by Paul Rome
“But I didn’t do anything,” Doreen says.
“While that may be the case, I don’t think we’re going to get a better offer than this. If we go forward, we run the risk of getting nothing—neither your job, nor the money. There are no guarantees in arbitration. I told you I’d do everything I could to get your job back. That’s what you want, right?”
She looks down at the table where I’ve laid the letter.
“On the other hand, you could just take the back pay and walk.”
“No.” Doreen looks up at me. Her eyes are filled with tears. “I’ll sign.”
* * *
Outside the Sheraton, the nine of us congregate for one last round of handshakes. Each side holds a copy of the settlement. Kaplan tells Doreen he looks forward to having her back on the team. Doreen thanks Kaplan, Sarnoff, and Waxman respectively. The two men from Coney Island trudge east toward the subway station. Norcross congratulates us, gives me a pat on the shoulder, and hails a cab. Father Alexi congratulates and embraces Doreen.
I nod to Waxman and pull him aside from the others.
“So what happened in there?”
Waxman smiles. “Things didn’t quite materialize the way we hoped as far as evidence. Off the record? The firm has me focusing on another big fish right now. We’ve got a major anti-trust case coming up. Front page, above-the-fold type stuff. You understand.” He puts a hand on my shoulder and winks.
Before departing, Father Alexi smiles broadly and says, “As Matthew tells us, He that endureth to the end shall be saved.”
“Amen,” Waxman says before turning and ducking into a town car.
“What a day for the union!” McDougal beams. “You were incredible in there, Claughlin. What did I tell you, Doreen? This guy’s the best.” He turns to Jessie. “I hope you were taking notes. You could learn from a guy like this. Hell, we all could.” He claps his hand against my back. “I hope you all have excellent days. This one’s worth celebrating!” He gives one more wave before heading uptown.
Doreen turns to me. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. Thank you.”
“Maybe we’ll cross paths again under different circumstances,” I say. “At a union function, perhaps?”
“Yes,” she says, “I’d like that.”
“Me too,” I say. “Good luck with everything.”
Doreen takes off briskly down the sidewalk in the same direction as her employers. Jessie and I watch her until she disappears around the corner.
* * *
“Shall we have what Cunningham and I used to get?”
“What’s that?”
“Pasta with clam sauce and gin and tonics.”
“I like vodka,” Jessie says. We’re at the Italian restaurant in the Edison Hotel.
“The linguine alle vongole and two vodka tonics.”
“Ah, very good,” says the waiter, an older Italian man, “Very good. And for the pretty lady?”
“Just the drink,” Jessie says. She’s wearing a black v-neck dress. I was too preoccupied during the arbitration to notice. She’s looking down at a compact mirror.
“I never do this,” she says as she dabs herself in a circular motion with a soft brush. “Only for important events. I don’t trust it to stay on right.”
Her complexion is milky clean. It’s like she’s buffing marble.
“You look nice,” I say.
The old waiter returns with our drinks. He smiles at Jessie.
“In Italy they would call you donna bellissima. That means beautiful woman. Are you going to the theatre tonight?”
“No, we’re celebrating.”
“Aha. Is she your daughter?”
“My partner, we’re celebrating our first victory together.”
“A victory? What did you win?”
“We won an honest woman her job back, plus back-pay for the time when she was out of work,” Jessie says and gives the waiter a satisfied grin.
“Well, very good. Very good indeed. You must toast. In Italy we say cento di questi giorni. That means, may you live for one hundred years.”
“And may all your victories be as smooth,” I say to Jessie. We touch glasses and drink.
“She’s going to make a great lawyer,” I say. The waiter nods in approval before turning to attend to another table.
“So is she coming?” Jessie asks.
“Raina? She didn’t pick up.”
“I’m really happy we won. Doreen deserves what she got,” Jessie says. “It’s just that, with all that work we did. It’s silly, I know. But I was looking forward to a struggle. I didn’t want it to be easy. Is that crazy?”
“It’s not crazy,” I say. “I was ready for a fight too. But trust me, there’ll be plenty of times in your career when you’re going to wish cases would resolve like this one. Some lawyers never want to settle, but the good ones do, because they know they need to do what’s best for their client. Ultimately you’re not representing just one person. You’re representing hundreds, or thousands or millions, depending on how you look at it. You always have the union’s reputation on the line, not to mention the limitations of its resources.” I shrug. “All things considered, this was a profitable day.”
“You’re right,” Jessie says.
“Well, you are too,” I say. “I don’t know why they didn’t just send us a letter two months ago. Would have saved them money. Would have saved us a lot of time and energy. It kills me knowing the union’s money goes to enrich Norcross. But you’re not sorry, are you?”
“No,” she says, still looking down. She swirls the half-melted cubes in her glass.
“Sorry I got you involved, I mean.”
“No.”
“Good. I’m glad things worked out the way they did,” I say. “It was nice to work with you. I mean, I’m glad to have shared it with someone.”
“Do you think she really did it? Doreen—do you think she said all those nasty things?”
“It doesn’t matter now,” I say.
