And on this Thursday, Gabe not only disliked the Counting Room, he despised it and its profligate members. He blamed them for his situation, and he dreaded walking into that brunch, wearing his jeans and Fordham Law t-shirt and flushed face and wasted eyes, begging ethical questions and schadenfreude from his curious beady-eyed colleagues. His running shoes shuffled across the plush carpet of the top floor's longest hallway. He stopped at the closed door and exhaled his breath into his palm. He knew his breath was laced with single malt. And, really, he didn't care so much. All he wanted right now was to know where his daughter was, to find her car, to dispose of the body in the trunk. Not even good scotch could quell his fears.
He opened the door and walked past plates of half-eaten breakfast food and mugs of cold coffee. Whatever nitpicking conversation that was taking place subsided to a trickle of muted words and greetings. He looked at the myriad faces in the room. They were all white, only one was a woman. Expressions like some country club board voting on a new minority member. Gabe searched for a seat. Stu Greenbaum was missing, of course, and no one knew where he was. Voices offered up explanations to Gabe, as if he cared.
"No one's heard from Stu."
"He may be stuck in court in Jersey."
The stares swirled around Gabe's dizzy head. He just wanted one more drink to get him through this charade.
The only empty seat he spotted was flanked by Max Goldberg and the old king lizard himself, Jerry Sullivan. Gabe plunked down on the chair and rolled it back from the table, on the edge of Jerry and Max's peripheral vision.
"Well, it's about damn time, schlemiel," Jerry said, craning his liver-spotted head. "Don't you look nice? Where've you been?"
"Having some problems ... at home. My daughter."
Several partners eyed each other, not so subtly. Gabe gnashed his teeth.
"Nice suit, Gabe," Max said. "You implementing casual Thursdays now?"
"Funny." Gabe waved them off, poured himself a coffee. He sipped the cold black sludge. "Now what's so goddamn important that I had to be here?"
"All right relax, Gabie," Jerry said, tapping his forearm. "Let's get back to talking business everybody. We've got to work on equalizing the associates' workloads."
Jerry passed around sheets of paper. Gabe took one, pretended to examine it. It was the same print-out from accounting, the spreadsheet from the all-seeing eye of the billing department. The Gen Lit associates' names were listed in rows with the day of the week, the number of hours billed each day, the case the hours were billed to, the client account numbers, the total money generated, the names of the partners who brought in the case, the partners who split the revenue from the case, the associates' billable totals for the week and for the month and year-to-date. The money for the Counting Room.
Gabe's eyes spun, blurry from the scotch and the numbers on the sheet.
Max turned, whispered, "Jesus, Gabe."
"What?" Gabe said over his shitty coffee.
Max waited until Jerry began babbling, whispered. "I smell your breath."
Gabe shook his head, furrowing his brow with all the denial he could fake.
"You did, didn't you? Hit the rot-gut?"
Gabe blew a ripple in his cold coffee, as if it were too hot, and looked around at the other partners. No one else but Max knew him. "No," Gabe mumbled, but Max took it as a yes.
Max clucked his tongue.
Jerry said, "That's last week's summary of hours posted by our associates."
One partner said. "Looks like Smythe and Bianco are killing themselves. Both billed a hundred hours last week. Finishing strong down the home stretch."
"We'll talk about them later," Jerry said, waving his bony finger, "when we vote on new partners and whether we should announce them at the anniversary party. Now, let's talk about associates who aren't busy. That's why I wanted you here, Gabie. You've got that Grayson kid spending a lot of time on a cockamamie pro bono case. Look at this, he only had forty billable hours last week. I could have someone on life support at Bellevue billing more."
The sycophants in the Counting Room laughed.
The laughter and the thought of the case and the kid made Gabe more depressed and edgy. He said, "Look, Jerry, that case was… is important."
"Since when did you like cases that didn't generate income, Gabie?"
"I took that pro bono case to bring in Nick Mavros as a client. So anyone who's got a problem with it, get it out of your system now." Gabe felt as if his ears were on fire. "And, by the way, since when is forty hours not full-time, huh? I thought we agreed to sell kids on the Firm's quality of work, not its billables? Or was that just more bullshit we fed each other to make us feel better?"
