by A N Bond
“So,” Ryan repeats.
“Did you put in a word for me like I asked? Tell Joseph Van Aardt what an awesome prospect I am?”
The truth is he hasn’t done any such thing. Tim has been begging him ever since he started his new job to mention his name to Joseph. Tim’s been sending his résumé regularly to Chase Mackey Van Aardt ever since he passed the bar, and the fact that Ryan ended up with a job there and Tim didn’t is still a very awkward subject between them. In fact, Ryan had been considering begging off their longstanding running date because he’d known that Tim would be unable to avoid bringing up the subject of Joseph.
“You didn’t, did you? Dude! Ryan! C’mon, how long have we been friends?”
“Look, Tim, it’s not as easy as that,” he says. “I’ve only been there five weeks and Joseph is always so busy. I mean, he’s not the kinda guy where you can just knock on his door and go on in there and—”
“Bullshit!” Tim cuts in, gesturing with his water bottle. “Marie told me about your little night out to the Whitehall Foundation Annual Awards. How he asked you personally to go with him.” Ryan ducks his head and silently curses Daisy and her best friend Marie and their irritating tendency to talk about every single thing, not to mention Marie’s baffling friendship with Tim and their tendency to also talk about every single damn thing.
“You must’ve had plenty of opportunities there to just, like, slip it in that you had a good buddy, a fellow Columbia graduate looking to move on,” Tim says, voice getting more heated. “A good buddy, who’s also an awesome litigation attorney in the making. Very smart, very capable, extremely presentable, and who even kicked your overachieving ass that one time in that patent litigation class.”
Ryan snorts and shakes his head. “Man, are you ever gonna let that go!”
“What? No. No freaking way, dude. That was the one class I beat you in in three goddamn years. No way am I forgetting that.” He turns his head to look at Ryan. “Seriously. Just mention my name. It’s not that difficult, is it?”
“Okay,” Ryan says.
Tim grins and shoulder checks him. “That’s my guy.”
Ryan gives him a faint smile. In truth, he has no intention of saying anything to Joseph about Tim. Not just because it’s really embarrassing, but because he really doesn’t want Tim working at Chase Mackey Van Aardt. He doesn’t want Tim working in an office next to his, sitting in on the same team meetings as him. This is his job, his chance to make something of himself. Tim being there would ruin everything.
Chapter 3
“DON’T BOTHER taking off your coat. You’re flying down to Houston with Joseph to interview a witness,” Estelle announces as she breezes into Ryan’s office, carrying four thick legal files in her arms. She drops them onto the edge of his desk and holds out a piece of paper. “Here’s your e-ticket.”
His coat is still half-hanging off one arm. He shrugs it back on again, reaches to take the paper from her, and glances down at it. “9:40 a.m.? That’s—”
“In just under two hours, I know. Dave’s pulling the car up downstairs. You should get down there. Take these with you.” She splays her hand over the stack of files on his desk.
“But… what is it… who are we—”
“Joseph will fill you in,” she interrupts again. “Just go. I’m going to grab him now. Now, Ryan!” She makes a shooing gesture with her hands as if to brush him away.
He gathers up the pile of files, picks up his briefcase, and heads out of there.
Joseph doesn’t talk to him during the drive to the airport; he’s got his phone glued to his ear, making call after call. Ryan pages through the files Estelle left, trying to figure out which witness they’re supposed to be interviewing. In the airport, they’re whisked through to the executive lounge without waiting. Joseph is still on the phone and Ryan is still completely clueless as to what he’s supposed to be doing on this trip. It’s not until they actually get onto the plane and are buckling themselves into the much roomier and much more comfortable business class seats that Joseph finally turns to him and acknowledges his presence.
“Phil Cartwright,” he says.
Ryan’s eyebrows fly up in surprise. Phil Cartwright is the former Chief Operating Officer of McNeil Industries, one of Jack McNeil’s highest ranking executives, closest confidantes, and a guy who has been either number one or number two on Joseph’s hit-list for months. If Jack McNeil ever carried out any insider trading, tax fraud, or any other corporate crime, then Cartwright is the most likely person to know about it.
