Mitch hung on every word. "And?"
"And, last year the average piece of pie was three hundred and thirty thousand. And, of course, it's expected to be even higher this year. Goes up every year."
"Three hundred and thirty thousand," Mitch repeated slowly.
"Yep. And that's just the average. Locke will get close to a million. Victor Milligan will run a close second."
"And what about us?"
"We get a piece too. A very small piece. Last year it was around nine thousand, on the average. Depends on how long you've been here and production."
"Can we go watch?"
"They wouldn't sell a ticket to the President. It's supposed to be a secret meeting, but we all know about it. Word will begin drifting down late this afternoon."
"When do they vote on who to make the next partner?"
"Normally, it would be done today. But, according to rumor, there may not be a new partner this year because of Marty and Joe. I think Marty was next in line, then Joe. Now, they might wait a year or two."
"So who's next in line?"
Lamar stood straight and smiled proudly. "One year from today, my friend, I will become a partner in Bendini, Lambert & Locke. I'm next in line, so don't get in my way this year."
"I heard it was Massengill-a Harvard man, I might add."
"Massengill doesn't have a prayer. I intend to bill a hundred and forty hours a week for the next fifty-two weeks, and those birds will beg me to become a partner. I'll go to the fourth floor, and Massengill will go to the basement with the paralegals."
"I'm putting my money on Massengill."
"He's a wimp. I'll run him into the ground. Let's go eat a bowl of chili, and I'll reveal my strategy."
"Thanks, but I need to work."
Lamar strutted from the office and passed Nina, who was carrying a stack of papers. She laid them on a cluttered corner of the desk. "I'm going to lunch. Need anything?"
"No. Thanks. Yes, a Diet Coke."
The halls quietened during lunch as the secretaries escaped the building and walked toward downtown to a dozen small cafes and delicatessens nearby. With half the lawyers on the fifth floor counting their money, the gentle roar of commerce took an intermission.
Mitch found an apple on Nina's desk and rubbed it clean. He opened a manual on IRS regulations, laid it on the copier behind her desk and touched the green PRINT button. A red warning lit up and flashed the message: INSERT FILE NUMBER. He backed away and looked at the copier. Yes, it was a new one. Next to the PRINT button was another that read BYPASS. He stuck his thumb on it. A shrill siren erupted from within the machine, and the entire panel of buttons turned bright red. He looked around helplessly, saw no one and frantically grabbed the instruction manual.
"What's going on here?" someone demanded over the wailing of the copier.
"I don't know!" Mitch yelled, waving the manual.
Lela Pointer, a secretary too old to walk from the building for lunch, reached behind the machine and flipped a switch. The siren died.
"What the hell?" Mitch said, panting.
"Didn't they tell you?" she demanded, grabbing the manual and placing it back in its place. She drilled a hole in him with her tiny fierce eyes, as if she had caught him in her purse.
"Obviously not. What's the deal?"
"We have a new copying system," she lectured downward through her nose. "It was installed the day after Christmas. You must code in the file number before the machine will copy. Your secretary was supposed to tell you."
"You mean this thing will not copy unless I punch in a ten-digit number?"
"That's correct."
"What about copies in general, with no particular file?"
"Can't be done. Mr. Lambert says we lose too much money on unbilled copies. So, from now on, every copy is automatically billed to a file. You punch in the number first. The machine records the number of copies and sends it to the main terminal, where it goes on the client's billing account."
"What about personal copies?"
Lela shook her head in total frustration. "I can't believe your secretary didn't tell you all this."
"Well, she didn't, so why don't you help me out."
"You have a four-digit access number for yourself. At the end of each month you'll be billed for your personal copies."
Mitch stared at the machine and shook his head. "Why the damned alarm system?"
"Mr. Lambert says that after thirty days they will cut off the alarms. Right now, they're needed for people like you. He's very serious about this. Says we've been losing thousands on unbilled copies."
"Right. And I suppose every copier in the building has been replaced."
She smiled with satisfaction. "Yes, all seventeen."
"Thanks." Mitch returned to his office in search of a file number.
At three that afternoon, the celebration on the fifth floor came to a joyous conclusion, and the partners, now much wealthier and slightly drunker, filed out of the dining room and descended to their offices below. Avery, Oliver Lambert and Nathan Locke walked the.short hallway to the security wall and pushed the button. DeVashej was waiting.
He waved at the chairs in his office and told them to sit down. Lambert passed around hand-wrapped Hondurans, and everyone lit up.
"Well, I see we're all in a festive mood," DeVasher said with a sneer. "How much was it? Three hundred and ninety thousand, average?"
"That's correct, DeVasher," Lambert said. "It was a very good year." He puffed slowly and blew smoke rings at the ceiling.
"Did we all have a wonderful Christmas?" DeVasher asked.
"What's on your mind?" Locke demanded.
"Merry Christmas to you too, Nat. Just a few things. I met with Lazarov two days ago in New Orleans. He does not celebrate the birth of Christ, you know. I brought him up to date on the situation down here, with emphasis on McDeere and the FBI. I assured him there had been no further contact since the initial meeting. He did not quite believe this and said he would check with his sources within the Bureau. I don't know what that means, but who am I to ask questions? He instructed me to trail McDeere twenty-four hours a day for the next six months. I told him we were already doing so, sort of. He does not want another Hodge-Kozinski situation. He's very distressed about that. McDeere is not to leave the city on firm business unless at least two of us go with him."
"He's going to Washington in two weeks," Avery said.
"What for?"
"American Tax Institute. It's a four-day seminar that we require of all new associates. It's been promised to him, and he'll be very suspicious if it's canceled."
"We made his reservations in September," Ollie added.
"I'll see if I can clear it with Lazarov," DeVasher said. "Give me the dates, flights and hotel reservations. He won't like this."
"What happened Christmas?" Locke asked.
"Not much. His wife went to her home in Kentucky. She's still there. McDeere took the dog and drove to Panama City Beach, Florida. We think he went to see his mom, but we're not sure. Spent one night at a Holiday Inn on the beach. Just he and the dog. Pretty boring. Then he drove to Birmingham, stayed in another Holiday Inn, then early, yesterday morning he drove to Brushy Mountain to visit his brother. Harmless trip."
"What's he said to his wife?" asked Avery.
"Nothing, as far as we can tell. It's hard to hear everything."
"Who else are you watching?" asked Avery.
"We're listening to all of them, sort of sporadically. We have no real suspects, other than McDeere, and that's just because of Tarrance. Right now all's quiet."
"He's got to go to Washington, DeVasher," Avery insisted.
"Okay, okay. I'll get it cleared with Lazarov. He'll make us send five men for surveillance. What an idiot."
Ernie's Airport Lounge was indeed near the airport. Mitch found it after three attempts and parked between two four-wheel-drive swampmobiles with real mud caked on the tires and headlights. The parking lot was full of such vehicles. He looked around and instinctively removed his tie. It was almost eleven. The lounge was deep and long and dark with colorful beer signs flashing in the painted windows.