"Look, Gabie," Jerry exhaled an uncomfortable laugh, fake and disjointed, "he's one of the lowest billers this month. I think he can handle a little more work."
"Fuck the billables." Gabe glared at the old man's foggy eyes. "I'm sick of this bullshit."
Everyone gave Gabe a look that said, "Who the hell are you?" Even the young female partner, who never made a peep or crossed her eyes in any meeting, folded her arms and pressed her tongue against the inside of her cheek.
"Any of you have something to say to me?" Gabe clenched the arms of his chair.
"Gabie, you know with our overhead we can't let associates slack off to forty hours-"
A knock on the door interrupted Jerry's lecture, and Gabe thanked God. Cherise peeked her head in, waved at him. She must have found Sarah. He could see it in the frenetic wave of her palm. Gabe rose up quickly, looked around the Counting Room, settling his gaze on the most powerful opponent at the conference table. Jerry Sullivan.
"Family matter. We'll discuss this later, Jerry." Gabe glanced at Max and exited.
$ $ $
Though she was twenty-one years old, adolescent resentment still haunted Sarah. Gabe could see the specter in her face. Whenever his daughter looked at him, she scowled as if she'd just smelled a pile of trash. He pushed the door open to his office all the way and watched her sitting behind his desk. She was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, shorts, and sandals. The spitting image of her mother only with shorter hair and his blue eyes and hard head.
She ignored him though she must have known his stare was burning a hole through her. She may have been the only person on the planet who wasn't intimidated by him. She sat in his comfy leather swivel, hunched over the dark glass of his desk, and repeatedly clicked the mouse, playing Solitaire on his computer.
Gabe shut the door behind him, relieved by the fact that she was acting normally, though characteristically standoffish. She hadn't looked in her trunk, hadn't suspected a thing, he was sure of it. "Sarah. Where've you been?"
"Hey." The big blue eyes she inherited from him coldly stared at the computer monitor, shunning him, following Solitaire cards dealt out three at a time. "I was at Adrienne's last night."
"When did you get your car?"
"Twenty questions." She clicked through another round of cards, making him wait for her answer. "This morning with Adrienne. Why?"
"I was looking for you all morning-"
"We got breakfast in the city and went shopping. Something wrong with that?"
"Look, Sarah, I need your car. You ... when you took it ... this morning. You just drove it right? You didn't do anything with it or go-"
"What are you talking about, Dad? I moved my seat up because someone left it back like three feet from the steering wheel. Oh, and I reprogrammed the radio to keep someone from switching to country stations." She looked up from the computer for the first time, smiled. "Someone rude and inconsiderate."
"Look, I needed your car. It was an emergency so don't give me your mother's attitude!"
"What's your problem?" Sarah turned from the computer, her resentment piqued. "You took my car keys and then your secretary leaves me like eight hundred messages this morning and it's my fault? You're acting like a psycho."
Gabe moved closer, leaned on the corner of his des
k, and tried to calm himself. He pressed his fingertips against his eyelids, thinking how close he was to the bottle in the locked drawer. He took a deep breath, opened his eyes to see the satisfaction on his daughter's face. She liked upsetting him. He reached for her hand, but she jerked her arm back.
"Sarah, just listen honey. Dad's sorry. Dad needed to borrow your car that's all-"
"I hate when you speak in the third person."
"Sarah, listen, it's kind of an emergency, okay? I didn't have enough room in the Porsche, and I needed your car-"
"You could have at least asked me, don't you think? Or left me a note?"
"I'm sorry. You're right. I've had a lot of things on my mind at work-"
"Figures."
"Hey, how old is your car anyway? It's got a lot of miles-"
"No, it doesn't. It's fine. I like my car."
"What about the Hummer? I thought you were talking to your mother about one, you said you always wanted one-"
"You've got to be kidding me." She didn't even look at him, went back to Solitaire. "I wanted a hybrid, not a gas-guzzling Hummer."
"All right, Sarah, what do you want me to do? Huh? Take you to yoga and then a fucking seaweed massage like your Mother does?"