“Seriously? Cartwright’s agreed to testify?” Ryan says.
“Not exactly, but I’ve got a feeling we can convince him.”
“Convince him? How?”
Joseph gives him a look. “Don’t underestimate my powers of persuasion.”
“Oh, okay, so is this going to be some sort of Don Corleone deal,” he says.
For a moment he thinks he’s gone too far, Joseph blinking back at him like he’s seriously not amused, then Joseph breaks into a smile and he chuckles. “Much as I’d like to put a gun to Cartwright’s head and force him to testify, I don’t like breaking the law. It would be pretty hypocritical of me. Now, keep reading.” He pats the file on Ryan’s knees. “I need you to know as much as possible about this guy before we meet him.”
CARTWRIGHT IS one jumpy fucker. He’s unshaven, his eyes red and twitchy, and he looks like he’s been on a bender for the past six months. He looks nothing like the corporate photo of him in McNeil Industries’ last published Annual Report. The one of him posed on the boardroom desk, smiling genially at the camera and looking like a respectable middle-aged executive with two kids, two dogs, and a place in the country. This guy looks like a New Jersey gangster, dressed in sweats and a gold chain, overweight and sweating profusely when he takes his seat.
“If Jack knew I was meeting with you,” he starts to say, eyes darting between Ryan and Joseph and ending up on Joseph. “He really hates you,” he says to Joseph.
Joseph’s lip curls. “The feeling’s mutual.”
They’re sitting in a booth in the diner where Cartwright insisted on meeting. Ryan and Joseph are squashed into one side, their backs to the door; Cartwright is opposite them. Weak, pallid cups of coffee sit untouched on the Formica table between them.
“Your daughter, Marie,” Ryan says, “she’s eighteen, right? Starting her senior year at high school?”
Cartwright cuts his nervy gaze away from the door and toward Ryan, blinking at him like he’s just noticed Ryan’s existence. “Yes,” he says sharply, “what’s that got to do with anything?”
Ryan spreads his hands, gives him his most sincere smile, his expression open and entirely nonthreatening. “Just making conversation. Does she have plans for college?”
Cartwright keeps looking at him, his eyes dark with suspicion. Eventually he swallows and says, “She’s going to the local community college.”
“Right, ’cause she had to drop out of Notre Dame because you couldn’t afford the tuition,” Ryan says.
He doesn’t take his eyes away from Cartwright’s face, but he can feel Joseph’s gaze on him, the approval in the small quirk of his lip. He’s overwhelmingly aware of Joseph’s proximity. The two of them aren’t exactly small guys; he’s six feet four and Joseph is only a couple of inches shorter than him, and they’re both crammed into the booth, Joseph’s thigh only millimeters from his own, their elbows practically grazing.
“Look, I see what you’re saying,” Cartwright says. “I’m not dumb.”
“Yes, you are,” says Joseph, cutting into the conversation. “You’re going to sacrifice your daughter’s future for Jack McNeil. That’s dumb if you ask me.”
“It’s not dumb if you know Jack McNeil,” Cartwright says, but he breaks off suddenly and clamps his mouth shut, wrenching his gaze away from them.
“Oh really?” says Joseph, leaning in close. “What do you know about Jack McNeil?”
“Enoug
h to know that I’m not getting involved with this case,” Cartwright snaps back. He’s even more on edge than before, the nerves radiating off him like the beads of sweat forming on his temples. “You’ve got nothing, you know that. Jack beat the government case. What makes you think you’re gonna do any better?”
“Because the government case didn’t have me working it. I play to win and I always win,” Joseph says matter-of-factly.
Cartwright snorts. “You won’t win this. And you can’t make me testify.”
Joseph looks at him for a long moment; then he sighs and sits back in the booth, elbow knocking against Ryan’s. “You’re right. I can’t make you do anything. But when we do win—and we are going to win—all your ex-coworkers stand to gain back what they lost plus some extra if I have my way. That means Notre Dame for your daughter, and who knows what for your son? Dartmouth? It’s your alma mater. I imagine you’ve always wanted to see him go there. His test scores are definitely good enough, far too good for the local community college.”
