Ben groaned. “Don’t tell me you’ve heard.”
“About the toupee tragicomedy? Everyone has.” She grinned. “It’s made you very popular in certain circles. We always suspected the egomaniac wore a rug. Thanks for the confirmation.”
Christina laid her hand on the edge of Ben’s desk. “The fact is, Ben, you have to get along with him. Maybe later, a year or so down the road, you can ask for a transfer, or ask to work for a variety of masters. The shareholders will understand, believe me. But not yet.”
“First I’ve got to pay my dues, eh?”
“Something like that. You don’t want to develop a reputation for being a troublemaker. Nothing is more expendable to a big firm than a young, salaried troublemaker. So tread softly. Humor the jerk.”
Christina glanced at her wristwatch. “Good grief, I didn’t mean to prattle on.” She rose to her feet. “I must be moseying. I just wanted to introduce myself. Don’t hesitate to ask me for help. I’m working for four other attorneys in addition to you, but I can always do a little more.” She glanced at the files on Ben’s desk. “Looks as if you’re already behind.”
Ben followed her gaze. He’d forgotten all about the new files, and he was supposed to familiarize himself with both cases by tomorrow morning. Could she help? He realized he didn’t even know what legal assistants did.
“I can help with proofreading, cite checking, document control, cataloguing, deposition summaries. You name it—I can do it.”
And read minds, too, apparently. “Could you … summarize a case file?”
“No problem.” She reached toward the two files on the desk. “Which one?”
“Take your pick.”
She took the thicker of the two. “When do you need it?”
Ben averted his eyes. “Tomorrow morning.”
“Ahhh,” she said, “a Richard Derek test. He’ll want to know about the most obscure details imaginable, everything you’re tempted to skim over because it doesn’t seem important. I’ll come in early tomorrow, and we can discuss the file. Good thing you called me in. You’d never have made it alone.”
She made a clicking noise with her tongue and walked through the door. “Of course, after I do this favor for you, you’ll owe me. Kind of a quid pro quo.” She smiled. “Another French phrase. Classy, huh?”
Ben hesitated. “Actually,” he said slowly, “I think that’s Latin.”
Christina raised her chin defiantly. “Well, I still like it.” She grinned and left the office.
Ben leaned back in his chair. She was right about one thing. Life at the big law firm was not what he expected.
He opened the remaining file on his desk and began to read, but he couldn’t concentrate. He kept flashing back to his brief glimpse of Jonathan Adams’s bloodied remains—and of Bertha Adams riding to the scene of the crime to identify the body.
Whether Derek liked it or not, he had to do something.
But he couldn’t figure out what.
9
RAVEN, TUCKER & TUBB THREW only two formal bashes a year, the summer cotillion and the obligatory Christmas party, so when those occasions rolled around, Raven could afford to go all out. In fact, according to Ben’s sources, the parties could actually turn a profit, not merely by boosting the self-image of the shareholders, but also by reaping benefits from selected clients who enjoyed a night of high-class revelry. Raven’s bashes had become so elaborate and costly (and well covered in the newspapers), particularly for a big-small city such as Tulsa, that an invitation had become a prestige item. And the only way for a non-Raven attorney—who wasn’t married to or sleeping with a Raven attorney—to get an invitation was to be a client. It was a surprisingly effective incentive.
The ballroom at the Excelsior was enormous. Yet, by congregating all the dining tables in one quarter of the room and reserving a spacious area for dancing, the room was made to feel more festive and intimate. There were also separate smaller rooms adjacent to the ballroom containing pool tables, card tables, and similar amusements for small groups.
The band was an exercise in acoustical compromise, intermixing big-band melodies with Muzaked versions of popular rock songs. The dance floor was almost empty this early in the evening, with never more than ten couples, mostly elder shareholders who had nothing to lose by embarrassing themselves. Shareholders, Ben observed, tended to take the floor with someone else’s wife, or some female associate normally only seen in a gray suit with a scarf bow tie.
