'That help any?' Fields asked.
'Yes, sir,' Meyer said, his pulse racing. 'Can you repeat the inscription on the back of the head so I'm sure I have it right?'
'C13.489. Any idea what that means?'
'Not the slightest,' Meyer said. 'But if we figure it out, I'll let you know.'
'Hope I've been some help, Mr Meyer.'
'Thank you, sir. Thank you very much. If you're ever in town give me a call. I'll buy lunch.'
'My kind of fella.'
Meyer cradled the phone and sat for a long time staring down at the scrap of paper in front of him.
C13.489. What the hell could that mean?
Maybe the old-timer would know.
Seven
Vail braced himself and pushed open the doors to the main salon, knowing exactly what to expect. A tidal surge of noise and heat assaulted him. He faced a thousand lawyers and their wives, all babbling at once with a calypso band somewhere on the other side of the room trying to compete with them, all enveloped in an enormous ballroom with eight food tables, each with its own towering ice sculpture, a dozen or more bars, nobody to talk to but lawyers, lobbyists, and politicians - and no place to sit. The world's biggest cocktail party. Vail, a man who despised cocktail parties, was about to take a stroll through Hades.
Vail was the most feared man in the room, for he represented a potential danger to every lawyer at the party: a loose-cannon prosecutor, unpredictable, unbuyable, unbeatable, who had spent nine years on their side of the fence before switching sides and becoming their worst nightmare, a prosecutor who knew all the tricks and was better at the game than they were. In ten years he had successfully prosecuted two city councilmen, a vice mayor and a senator for everything from bribery to malfeasance in office and had wasted a local bank for money washing. They would treat him cordially but at a distance as he worked his way through the room, subtly letting him know that he was not one of them. It was the only part of the ordeal Vail enjoyed, for he revelled in the role of the untouchable outsider.
Otherwise, he despised the annual ritual dance of the state's legal power players and their fawning associates. The corporate partners used these occasions to study the young sycophants and their wives and to reaffirm their choices. How did they handle themselves in this social bullring? Did they have the proper social graces? Did the women dress properly? Did the young lawyers drink too much? Express unacceptable political views? Hold their own in social debate with their peers? And perhaps most important of all, did they discuss the business of the company? Like pledges at a fraternity party, the young bootlickers performed for their bosses, fully aware that their performances would be discussed later and in harsh detail in the halls of the kings. Divorce had even been suggested after these forays.
They drank too much and they bragged too much and it was business. Big business. They talked about lobbying for this bill or that; which PACS they contributed to because they 'got the job done'; which congressmen and state legislators were 'spinners', those whose opinions could be influenced with a free dinner at a four-star restaurant or a hunting trip to some exclusive lodge in Wisconsin or Minnesota; which were 'bottom feeders', cheap sellouts who could be bought for a bottle of good, hearty Scotch and a box of cigars; and which were 'chicken hawk' neophytes who could be lured into the fold with flattery and attention. They scorned the 'UCs', uncooperatives whose votes were not available at any price and subtly shunned them until they were 'seasoned' and learned the first rule of the game: compromise. These conversations were not about the law, they were about business and politics, enterprises that had little use for the law or ethics or integrity.
As Vail entered the room, he passed a group of five lawyers, all performing for a tall, white-haired potentate with smooth pink skin who was obviously enjoying the playlet.
'It'll be tacked on House Bill 2641,' said one. 'Furley will take care of it, he's already spun. It'll glide right through.'
'How about Perdue and that new joker, what's his name, Eagle?' suggested another.
'Harold Eggle,' another intoned. 'A chicken hawk, nobody pays any attention to him.'
'And Perdue's a bottom feeder,' said still another. 'Send him a bottle of Chivas and forget him.'
'It's a done deal. Nobody will buck Tim Furley except the usual UCs and they'll be laughed out of the chamber,' the imperious senior partner sneered, ending the conversation.
Vail sighed as he passed them, knowing he would drift aimlessly from one group to the next, nodding hello, smiling, and moving around the room until he was close enough to a side exit to slip out and flee the event.
But tonight was different. As he walked into the room, he was deluged with handshakes, smiles, pats on the back. He was overwhelmed with goodwill. It took a few moments for it to sink in, for him to realize what was happening.
Across the room, he was being observed as he made his way through the swarms of people. Jane Venable watched with a smile. Tall, distant, untouchable, classy, arrogant, self-confident, Venable had it all. From the tip of her long, equine nose to her long, slender neck, she created a mystique that was part of her haughty allure. She was almost six feet tall and, on normal business days, disguised a stunning figure in bulky sweaters and loose-fitting jackets. But in court, the perfect showcase for her brains, beauty, and elan, she was truly in her element. There she put it all to work at once, performing in outrageously expensive tailormade suits designed to show off the perfection of her body. From her broad shoulders to her tight buttocks, her hair pulled back into a tight bun, her tinted contact lenses accentuating her flashing green eyes, she was a tiger shark. Immaculately prepared, she was a predator waiting to slam in for the kilclass="underline" the ultimate jugular artist. There was no margin for error when doing battle with her. Like Vail, she had one rule: Take no prisoners. On this night Venable had thrown out the rule book. She flaunted it all. Devastatingly packaged, she was encased in a dark green strapless sheath accented with spangles that embellished both her perfect figure and the flaming-red hair that cascaded down around her shoulders. She was wearing green high heels that pushed her to over six feet. In the otherwise stifling milieu of the room, she was a beacon of sex, standing half a head taller than most of the men in the room. There was no denying her; no way to ignore this brilliant amazon. Jane Venable knew exactly what buttons to push to claim the night and she was pushing them all.
The day before Venable had wrapped up one of the biggest corporate buyouts in years. It was no longer a secret that Venable had spent six months studying Japanese culture and learning the language before going to Tokyo and masterminding Mitsushi's buyout of Midland Dynamics. Her strategy had pulled the rug from under four other law firms, one of them a Washington group that everyone had assumed had the inside track. It had earned her a $250,000 bonus and moved her name to number three on the corporate letterhead.
She had been watching Vail since he entered the big room, watching the minglers part like water before him, congratulate him, pat him on the back, then swirl back to continue their conversations in his wake. And at the moment she was thinking, not about her latest legal coup, she was remembering a day ten years earlier when she had suffered one of the worst defeats in her career.