“Perfect, see you there. ہ bientôt, ladies.”
“Bye,” the associates chorused, and he hung up.
Bennie hit the off button on the phone and her ersatz good mood evaporated. She heard herself sigh and leaned against the desk. She’d have to fight to keep St. Amien, but Alice was back, the landlord was evicting her, and she was out of dog food. She hadn’t felt so totally at a loss since the day her mother had passed. And her employees were staring at her, momentarily speechless. They looked like waifs, bewildered and scared-as if their mother had passed. It telegraphed to her suddenly what to say, and do. Be a mother. Be strong, nurturing, certain, sure. Take control. Run the family. Be all the things her own mother had been, until illness overcame her. That strength had been her only legacy, and in truth, it was the only legacy of value.
“Listen, folks,” Bennie began, “there is no reason to panic. It’s not a disaster, not yet. As calamitous as this seems, I will deal with it. Fix it. Set it right.”
“Sure,” Murphy said.
“Absolutely,” Carrier said.
“We have faith,” DiNunzio said, but none of them sounded completely convinced, and Bennie straightened up.
“First things first. Right now I have a client to meet, and I’m never late.” She was beginning to feel better, more in control. She took a deep breath, picked up her bag and briefcase, and went to the elevator bank. “Carrier, if you find Alice, call me right away on the cell.”
“Got it,” Carrier called back, brightening.
“I’ll help her,” Murphy added, and even DiNunzio managed a thumbs-up.
Only Marshall couldn’t find a smile, but she knew how serious it was. She was about to be a mother, too.
Bennie grabbed the elevator and was gone.
8
Bennie had visited Lawyer Kingdoms in her day: oases of thick rugs, original oil paintings, and Chippendale chairs like thrones. She had seen plenty of corner offices, some as big as football fields, with patterned runners the length of airport runways, and rare law books that nobody read housed behind glass in mahogany bookshelves. She knew the costly whoosh of perfectly calibrated air-conditioning and could identify the dull patina of real brass doorknobs. But Bennie had never seen a law firm as opulent as Bull Linette’s.
The floor of the reception area was tiled in black-and-white marble, like the Grand Hall at Versailles, and an overstuffed golden brocade couch was adorned with spun-gold piping, as were matching club chairs. Fourteen-carat swags draped over tall mullioned windows, and the centerpiece of the room was a library table with ornate gold-covered feet, its mahogany surface inlaid with exotic ivory, teak, and yew. Golden damask walls were covered with gilt-framed scenes of French châteaus. Oddly enough, there wasn’t an eviction notice in sight.
Bennie was jealous as hell, especially considering the present circumstances. Somebody has a small penis, she wanted to say. But she was trying to act classy, so she settled for: “Not too shabby, huh?”
St. Amien chuckled. “Après moi, le déluge.”
“And that, too.”
St. Amien smiled. His silvery hair had been slicked back and he wore an elegant light wool suit of charcoal gray with another silk print tie, and even so looked underdressed in the fabulous waiting room. He sniffed as he surveyed the surroundings. “This decor, it’s costly, certainly. Yet it lacks something.”
“Duct tape?”
St. Amien cocked his head. “What is ‘duct tape’?”
“Tape for ducks.”
St. Amien let it go with a smile. They were getting used to each other. “Non. This decor, it lacks taste.”
“True. Also fun.” But so much friggin’ money. “Is friggin’ a curse, Robert?”
But St. Amien wasn’t listening. “I see no women lawyers.”
“Some of the lawyers in Philadelphia are men.”
“C’est dommage.”
“Huh?”
“It means ‘Too bad.’”
“I knew that.” Bennie stole a sideways glance at her new client. Maybe Robert was a dirty old man. Admiration was one thing, and lechery another.
Just then the receptionist returned. She was a knockout, with Miss Texas hair and a teal sheath Bennie would have saved for the evening-gown competition. She didn’t act like a real secretary; she was more like a firm hostess, and she smelled of Beautiful and swished her hand at the hallway like Vanna White. “Ms. Rosato and Mr. St. Amien, please come this way.”
“Thank you,” St. Amien replied for the both of them, and Bennie kept her thoughts to herself. At this point, the only thing worse than losing her client to Bull Linette would be losing him to Miss Texas.
They walked down a long corridor, also damask-covered, with exquisite offices for associates on both sides of the hall. Bennie tried not to count the number of associate offices-ten in all, five to a side-or to hear the sounds of a hugely successful law firm-phones ringing, fax machines zz-zzting away, Xerox copies ca-thunking, and lawyers on the phone calling each other assholes. Bennie’s firm used to sound like that, and she missed it. She sneaked a look at her cell phone clipped to her purse, but the green light wasn’t flashing. No message from the kids about Alice.
“Here we are,” breathed the hostess, opening a heavy mahogany door. It swung into a huge conference room populated by men in Brioni suits and spread collars. The air was filled with multilingual chatter, and the people milled, talking, eating, and drinking around a glistening conference table covered with platters of cheese Danish, bagels of every type, and thin, oily slices of Nova Scotia salmon. Mounds of cream cheese and fancy jellies filled out the spread on the left-hand side, and flanking it on the right sat a plate of knotted rolls, shiny with egg whites.
“What a spread!” Bennie heard herself say, then winced. Though she was broke, she had to stop acting it. And she could feel St. Amien stiffen beside her.
“Mr. Linette did mention something about food,” he said under his breath. “I’ve already eaten, however.”
“Me too.” Yesterday. Bennie entered the room, noticing that bald spots were turning in their direction. There wasn’t a lawyer in the room who wouldn’t have cut off his left briefcase to represent St. Amien, and Bennie felt suddenly what it must have felt like to be a man dating Marilyn Monroe. Bull Linette himself was already charging through his guests to meet them.
“Bennie!” Bill boomed, extending a huge hand. He stood a brawny six foot three in his custom dark suit, with the heavy shoulders of a Villanova quarterback. His physical presence impressed friends, enemies, and juries, and he knew as much. His features were proportional, with round blue eyes, a fresh sunburn over a largish nose, and a toothy smile that was broad and overbleached. “Lady, it’s so damn good to see you again!”
“You too, Bill.” Bennie extended her hand and acted as if it didn’t hurt when Linette tried to break it. “Looks like we’ll be working together.”
“So I hear, and I’m thrilled!” Linette’s strawberry blond hair had thinned, but his eyes were bright as he looked down. “I need someone with your street savvy on my team.”
My team? Bennie let it go. She had brought the homecoming king to the prom, and that said it all. “Bill, let me introduce you to my client, Robert St. Amien. I believe you’ve already spoken.” Heh.
“Bob!” Linette fairly shouted at St. Amien, grinning and pumping his fine hand with vigor. “Great to meet you, just great! Welcome aboard! From what I hear about you, Bob, you could try this case yourself!”
“Nice to meet you, also,” St. Amien said, smiling in a well-mannered way. “Please, call me Robert.”
“Robert! Great! Have a bagel and a schmear! Meet the gang!” Linette looped his hand around St. Amien’s back, scooped him up, and steered him into the room. “You know Herm Mayer, right?”