After dinner, the plates were cleared, and approximately five hundred people began milling about, trying to shake the right hands, flirt with the right wives and flatter the right egos.
Ben was sitting at a large round table With the other new associates, including Alvin, Greg, and Marianne, all in formal dress. He had hoped the new associates would be distributed throughout the room so he could meet some new people, but instead they were all seated at the same table. As Alvin pointed out, there was no margin for the shareholders in taking the time to learn all the new names, at least not until they had a better idea of who would be staying and who would not.
The only non-new associate at the table was Tom Melton, a gregarious fifth-year associate assigned to supervise and assimilate the incoming class. Tom, Ben thought, was the sort of person who made partying and flattery seem like professional skills. His ability to tell boisterous, bawdy, often self-deprecating jokes was matched only by his ability to butter up shareholders and shamelessly bolster their sense of self-importance. Probably on the partnership track, too.
The male associates at the table were talking sports-predictions of success and failure, with reenacted instant replays. Ben was reminded of the crucial importance of a superficial knowledge of sports for male bonding and camaraderie. When Ben was interviewing, he always made a point of memorizing the day’s sports headlines so that he could drop names into the conversation at strategic points, usually in sentences that began “How ’bout them …” Tonight, he was unprepared.
And there were other problems as well.
“You and I seem to be the only ones here without dates,” Ben said to Alvin. “Of course, I just moved to Tulsa last Saturday. What’s your excuse?”
“I find it easier to function at these formal exercises in social foreplay when I don’t have to worry about whether my date has her head in the punchbowl.”
“I see. Want to shoot some pool?”
“No. I find that the bullets tend to deflect off the surface of the water.”
Oh, it’s going to be one of those conversations, is it? “Excuse me,” Ben said. “I mean, would you like to play a game of billiards?” He turned toward Marianne. “Boy, a minor imprecision, and this guy jumps all over you.”
“Actually, I never jump all over anyone,” Alvin replied.
“Really,” Ben said. “Must be hell on your sex life.”
“Actually, I don’t have a sex life. I’m celibate.”
There was a hush at the table. “Sorry to hear that,” Ben offered.
“No, no, no,” Alvin said. “It’s by choice. I swore an oath of celibacy some time ago. I prefer it this way.”
“I see. That must be … trying.”
“Not at all. I prefer it. Never had it, don’t miss it.”
“Ah.” Ben nodded his head.
Greg decided to join the fun. “Well, better stay away from Raven’s new wife, then,” he advised Alvin. “You may not have any choice.” Several of the men at the table laughed in a knowing fashion.
“Raven has a new wife?” Ben asked Alvin quietly.
“Boy, you don’t keep up at all, do you, Kincaid? How are you ever going to make it in the murky world of firm politics?” He shook his head with disgust. “Yes, Raven has a new wife. His sixth.”
“Have you met her?”
“Not personally. But I’ve heard about her. They say she’s considerably younger than he is.”
“She could hardly be much older.”
“Good point. They also say
she’s on the prowl.”
“On the prowl?”
“You heard me. On the prowl. And she likes young associates.”
“Get real.”
“That’s the word on the street. I suppose a woman in her position would come to appreciate anything young, don’t you?” The men all laughed boisterously.
“Kincaid,” Greg said, “you’re single, decent-looking, as far as I know, heterosexual—and not celibate. This could be a tremendous opportunity for you.” He smiled his perfect smile, but it was more like a leer this time.
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
Greg frowned. “C’mon; Ben, it’s a career move.” He jabbed his elbow into Ben’s ribs. “Close your eyes and think of England.”
Ben half smiled. “I’ll give it some consideration.” He craned his neck around, looking for an avenue of escape from this conversation. Immediately behind him, he saw his old pal, Richard Derek.
“Good evening, Mr. Derek,” Ben said, rising to his feet. “Enjoying yourself?”
