a business like this about how you can grow it or cut costs to pay for it,” says Don. He painstakingly takes me through the byzantine logic of how company selling prices are based on multiples of gross profit, and how bigger companies command higher multiples than small ones.
    For me, the multiple I pay will be an estimate for how many years it will take to pay off the business. I can reduce that number by increasing profits, either through organic growth or higher margins on existing business, or both.
    I comprehend the concept but find the weight of it oppressive. The closer we get to the closing, the more I just want to do hair. In fact, as Don goes on, my mind is filled with the image of a beautiful up-do, my hands can remember how the hair looked and felt when I worked it. Its color is deeply dimensional, a mesh of tones and shades that invite the eye inside its density, like a cavern of beautiful colors that streak and blend and lead you ever deeper into the mystery below.
    Don asks if I have questions.
    â€œIs this a good investment for me?” I ask.
    He grimaces. “That’s better answered by Cecelia. What I can tell you is, it’s a well-run business and its paper value seems to be higher than what he’s asking. If there are hidden debts or problems we don’t know about, that could change everything. But from what you’ve said about Roger, those things aren’t likely.”
    We adjourn to the kitchen. Robbie rushes to greet us. She is a merry cherub, three years old and taking full pleasure in a world that sees her as sweet and cute and denies her nothing. I help Betsy carry dishes to the dining table, trying to quell my inner panic. My acquisition of Salon L’Elégance is down to one last step: a sober session with the lawyers, at the end of which I will take on a debt that is worth many times more than my life.
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    F RIDAY , J UNE 27
    Being a transsexual woman is like living in a four-season climate: your environment is constantly changing. The difference is, for the transwoman—for oversized ones like me, anyway—the changes come fast and furious and not in any natural order.
    I’m bathing in a springtime moment as we leave the law offices of Roger’s attorney. I have just closed on the purchase of Salon L’Elégance. It’s Roger, Cecelia, me, and my attorney, but it might as well just be me. I am the nominal owner of one of Chicago’s most