Cartwright hesitates, his shoulders hunching inward and gaze dropping to the table top, to the spill of sugar crystals across the shiny Formica. “You don’t get it,” he says, and his voice is a murmur. Ryan strains to hear him. “If I testify, then I could stand to lose a helluva lot more—and I’ve already lost enough. I can’t do that to my family.” He gets up with a jerk, knees bumping against the underside of the table, making their cups and silverware clatter noisily. “I’m sorry. I wish you luck with it, I really do. You’re gonna need it. I hope they all get what they deserve, but I can’t be a part of it. I just can’t.”
“Shit.” Joseph blows out a breath as they watch the guy book it out of there. He tosses a couple of sugar packets onto the table in a gesture of annoyance. “Fuck it.”
“I didn’t realize before just how damn shady McNeil really is,” Ryan murmurs.
Joseph cuts him a look. “I thought you said you’d read all the briefs?”
“Well, yeah, course, but that corporate fraud and insider trading shit, that’s one thing. Most big corporations are trying to screw over the government and the IRS and their workforce in the most technically legal way they can. But this guy’s seriously running scared. This is something else.”
“You think someone like Jack McNeil wouldn’t resort to taking care of inconvenient witnesses if he had to? Think about how much he stands to lose here, Ryan.”
“I guess, but, still….” He lets the words trail away.
He can feel Joseph’s eyes on him again, scrutinizing him, and he raises his eyes to Joseph’s face. He can see the exact shade of Joseph’s eyes in the diner’s harsh strip lighting, see the faint lines and creases spiderwebbing out from the corners of his eyes, the small patch of hair glinting golden-brown just by his sideburn where he must’ve missed shaving that morning. Joseph’s mouth is slightly parted, lips soft and pink, and he’s so damn close that Ryan would only have to lean in. Joseph’s gaze narrows in on Ryan’s lips, his eyes getting darker and more intent.
Ryan clears his throat and jerks his head away, a flush blossoming crimson across his cheeks, an uncomfortable rush of heat churning in his gut. “I’m just gonna take a leak,” he stammers, and he slides out of the booth.
He avoids looking at himself in the mirror as he washes his hands in the men’s room. He runs a shaky hand through his hair, blows out a breath, and tries to calm his racing pulse. That thing that had started all those years ago on stifling-hot afternoons in his teenage bedroom with his brother’s best friend, that continued with drunken hand-jobs traded with his frat-brother Mark, that fizzled back on at least a couple (more than a couple, Ryan) of occasions around the back of seedy nightclubs, that thing that he pushed away and ignored and tried not to think about since he’d started dating Daisy—that thing hasn’t gone away like he always hoped. That thing is hot and alive and entirely centered around his goddamn boss.
Joseph is waiting outside the diner by the time Ryan leaves the bathroom, and to Ryan’s surprise, he’s smoking a cigarette. He offers the pack to Ryan. “I know, it’s a filthy habit, but I’m pissed, and when I’m pissed I like a smoke. Here, have one too, make me feel less guilty.”
Ryan huffs out a shaky laugh and accepts a cigarette. Joseph nods approvingly and holds out his lighter. He leans into the flame, feeling Joseph’s eyes boring into him as he inhales. Joseph snaps the lighter closed and pockets it.
“So, what are we going to do now?” Ryan says as they start to walk back toward their hotel.
Joseph gives a one-shoulder shrug and takes a drag on his cigarette. “I haven’t figured that out yet.”
JOSEPH HAS a couple of conference calls, which he takes in the suite Estelle arranged for them, wearing out the carpet, pacing as he speaks into his Bluetooth headset. Ryan sets up his laptop, pops his iPod on, and tries to work on the briefs, but he’s distracted. Thinking about Cartwright’s face in the diner, and Joseph’s endless pacing and the rise and fall of his voice, is certainly not helping his concentration.
Joseph finishes up his call, collapses into the huge couch, and yanks the headset off. He stretches out his legs to toe off his dress shoes, wiggling his toes when he’s done and letting his head drop back against the couch cushions.
Ryan pulls out his earphones and looks up from his screen. “Hey, you okay?”