"You just don't get it, do you?"
"I'm sorry. How about we go to Peter Luger's this weekend? You'd like that, wouldn't you? We could spend some time together." Gabe held out his reddened hands.
Sarah grinned. "Yeah, Peter Luger's? Since I'm vegan, that sounds perfect."
"Goddamn it, Sarah, this isn't a fucking game! Just give me your car keys."
Sarah threw her key ring at him. "You're such an asshole."
He bent over to pick up her keys from the floor, relieved to be in control of the car again.
"I'm sorry, honey. Here ... you can drive my car." He held out his Porsche keys.
"I don't drive stick."
"I'll drive you home in your car. You don't … you can't understand, Sarah. I'll explain later. Just let's go. Please, I don't want to lose my temper."
"Too late." She stood up, and her legs scissored past him.
"Where's your car?"
She walked out of his office without an answer. He unlocked the drawer, yanked the bottle from his desk. He looked for something to hide it in and found an old Bloomingdale's bag. He tucked the bag under his arm and chased his daughter's fading footsteps.
17 (8 months ago)
* * *
Gabe Weiss's broad back was hunched over his desk, blue eyes smiling, hair shining under the ceiling spotlights of his corner office. Micah had never seen the man so cheerful. He was wary of Gabe's grin and glanced out the window to avoid it. Huge snow flakes fell and melted like silvery handprints on the glass.
Gabe said, "I thought you were going home for Christmas?"
"Hannah Smythe had an emergency. Needed some help reviewing some documents in an insurance case for Stu. Some class action about vanishing premiums?"
"Uh-huh. Well, sorry to hear that, but I'm glad you're here. You probably think I'm giving you another assignment the day before New Year's Eve?"
Micah, elbows on the arms of the chair, put his palms together. "I do."
Gabe chuckled and picked up a thick document held together by a binder clip. He flipped through the pages. "Well, you're wrong this time. I called you up here because I finally got a chance to read this draft answer in the Whitney case. You remember the one due next week?"
"Yes, sir, I remember." Micah nodded, thinking about the new case for a client named Chandler Rex Whitney or "C-Rex" as everyone, except Gabe, called him. A business partner sued C-Rex in New York Supreme Court, claiming C-Rex was stealing money from their company that owned an office building near the United Nations. The partner had the nerve to serve the complaint on C-Rex in a Christmas box wrapped in tin foil and a red bow.
Gabe said, "When I told you Chandler's version of the dispute and asked you to come up with an answer, affirmative defenses, and counterclaims, I didn't expect sixty-pages. I read it last night, and I have to be honest with you." Gabe held the document up, waved it at him. "You've got the gift, kid. The way you wove in the details and told our story, that Chandler's business partner was actually the one stealing, funneling assets to a secretary he was having an affair with. And the counterclaims? Fraud, Waste, Looting, Diversion of Corporate Assets, Conversion, Breach of Fiduciary Duty, Self-Dealing, Computer Fraud and Abuse Act?" Gabe lifted his icy blue eyes and winked. "This is top shelf work. Upper margin."
Relieved, Micah sighed. "Thank you. I just tried to put Chandler's spin on it."
"I'll say. I just emailed it to him. I'm sure he'll love it, especially the part about his partner's 'Massive Corporate Defalcation.' You ought to write fiction, you're a wordsmith." Gabe had the document flipped open to a page, shaking his head with that grin. "All right, enough back slapping. How old are you, Micah?"
Micah tried not to make a face at the non-sequitur. "Twenty-five."
Gabe seemed to like the answer. "That's what I thought." He put down the document, looked out the window nonchalantly. "You're not married, are you?"
"No, not yet, but I have-"
"Good." Gabe looked at him again, must've noticed that Micah was uneasy. "Relax. About this time every year, Christmas, Hanukkah, New Year's, my wife nags the shit out of me about grandkids. You know how irritating women can be. Well just multiply that irritation times their age, add a dash of Jewish hysteria, and you've got my problem."
"Yes, sir, but," Micah hesitated, thought about saying that he had a girlfriend. But for some reason, he didn't want to disappoint the man. "What does that have to do with me?"