“Off the record?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you mean it when you say I’m going to make a great lawyer?”
“I have no doubt.”
“Thanks,” Jessie says. She looks up at me. Water eyes. “Tell me how it was with you and Cunningham in the old days when you used to come here.”
“I already told you about that,” I say.
“Tell me again,” she says. “Were you really the same age as me when you started at the firm?”
I think about Waxman and his talk of bigger fish. A guy like him could never understand.
The old waiter sets dinner between us.
“Buon appetitto,” he says. “Another round?”
* * *
“That perverted old waiter called me beautiful.” Jessie hiccups. “Twice!”
“What a character,” I say.
We cross over 6th Avenue at 47th.
“He bought us all those drinks before the bartender even showed up.”
“Creepy old man.”
“I kinda liked him. Where should we go next?”
“To a bar,” I say. “We’ll walk this way until we find a good spot—though I’m afraid we’ll hit the river before it happens.”
“Do you know a place?”
A cold wind picks up behind us.
“It’s good to win, isn’t it?” I say.
“I suppose. It’s all so new to me.”
“Winning? Success? I doubt you’re a stranger to that.”
She stops and closes her eyes. “I feel good,” she says. “It is a beautiful night, isn’t it?”
“A beautiful night, yes, clear enough for stars,” I say.
“You’re really happy for her, aren’t you? For Doreen.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re happy for me?”
“Yes.”
“I’m taking the bar soon, in January.”
“Wow. So soon.”
“Tom, are you happy?”
“Yes. I mean, I’m good. Are you happy?”
“I feel good.”
We cross 5th Avenue.
“You know,” Jessie says, “where I’m from, you could sit anywhere on a night like tonight and you’d be able to see so many more stars. I mean thousands more than you guys have ever seen. All those constellations you have stenciled up in Grand Central, you can actually see all of them. And thousands more. So many more, all perfectly clear. You can make up your own constellations…”
There’s a vibration in my pocket. Raina.
“Hold that thought,” I say. “Guess what?”
“What?” Raina answers.
“We did it.”
“Did what?”
“We won her case.”
“Whose case?”
“Doreen’s. Doreen Grant. We won the case.”
“Who’s Doreen?”
“Who’s Doreen? You know who she is. The receptionist…the healthcare worker…very sweet, good heart, a little bit odd.”
“Wait, was she a receptionist or a healthcare worker?”
“A receptionist. At a health clinic. The one who helped everyone…”
“…Sorry…”
“What do you mean?”
“I must’ve forgotten.”
I pivot away toward the wall of a building and speak more softly.
“Raina, I told you all about her.”
“Look, Tom, I said I was—”
“I told you this morning I had an arbitration.”
“Well, you know that’s not a good time to tell me things when I’m getting ready.”
“I can’t believe this.”
“I’m sorry, Tom. That’s good that you won. I can’t really talk—”
“Good? It’s fucking great is what it is.”
“Don’t get so worked up. Have you been drinking?”
“No. Yes, I’ve had a drink. Hey, look, I’m sorry. I just got excited. I thought you knew this was a big day for me. I was hoping you could come meet me for a drink. We’re celebrating. I wanted you to be there.”
“Oh, Tom, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I made plans. But you go and have a nice night. Don’t worry about coming home early. I can’t really talk, I just wanted to—”
“Who’s gonna put Ben to bed?”
“Frank will. Then I’ll be home.”
“I don’t believe this.”
“I’m proud of you, it’s just that—”
“I know, you just can’t talk right now.”
“Tom…” Raina’s voice is quiet.
“What?”
There’s a pause.
“Good night,” Raina says.
“You really don’t remember?”
No answer.
“Raina…?”
The call has ended.
I feel a pat on my elbow. It’s Jessie. Her dark hair catches in the wind.
“Is everything alright?” Her face glows against the night and the charge of speeding traffic. “Do you want me to go?”
“No. Don’t leave,” I say. “It’s early. And I have a place for us to go. I’ve never taken anyone there. It’s kind of a secret.”
* * *
The overhead fluorescents buzz in the after-dark silence. We duck past the empty guard desk, past the dormant elevators, which have been turned off for the night, and through the back door marked Exit. A hallway leads us through an unlocked door marked Employees Only; and then past storage rooms, a small office, bathrooms, a janitor’s closet, and a freight elevator.
“In here,” I say.
The odor is dank in the unlit compartment. I lift the door up manually, secure the latch, and feel for the top button. The elevator moans, lurches in place, and then begins a slow ascent.
Jessie giggles when I crack one of the beers. We’d grabbed a six-pack from a nearby bodega. I have a swig and hold out the can to her. She does the same, continuing to laugh between drinks. When the freight stops, I open the gate and take us down a hallway leading to a back stairway. We’re at the fiftieth floor and have twelve more to go.
“I discovered this place years ago,” I say as we climb. “Just wandered up without a second thought. It was kind of weird how simple it was. Everything unlocked and unguarded. It’s funny being up there alone. I’ve thought about telling someone about it, but I wanted to make sure it was the right person, someone who’d understand. In the end, I figured if I wanted it to last, I ought to keep it to myself. It’s really something, standing on top of the city. You’re not going to believe it. It may not be Kansas, but...”