“Define okay” comes Joseph’s muffled response. “I’m freaking pissed. In fact….” He jerks up from the couch, pads over to his suit jacket where it’s hanging over the back of a chair, and pulls out his pack of cigarettes. He goes out onto the balcony in just his socks.
Ryan watches him through the french doors. Joseph is leaning over the balcony railing, arms folded, cigarette smoking between two fingers, as he stares down at the city below. He looks like one of those black-and-white images of a 1950s movie star, all distant, moody glamour and bad-boy attitude. Ryan watches him raise his hand to run it through his hair, then to tug at his collar and tie, loosening the knot and fiddling with the top button of his shirt. He looks frustrated and tired and irritable, and Ryan has the overwhelming urge to go out there and tell him it’s okay, they’ll figure it out, they’ll win this.
He’s sure that they will win eventually; he has no doubt about that. Joseph always wins. He built his reputation on it. He’s only thirty-four and he’s already got a bunch of awards from various prestigious organizations. He wishes they could jump forward in time, to the moment after the judge has ruled the case in their favor, to the photo opportunity on the front steps of the courthouse, Joseph posing with their clients with an enormous, shit-eating grin on his face.
Joseph finishes his cigarette and comes back inside. “I want a drink. Do you want a drink? Let’s go get a drink.”
Joseph picks a seedy-looking bar with beers and onion rings and pool tables. It’s the kind of place Ryan would never have expected to see him in, but Joseph breezes in like he’s completely at home there. He takes a seat at one of the tables and immediately summons the waitress over for drinks. They drink beers, eat burgers, and keep up a steady stream of conversation, thanks to the football game showing on the TV over the bar. Joseph shows a surprising and impressive familiarity with the NFL, and given his Texas roots, an unsurprising love for the Dallas Cowboys.
“We used to have a fantasy league,” Joseph says, taking a pull on his beer. “I won three seasons in a row, so the bastards banned me. I was bad for competition apparently. So after I made partner and got my name on the door, I banned all fantasy sports leagues from the office.” He grins around an onion ring, sucking the grease off each finger. “I know, it was kinda shitty of me, but if I wasn’t allowed to take part then nobody was. So, how about you, you ever played in a fantasy league?”
“Yeah, I was Bailor Hall champion two years in a row,” Ryan says.
“Bailor Hall, that’s UTD, right?”
“Uh-huh, that’s right.”
“Been there a couple of times. Guy I was friendly with back in h
igh school went there,” Joseph says.
“But not you. ’Cause you went to Harvard.”
Joseph raises his beer to his lips, cuts him a look. “You know all about me, huh?”
“Of course, I did my research. I read the papers you published, and the profiles in the Harvard Law Review and the New York Sunday Times supplement. They were very flattering.”
“They should be. I gave that Times photographer the blowjob of his life.”
Ryan freezes with his bottle halfway to his mouth. “You… what… are you serious?”
“I’m always serious about blowjobs.” Joseph’s voice is rich and low, amused, almost teasing.
“So you… for real? With guys?”
Joseph doesn’t answer at first, just regards Ryan with a steady kind of look that makes Ryan’s stomach flip over. Ryan swallows and lowers his bottle to the table. The glass clinks against the wood, the sound curiously loud while the noise of the bar around them seems to fade and retreat to the background.
“Surely a smart guy like you already knows the answer to that, Ryan,” Joseph says. His gaze is as hot and heavy as a touch, and just as deliberate, thrilling in a way that makes it hard for Ryan to catch his breath.
Joseph drains his beer and turns to beckon the waitress over, signaling for the check. She disappears behind the bar and Ryan watches helplessly as she sashays back toward them, the check on a small black saucer in the middle of her tray. She leans over to deposit it on the table between them, placing one hand lingeringly on Joseph’s forearm. She turns to go, throwing a look over her shoulder as she struts away. Joseph unfolds the check and smirks as he tosses it down on the table between them. There’s a phone number and a name scrawled on the bottom of it in blue ink. Joseph pulls a couple of bills out of his wallet and drops them on the table; then he slides off the stool and snatches up his coat.
“Let’s go,” he says. He doesn’t take the number, and Ryan is shocked by how happy that makes him feel.