“Oh …” Derek sniffed. “Trying to. I’ve got this damn cough and”—he inhaled deeply—“sinus congestion. Flu, probably. I wouldn’t be surprised if I had pneumonia.”
Somehow, neither would I, Ben thought.
Derek turned toward a diminutive blonde in a floor-length sky-blue gown. “Have you got those cough drops, Louise? Oh, Kincaid, this is my wife.”
Like soldiers at inspection, every male associate sitting at the table rose to his feet. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Derek,” Ben said.
“Oh, call me Louise.” She smiled weakly and nodded her head. She was a slight woman, and somehow, standing next to Derek, she seemed even slighter. “Dick, I don’t know where the cough drops are.”
“Figures.” He cleared his throat, loudly enough to attract attention at the next table. Ben noticed that Derek didn’t even look at his wife when he was ostensibly speaking to her. “Well, glad you could make it tonight, Kincaid. By the way, you did a decent job summarizing your two new cases. Didn’t miss too much. I look forward to reading your brief on the trade dress injunction.” He Sniffed again, then turned away, departing with his wife for cough drops unknown.
Cozy little marriage, Ben thought. He sat back in his chair, only to find every associate’s eye fixed upon him. Receiving public accolades from shareholders, however minor, was probably not the way to endear oneself to one’s fellow associates. He stood again and pushed his chair away from the banquet table.
Greg sidled up next to him and whispered in his ear. “Psst, Kincaid.” He gave Ben a conspiratorial look. “Let’s break into the good stuff.”
Ben looked back at him blankly. “The good stuff?”
“You know. Booze.”
“Greg, there are open bars all over this place.”
“Yeah, but not the good stuff. Courvoisier. Dom Pérignon.”
“I understood that was strictly for the senior shareholders to dispense to megafees-paying clients.”
Greg smiled his trademark smile. “I found the cabinet where it’s kept. In the adjoining room.”
“I’m sure it’s locked.”
Greg wiggled his fingers in the air. “There was never a liquor cabinet I couldn’t break into. These fingers can open any lock, crack any security system.” He jabbed Ben in the ribs. “And they say you don’t learn anything in a fraternity.”
Ben shook his head. “I don’t think so, Greg. I’d like to wait until my second week at least before I get caught confiscating firm assets.”
“C’mon, Kincaid, don’t be a wimp.”
“No.” He turned away from Greg and found himself standing face-to-face with Mr. Raven. Raven was peering into a short piece of paper held close to his nose.
“Let’s see,” the elderly man said. “Are you Amberson?”
Ben swallowed. Didn’t Raven recognize him from the incident in the stairwell?
“Er … no, sir.”
“Hager?”
“No, sir.”
Raven continued his microscopic scrutiny of the paper. “Well, I give up then. Who are you?”
“Kincaid, sir. Benjamin Kincaid.”
“Ahh, Kincaid!” he exclaimed. He took a pencil from his jacket and drew a line through one name on his list. “Good. Nice to meet you.” They shook hands.
Ben stared at the old man. Was this some sort of bizarre test, or did he really not remember? Ben decided to play along.
“It’s a true honor to meet you, sir.”
Raven nodded and returned his gaze to his list. “All right,” he said, “who’s Amberson?” He moved around the new associates’ table in search of the other names on his list.
“Well, if he won’t introduce me, I’ll have to do it myself.”
Ben looked away from the table and saw a thin, black-haired woman in an exquisite décolleté black gown. It was trashy, but an expensive, tasteful sort of trashy. Black mesh at top and bottom, covering her figure just enough in strategically chosen places.
“I’m Raven’s new wife, Mona. And you’re …?”
“Ben Kincaid,” he said, suddenly flustered. He realized he’d been caught staring. He offered her his hand.
Standing closer to her, Ben saw that Alvin was right. She was nowhere near Raven’s age—late thirties, maybe. He wondered how much of the rest of Alvin’s information about this woman was accurate.