“Nebraska.”
I wink and keep climbing.
At the final landing, I escort us, can of beer in one hand, briefcase in the other. There’s a red box that I’ve never seen before rigged above the doorway. A camera, and the word STOP printed in red letters on the door handle are also new features. Above the handle is a new sign that reads, NO UNAUTHORIZED PERSONS ALLOWED. But we’re well-meaning individuals. We work here.
I lean into the handle with my forearm. And the moment the door swings into the night, a shrill, deafening alarm bell blasts our unsuspecting ears. The sky disappears. The door slams.
“Fuck.” I drop my beer. Suds pour out on my shoe.
“Tom?!”
I flee past Jessie, jerking her by the wrist, backward to the stairs.
“Let’s go.”
I’m tearing down steps, when her footsteps grow faint.
“Come on!” I call.
The alarm thunders, ricocheting around the walls.
“Tom, my shoes.”
I double back and retrieve them where they’ve fallen.
We hit the fiftieth floor, fly out the narrow staircase and sprint down the hall. No time to risk the freight. Jessie’s at my side. We dip into the main stairwell and this time Jessie flies ahead, descending now with agile grace. Leaping over steps, her black dress billows.
The alarm continues to blare.
“Forty more,” I say.
“Thirty-nine,” she calls.
I switch my briefcase to my outside hand and clasp the shoes with my fingers. At each bend, I swing myself, using my free hand, around the banister. Pushing off the railing, I sail over five and six steps at a time, thumping the floor at each landing, careening into walls. Jessie forges just ahead.
“Thirty more.”
She laughs. Her feet rap the cement stairs faster and faster. Her laughs turn to shrieks, growing louder as her pace accelerates.
I yell, too.
A few flights farther down, she slips, tumbling for a step or two, before twisting around, and continuing to fall ass-backwards. She screams as she scrapes against four or five more steps before reaching up her hand and stopping herself just as her feet touch down on the next landing.
“You alright?” I call from a few flights up.
She straightens herself back out and gallops down the next flight.
Down and down, howling like banshees. Walls lose their corners and turn to liquid.
“Twenty more.”
“Sixteen.”
“Fifteen.”
“Eleven.”
Two floors below I spot Ricky, the night watchman, lumbering up toward us. I watch Jessie fly past him. Ricky halts, perplexed, and begins to turn when I bulldoze by. Then we’re out, across the lobby, back into the street.
Jessie takes a few bare tights-against-concrete strides and stops, hands on her hips, chest heaving.
“Oh my god. I’m so fucking dizzy,” she says.
I scoop he
r up and carry her to the corner.
“South,” I direct, when we’re safely inside a cab.
“Okay,” says the cabbie, eyeing my beautiful, slumped-over companion and me in the rearview, “but I’ll need more than that.”
“Let’s start by getting us out of here.”
“Okay, boss, meter’s running.”
The cabbie deftly slides the car across two lanes and then swings it right out into the busiest intersection in Manhattan. The line of cars waiting to take a left hold down their horns, but the sound quiets, as the cabbie guns it through the intersection—ahead of the uptown rush—and down 41st Street.
“Name is Omar,” he says. “You got the best driver in the five boroughs. I’m old-school.”
“Good to hear,” I say, still regaining my breath. “Me too.”
“I gotta ask,” Omar says. “Am I complicit in some kind of crime?”
“Not really,” I say. “Strictly white-collar stuff.”
“Cool,” says Omar. “You guys always got the best lawyers.”
“We are lawyers,” Jessie says laughing.
“Even better.”
Jessie has wrapped her arm in mine. She lifts up one of her legs over my lap and inspects the raw skin on her knee. Her tights are torn. Blood oozes over the white surface, disappearing under the fabric. She leaves the leg there. I bend down and slip her shoes back on her feet.
She whispers into my ear. “Let’s go home.” Her whisper is gentle. “Can we go home, Tom?”
Her lips touch my cheek.
“To Williamsburg,” I say to Omar. “You know how to go?”
“I know how to get everywhere,” Omar says.
In a moment we’ve reached the FDR, Omar winds us right, and soon we’re picking up speed, riding the island’s edge to the bridge.
* * *
We kiss as we free ourselves from our overcoats. She shuts the door and turns the dead bolt. We kiss and my hands slide down her sides to her waist.
“Let’s have some water,” she says.
“Good idea,” I say.
But then I drop to my knees atop our fallen coats—blocking her path—and duck beneath her dress, where I inch down her tights, kissing each new band of uncovered skin. I pull off each of her shoes. With two hands I grab her tights and rip them apart at the crotch, then bring them down to her ankles. Her thighs are stocks of alabaster white. I kiss them all the way up. Her black underwear is warm and wet. I remove that too and glide my tongue between her legs, up the thin strip of hair, and along her abdomen to her navel. Then I part her lips with my hand. Jessie’s thighs clamp against my ears. The distant, hollow sound of an ear to a conch shell.