Brian Haig - PrivateSector

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m not. It’s routine. Fail, and you’ll have to sit through three days of instruction.”

“And then?”

“Then you’ll be retested. The firm is quite serious about its attorneys knowing its procedures and ethical standards.”

“As it should be. And if I fail again?”

“Associates are fired. In your case, the firm would probably notify the Army you can’t complete the program.”

Well, this was suddenly interesting. I said, “Really…?”

“Yes.”

I shooed her out and used the number Clapper had provided to call Lisa Morrow. A secretary answered and said she’d get her.

After a moment a slightly put-out voice said, “Thank you for calling, but I’m happy with my current phone service and I’m not at all interested in a timeshare.”

I laughed.

She said, “Weren’t you supposed to call about six months ago? About a drink? A dinner? Something?”

“Look, if you’ll please allow me to explain-”

“Sean, don’t.” I heard her draw a sharp breath. “Don’t lie to me.”

“Lisa, I’m… well, I’m hurt. I’ve never lied to you,” I replied, very sincerely.

After a pregnant moment, she said, “You’re right. That was unfair. I’m sorry.”

“You should be.” I added, “I was in a coma the past six months. They say I kept mumbling your name. It’s the only reason they didn’t turn off the life support system. I, well… Lisa, listen… I owe you my life.”

After a tender pause, she said, “Try again.”

“Again… Okay, I heard you were going out with somebody else and I didn’t want to confuse you.” Incidentally, this happened to be true.

She chuckled. “I was going out with somebody.”

Note the verb tense. Also how easily I got that out of her. Boy, am I good at this game. I said, “Guess where I am?”

“I don’t care where you are. You should’ve called. I can sort through confusion.”

“Maybe I can’t. I’m sitting in my new office at a tightassed firm called Culper, Hutch, and Westin.”

“ You’re the new exchange student?”

“Lucky me. Clapper said the last one claimed she had such a great time, I’d love it here.”

“He’s lying. I haven’t even debriefed him yet.” She added, “But you?… What was Clapper thinking?”

“He hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you. I think he hates them.”

“Well, tomorrow, it’s going to be a much smaller firm. I’m bringing a gun to work. I’ve compiled a list of people I’m going to cap.”

“I might have some suggestions. What are you working on?”

“Morris Networks. Same thing you worked on, I’ve been told.”

“Then you’ve met Cy?”

“Would he be the guy who counseled me on my lousy manners as he casually mentioned that Clapper and he are asshole buddies?”

She laughed. “Smooth as a baby’s butt, isn’t he? And Barry?”

“Yes, Barry. The top spot on my list to get capped.”

“Good choice. But don’t underestimate him, Sean. He’s vicious. Also very, very smart. He was number one at Stanford Law. Did he mention that yet?”

“He was working up to it when I cut him off.”

There was another long pause before she said, “I’m really glad you called. I have some things you might want to hear about Culper, Hutch, and Westin.”

“No need. I’m supposed to take some ethics and procedures test, and if I fail, I’m back in Clapper’s lap. I mean, this is too easy, you know?” But as a matter of interest, I asked, “Incidentally, did the firm bill your government-funded time to the clients?”

“Three hundred an hour.”

“Can you fail because your morals are too high?”

“That’s how you fail.” She then suggested, “And actually, I’d recommend it. Can we meet tonight?”

“My place or yours?”

“Don’t push your luck, Drummond.” She laughed. “Drinks in a neutral corner.”

“Oh… I see.”

“Don’t get huffy.”

“I’m not… Look, for you, is this meeting business or pleasure?”

“Strictly business.”

“Oh… I see.”

There was a long pause before she said, “But what happens after drinks is up for grabs.”

I laughed.

She said, “Unfortunately, I have some work to finish up that concerns Culper, Hutch, and Westin. We’ll discuss it. Pentagon, North Parking… is around nine okay?”

“Sure. Look for the suave, good-looking guy driving the Jaguar.”

“I will.” She asked, “And what will you be driving?”

Hah-hah.

She added, “But, Sean, really…”

“Yes?”

“Don’t be stupid-do take their suits.”

“Right.”

We hung up, and I leaned back into my chair with a nice sappy smile. I should’ve made this call a long time ago. I liked her. I liked her voice. She had one of those throaty voices that send a nice tingle up your spine. It was a sexy, edgy voice, which was part of her almost hypnotic power over male jury members. And probably her gorgeous face, great legs, and primo ass played a role also. But I’m part of the new Army, so thoroughly politically corrected I never even notice a soldier’s sex. Right.

In truth, I had fibbed-to her and perhaps to myself; my protracted dillying and dallying had a very primitive and reasonable foundation: fear. Some women you go out with, you both have a great time, and maybe it will work and maybe it won’t. Some women are just a great time-remember each other’s names in the morning, don’t complicate things, and everybody’s happy. Lisa Morrow, you don’t run into her type often, and you don’t dive in without considerable forethought, because you know it will be a long, hard climb out of a very deep, dark pit if things don’t work out. But perhaps I’d just reached that time of life, that level of maturity, that emotional plateau where I was ready for something more. I did recall a conversation I’d once had with Miss Morrow where she said she believed in monogamous relationships, long-term commitments, and legally sanctioned castrations for cheaters. That sounded to me like a warning. Was I really ready for this?

Whatever; we had both made it clear that our previously warm, collegial, professional relationship was about to become something more.

He admired her ass for a long and pleasant moment as she bent down to inspect what he knew would be a flat tire.

Tuesday night, at 8:59. He had dawdled and meandered around a small corner of the gargantuan parking lot for nearly three hours. Less than two hundred cars were still sprinkled over the nearly two square miles of flat, black tarmac. Only hours before, the vast expanse had been cluttered, without an open space to be found. Thousands of cars. Amazing, really. And to think there were two other huge lots and three smaller ones on the other sides of the five-sided complex. Thousands of people had streamed past him on the way to their cars, gripping their briefcases, planning their evenings, scurrying to get their kids from childcare centers, and largely ignoring him.

The very few who had bothered to give him a second glance would recall a tall, blubbery man with dark hair, a thick, wal-ruslike mustache, and eyes completely obscured behind a pair of oversized sunglasses. Let them take a picture for all he cared.

Later, he would remove the mustache, burn the wig, and remove the thick padding that made him appear chubby and unfit.

What would the police do when they responded to the call? Very little that night, he gauged. The following morning they would likely post a pair of officers by the sidewalk that led to the parking lot. They would flash their tin at passersby and ask if they had observed anything or anybody suspicious the evening before. Somebody who appeared out of place? A loiterer taking an untoward interest in the females who passed by?