John Grisham - The firm

"I don't know, I should get back. I've got some work to do before morning."

She laughed and stood. "No one goes in this early in the Caymans. Come on. I owe you a drink."

"No. I'd better not."

She grabbed his hand, and he followed her off the patio onto the beach. They walked in silence until the Palms was out of sight and the music was growing dimmer. The moon was overhead and brighter now, and the beach was deserted. She unsnapped something and removed her skirt, leaving nothing but a string around her waist and a string running between her legs. She rolled up the skirt and placed it around his neck. She took his hand.

Something said run. Throw the beer bottle in the ocean. Throw the skirt in the sand. And run like hell. Run to the condo. Lock the door. Lock the windows. Run. Run. Run.

And something said to relax. It's harmless fun. Have a few more drinks. If something happens, enjoy it. No one will ever know, Memphis is a thousand miles away. Avery won't know. And what about Avery? What could he say? Everybody does it. It had happened once before when he was in college, before he was married but after he was engaged. He had blamed it on too much beer, and had survived with no major scars. Time took care of it. Abby would never know.

Run. Run. Run.

They walked for a mile and there was no bar in sight. The beach was darker. A cloud conveniently hid the moon. They had seen no one since Rumheads. She pulled his hand toward two plastic beach chairs next to the water. "Let's rest," she said. He finished his beer.

"You're not saying much," she said.

"What would you like for me to say?"

"Do you think I'm beautiful?"

"You are very beautiful. And you have a beautiful body."

She sat on the edge of her chair and splashed her feet in the water. "Let's go for a swim."

"I, uh, I'm not really in the mood."

"Come on, Mitch. I love the water."

"Go ahead. I'll watch."

She knelt beside him in the sand and faced him, niches away. In slow motion, she reached behind her neck. She unhooked her bikini top, and it fell off, very slowly. Her breasts, much larger now, lay on his left forearm. She handed it to him. "Hold this for me." It was soft and white and weighed less than a millionth of an ounce. He was paralyzed and the breathing, heavy and labored only seconds ago, had now ceased altogether.

She walked slowly into the water. The white string covered nothing from the rear. Her long, dark, beautiful hair hung to her waist. She waded knee deep, then turned to the beach.

"Come on, Mitch. The water feels great."

She flashed a brilliant smile and he could see it. He rubbed the bikini top and knew this would be his last chance to run. But he was dizzy and weak. Running would require more strength than he could possibly muster. He wanted to just sit and maybe she would go away. Maybe she would drown. Maybe the tide would suddenly materialize and sweep her out to sea.

"Come on, Mitch."

He removed his shirt and waded into the water. She watched him with a smile, and when he reached her, she took his hand and led him to deeper water. She locked her hands around his neck, and they kissed. He found the strings. They kissed again.

She stopped abruptly and, without speaking, started for the beach. He watched her. She sat on the sand, between the two chairs, and removed the rest of her bikini. He ducked under the water and held his breath for an eternity. When he surfaced, she was reclining, resting on her elbows in the sand. He surveyed the beach and, of course, saw no one. At that precise instant, the moon, ducked behind another cloud. There was not a boat or a catamaran or a dinghy or a swimmer or a snorkeler or anything or anybody moving on the water.

"I can't do this," he muttered through clenched teeth. "What did you say, Mitch?"

"I can't do this!" he yelled. "But I want you."

"I can't do it."

"Come on, Mitch. No one will ever know." No one will ever know. No one will ever know. He walked slowly toward her. No one will ever know.

There was complete silence in the rear of the taxi as the lawyers rode into Georgetown. They were late. They had overslept and missed breakfast. Neither felt particularly well. Avery looked especially haggard. His eyes were bloodshot and his face was pale. He had not shaved.

The driver stopped in heavy traffic in front of the Royal Bank of Montreal. The heat and humidity were already stifling.

Randolph Osgood was the banker, a stuffy British type with a navy double-breasted suit, horn-rimmed glasses, a large shiny forehead and a pointed nose. He greeted Avery like an old friend and introduced himself to Mitch. They were led to a large office on the second floor with a view of Hogsty Bay. Two clerks were waiting.

"Exactly what do you need, Avery?" Osgood asked through his nose.

"Let's start off with some coffee. I need summaries of all the accounts of Sonny Capps, Al Coscia, Dolph Hemmba, Ratzlaff Partners and Greene Group."

"Yes, and how far back would you like to go?"

"Six months. Every account."

Osgood snapped his fingers at one of the clerks. She left and returned with a tray of coffee and pastries. The other clerk took notes.

"Of course, Avery, we'll need authorization and powers of attorney for each of these clients," Osgood said.

"They're on file," Avery said as he unpacked his briefcase.

"Yes, but they've expired. We'll need current ones. Every account."

"Very well." Avery slid a file across the table. "They're in there. Everything's current." He winked at Mitch.

A clerk took the file and spread the documents over the table. Each instrument was scrutinized by both clerks, then by Osgood himself. The lawyers drank coffee and waited.

Osgood smiled and said, "It all appears to be in order. We'll get the records. What else do you need?"

"I need to establish three corporations. Two for Sonny Capps and one for Greene Group. We'll follow the usual procedure. The bank will serve as registered agent, etc."

"I'll procure the necessary documents," Osgood said, and looked at a clerk. "What else?"

"That's all for now."

"Very well. We should have these records within thirty minutes. Will you be joining me for lunch?"

"I'm sorry, Randolph. I must decline. Mitch and I have a prior commitment. Maybe tomorrow."

Mitch knew nothing of a prior commitment, at least none he was involved in.

"Perhaps," replied Osgood. He left the room with the clerks.

Avery closed the door and removed his jacket. He walked to the window and sipped coffee. "Look, Mitch. I'm sorry about last night. Very sorry. I got drunk and quit thinking. I was wrong to push that woman on you."

"Apology accepted. Don't let it happen again."

"It won't. I promise."

"Was she good?"

I think so. I don't remember too much. What did you do with her sister?"

"She told me to get lost. I hit the beach and took a walk."

Avery bit into a pastry and wiped his mouth. "You know I'm separated. We'll probably get a divorce in a year or so. I'm very discreet because the divorce could get nasty. There's an unwritten rule in -what we do away from Memphis stays away from Memphis. Understand?"

"Come on, Avery. You know I wouldn't tell."

"I know. I know."

Mitch was glad to hear of the unwritten rule, although he awakened with the security that he had committed the perfect crime. He had thought of her in bed, the shower, the taxi, and now he had trouble concentrating on anything. He had caught himself looking at jewelry stores when they reached Georgetown.

"I've got a question," Mitch said.

Avery nodded and ate the pastry.

"When I was recruited a few months ago by Oliver Lambert and McKnight and the gang, it was impressed upon me repeatedly that frowned on divorce, women, booze, drugs, everything but hard work and money. That's why I took the job. I've seen the hard work and money, but now I'm seeing other things. Where did you go wrong? Or do all the guys do it?"