William Choate IV jerked around and looked confused, then stuck out a hand for Mundin to grasp. He was a pudgy little man of Mundin's age, classmate from John Marshall, heir to a mighty corporate practice, tidy dresser, former friend, solid citizen, four-star jerk. "Why, hello, Charles," he said uncertainly. "Good to see you."
"Likewise. What are you doing here?"
Choate made a mighty effort and produced a shrug. "Oh," he said, "you know."
"Meaning that even a corporation lawyer has political dealings once in a while?" Mundin helped him out.
"That's it exactly!" Choate was pleased; it was just like old times. Mundin had always helped him out, all the way through John Marshall Law.
Mundin looked at his former protege with emotions that were only distantly related to envy. "It's a pleasure to run into you, Willie," he said. "They keeping you busy?"
"Busy? Whew! You'll never know, Charles." That was an unfortunate remark, Mundin admitted to himself. Busy—— "You know the I. G. Farben reorganization?"
"By reputation," Mundin said bitterly. "I'm in criminal practice right now. Incidentally, I had an interesting case today——"
"Yes," Choate said. "Well, you might say I've won my spurs. The old man made me counsel for the Group E Debenture Holder's Protective Committee. Old Haskell died in harness, you know. Think of it—forty years as counsel for the Protective Committee! And with a hearing before the Referee in Receivership coming up. Well, I won my spurs, as you might say. I argued before the referee this morning, and I got a four-year stay!"
"Well," Charles Mundin said. 'To use a figure of speech, you certainly won your spurs, didn't you?"
"I thought you'd see it that way," Choate beamed. "I simply pointed out to old Rodeheaver that rushing through an immediate execution of receivership would work a hardship on the committee, and I asked for more time to prepare our roits for the trust offices. Old Rodeheaver just thought it over and decided it would be in the public interest to grant a stay. And, Charles, he congratulated me on my presentation! He said he had never heard the argument read better!"
"Well done," said Charles. It was impossible to resent this imbecile. A faint spark of technical interest made him ask, "How did you prove hardship?"
Choate waved airily. "Oh, that was easy. We have this smart little fellow in the office, some kind of cousin of mine, I guess. He handles all the briefs. A real specialist; not much at the "big picture," you know, but very good in his field. He could prove old Green, Charlesworth were starving in the gutter if you told him to. I'm joking, of course," he added hastily.
Poor Willie, thought Mundin. Too dumb for Harvard Law, too dumb for Columbia, though he was rich enough to buy and sell them both. That's how he wound up at John Marshall, a poor man's school which carried him for eight years of conditions and repeats until sheer attrition of memorizing had worn grooves in his brain that carried him through his exams. Mundin had written most of his papers, and nothing but good-heartedness and a gentle, sheep's gaze had got him through the orals.
And poor dumb Willie glowed, "You know what that little job is worth? The firm's putting in for two hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars, Charles! And as counsel for record I get half!"
That did it. Mundin licked his lips. "Willie," he said hoarsely, "Willie——"
He cut it oft there. His mind played out the conversation to its end: The abject begging, Willie, you owe me something, give me a job, I can be a smart little fellow as well as anybody's cousin. And the dismally embarrassed, Gosh, Charles, be fair, the old man would never understand, what would you do if you were in my place?
Hopeless, Mundin knew the answer. In Willie's place, he would keep the lucrative practice of corporate law right in the grip of the Choate family. He would sit on top of his practice with a shotgun in his lap. And if anybody tried to take it away from him he would blast with both barrels and then club him with the butt until he stopped twitching. . . .
"Yes, Charles?" Willie was patient and expectant.
"Nothing," said Mundin heavily. "You were saying there's more work to do?"
"More work?" Willie beamed. "Why, with any luck I'll hand the Group E Debenture Holders' Protective Committee down to William Choate the Fifth! The reorganization's only been going for forty-three years. Soon lots of principals in the case will be dead, and then we'll have trusts and estates in the picture. Sub-committees! Sub-sub-committees! I tell you, Charles, it's great to be on the firing line of the law."
"Thank you, Willie," Mundin said gently. "Must you go now?"
Willie said, "Must I? Oh. Yes, I guess I must. It's been good seeing you, Charles. Keep up the good work."
Mundin stared impotently at his pudgy back. Then he turned wearily and went on to Dworcas's office, not very optimistically. But it was the only thing he could think of to do, apart from suicide. And he wasn't ready for that, yet.
Dworcas had still not arrived. The manager's office, back of the closed-up ticket booth, was tiny and crowded with bales of literature. The people waiting there were a young man and a young woman, obviously brother and sister. Big sister, kid brother; they were maybe twenty-eight and twenty-two."
The girl got up from behind one of the battered desks. Mannish. No lipstick, cropped hair, green slacks, a loose plaid shirt. She gripped his hand crunchingly.
"I'm Norma Lavin," she said. "Mr. Mundin?"
"Yes." Mannish. Now, why was good old Del passing this screwball on to him?
"This is my brother Don."
"Pleased to meet you." Don Lavin had something weird and something familiar about him. His eyes drew attention. Mundin had often read of "shining eyes" and accepted it as one of those things you read that don't mean anything. Now he was disconcerted to find that he was looking into a pair of eyes that did shine.
"Please sit down," he said to them, clearing a chair for himself. He decided it was simply Lavin's habit to blink infrequently. It made his eyes look varnished, gave the youngster a peering, fanatic look.
The girl said, "Mr. Dworcas tells us you're a lawyer, Mr. Mundin, as well as a valuable political associate."
"Yes," he said. He automatically handed her one of the fancy penny-each cards from his right breast pocket. Don Lavin looked somewhat as if he had been conditioned. That was it. Like a court clerk or one of the participants in a Field Day—or, he guessed, a criminal after the compulsory third-rep treatment.
"Yes," he said. "I'm a lawyer. I wouldn't swear to that other part"
"Umph," she said. "You're the best we can do. We got nowhere in Washington, we got nowhere in Chicago, we got nowhere in New York. We'll try local courts here. Dworcas passed us on to you. Well, we have to start somewhere."
"Somewhere," her brother dreamily agreed.
"Look, Miss Lavin," Mundin began.
"Just Lavin."
"Okay. Lavin, or Spike, or Butch, or whatever you want me to call you. If you're through with the insults, will you tell me what you want?"
Del Dworcas stuck his head in the door. "You people getting along okay? Fine!" He vanished again.
The girl said, "We want to retain you as attorney for a stockholders' committee. The G.M.L. Homes thing."
G.M.L. Homes, Mundin thought, irritated. That's silly. G.M.L.—why, that means the bubble-houses. Not just the houses, of course—the bubble-cities, too; the real estate in practically continental lots; the private roads, the belt lines, the power reactors. . . .
"Nonsense." It wasn't a very funny joke.
The shiny-eyed boy said abruptly, "The 'L' stands for Lavin. Did you know that?"