"I have a daughter named Sarah. She's about your age, twenty-two. No, twenty-one." Gabe's blue eyes tilted up as he thought about it. "Anyway, my wife asked if I could bring someone over for dinner. Make it seem like I'm inviting one of my associates and if you run into Sarah, it looks like a coincidence."
"I don't know. . ." Micah's voice trailed off as he thought about it.
"Listen, it's no strings attached. I just want my wife off my back. Look at it like I'm buying you dinner for doing good work. What do you say?"
Before Micah could answer, Gabe yelled toward his door for Cherise.
Micah started to panic, saying, "You know, I would like to, but I'm kind of busy reviewing all those documents for Hannah and Stu and they-"
"Shhh, I'll take care of them. Hey," Gabe said over Micah's shoulder to Cherise who appeared in the doorway, holding a notepad like a secretarial fairy, "Cherise, get a car to pick him up tonight at seven. He's got dinner reservations at The Weiss Sanitarium."
"Lucky you," Cherise said to Micah.
"And get a bottle of wine for him to bring. The girls like red. Chateau Neuf du Pape or something like that. And some flowers, too. Something purple."
Micah thought about how he would explain this one to Ashley. Or maybe he wouldn't say anything at all. He'd go to dinner, be polite, and never tell anyone about it.
$ $ $
He was asleep, head pressed against the Lincoln Town Car's window when it came to a stop. The ignition turning off woke up Micah in a driveway somewhere in suburban New Jersey. He wasn't even sure exactly what enclave they were in or how far it was from the city. Rubbing his eyes, he got his bearings and looked up at the house with no Christmas lights or Nativity decorations. It was impressive, like something a Hollywood mogul would have built. A modern white brick mansion with golden trim and four Corinthian columns on the front portico. It made the big houses in Lexington look like government housing.
The driver left him at the doorstep, Micah holding a bottle of French Bordeaux in one hand and a bouquet of irises in the other. He was wearing a black pea coat, a new blue sweater, and a haircut from a place that charged a hundred bucks for a shampoo, trim, and hair gel that smelled like candy. He used his elbow to press the doorbell, heard a melodic jingle inside the house and the distinctive clip-clap of high heels.
/> Mrs. Weiss opened the door, wearing a loose blouse and low-cut jeans. He was struck immediately by how pretty she was. Better looking in person than the photos he'd seen on Stu Greenbaum's desk. She looked like his dad's favorite actress, Natalie Wood.
"You must be Micah? That's a lovely name. It's Hebrew."
"Yes, ma'am."
She opened the door wider, gave him a kiss on the cheek. Micah was thrown off balance by the greeting. Her long brown hair smelled like it had just been washed.
She said, "I can bring you a drink outside if you want to keep standing in the cold?"
"Oh, I'm sorry." He stepped inside, unloaded the flower bouquet. "Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Weiss." As soon as she took the irises, he realized he shouldn't have given them to her. They were probably meant for Gabe's daughter.
"How sweet, but don't call me 'Mrs. Weiss.' Call me 'Rachel.' I don't want to be reminded how much older I am." She pirouetted. "Let's put these in a vase."
He tried not to look at her backside as she walked down the hardwood floor of the hall. He stayed in the entrance foyer, looked at the small abstract paintings on the teal walls, and held up the bottle of wine. "Where should I put this wine?"
He heard her calling, "Sarah? Come downstairs, sweetheart!" Micah took a deep breath, feet nailed to the entrance floor. "Micah, don't be shy. Come inside."
He followed her voice through a doorway on the left to a large dining room connected to a kitchen. She was at a granite island counter, filling a vase with water.
"Sit down and take off your coat. I'm not used to guests with manners. Just make yourself at home."
He took off his pea coat, sat at a round glass dinner table centered on a large scarlet Persian rug. Two long candles burned in the middle of the table. He heard footsteps coming down a stairwell and imagined the worst. A girl with radiant blue eyes slinked into the dining room wearing an Ellesse tank top and tennis skirt. Micah was glad that she looked nothing like Gabe. She had brown hair like her mother, but it was greasy and tied up with a rubber band.
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