“Ben. Very nice to meet you.” She took his hand and held it tightly between both of hers. Her fingernails were painted black. She made eye contact and smiled. The smile seemed to answer most of Ben’s questions.
The band returned from their break and began plugging in their instruments for the next dance. Mr. Raven bowed gallantly beside Marianne.
“May I have the pleasure of this dance?” he asked. Marianne laughed, adjusted her glasses, and let him lead her to the dance floor.
“That husband of mine,” Mona said dryly. “Always on the make. Well, I guess that leaves you and me, Benjy.” She linked her arm through Ben’s and before he knew what was happening, he was being hauled toward the dance floor. Ben realized any protest was probably futile.
“So what are you working on, Ben?”
“Oh, several projects for Richard Derek—”
“Derek? Oh, poor boy.” She looked nostalgically at Derek, who was standing at the opposite side of the room. “Nice enough in the looks department, but he couldn’t sustain, if you know what I mean.”
Ben hoped he didn’t.
“Just do what he says and try not to laugh when he tells you about his old polo injury. You’ll do okay. Got any oil-and-gas work?”
“Ahh, not yet. I’m working on a domestic matter for Joseph Sanguine—”
“Really? Have you met him?”
Ben shook his head no.
“He’s here, you know. I’ll introduce you.” She waved her free hand in the air. “Joey! Yoo-hoo, Joey! Over here!”
Ben’s face reddened. He wanted to meet Sanguine, but he had hoped for a more respectable introduction.
After a moment, a tall, distinguished-looking man with a full head of gray and black hair and a thick mustache walked toward the yoo-hooing Mona. He had a dark, rugged face that bespoke many hours exposed to the sun. Native American descent, Ben guessed, at least in part.
Sanguine’s lips turned up slightly when he saw Mona. “Mona! Good to see you again. Where’s Arthur?”
She poked Sanguine in the side. “Oh, you know how he is. He’s got some nymphet on the dance floor. You look awfully good tonight, Joey.”
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“Joey, I want you to meet a new Raven associate. He’s working for you.”
Ben stepped forward and extended his hand. “Benjamin Kincaid, sir.”
They shook hands. Ben felt an inexplicable shiver run up his arm. This was a man with presence. A presence that he wore like an overcoat and that seemed just as tangible.
“Pleased to meet you,” Sanguine said. “I always like to know who
Raven’s got working for me. They’ve got so damn many lawyers doing so damn many things, I can’t possibly keep track of them all. What are you working on, son?”
Ben hesitated. “Well … I’m working on the adoption matter for Bertha Adams, the woman whose husband …” He trailed off.
“Yes,” Sanguine said. “Very much a tragedy. Jonathan had been with the company for a long time, even before I bought it. He seemed like … part of the furniture to me.” He paused. “You never know just how much you depend on someone until you lose him. I hope there won’t be any problem helping that sweet lady adopt that child. I want us to do anything we can to help her.”
“In that regard, Mr. Sanguine,” Ben said slowly, “I’d like to speak to you at your convenience. You and perhaps some of the other Sanguine employees who knew Mr. Adams.”
Sanguine’s brow wrinkled. “Really? I can’t imagine what help I could be.” He scrutinized Ben’s face. “Still, if you think it will assist you, fine. Come up to my office Monday morning.”
“Thank you, sir. I will.”
Mona decided to reassert her dominance of the conversation. “Enough, enough. You two are starting to talk about business. Ben has promised me a dance. At the very least.”
Sanguine looked at Ben with an arched eyebrow. Ben tried his best to communicate his denial nonverbally. Mona’s arm again clamped down on his.
The band was in full swing now. They were playing a Bruce Springsteen tune, but making it sound like a Lawrence Welk standard. Ben and Mona reached the dance floor and began to sway roughly in time to the music. Ben was not much of a dancer, and given that he had worked at Raven for less than a week and had no idea what shareholder might be watching him, he decided to play it low-key.
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