Lisa Scottoline - Legal Tender

“You were supposed to say ‘light.’ His favorite. But no, my Bennie had to say, ‘I don’t eat chocolate, Mr. Grun.’” Sam shook his head so mournfully I burst into laughter.

“What? I don’t eat chocolate.”

“You couldn’t eat the fucking piece of chocolate? It would have killed you to eat it? You would have choked ?”

“Exactly,” I said, though I didn’t explain. Sam knew my history anyway. I had swallowed so much crap already it would have lodged in my throat and cut off my air, throttled me with the terrible need to please, to say yes, whatever you need, at whatever cost. I stood up and started for the door. “I’d better get back to the office. I want to see what’s going on. Thanks for the tip.”

“Wait, I heard you were on the noon news, defending that animal rights group that started a riot.”

“It wasn’t a riot and they’re a couple, not a group. Two kids, one confused, one not so confused.” I meant Eileen, the latter. I’d have to address that problem, but at least for now she was in jail.

“Well, this time I’m on the cops’ side. Furstmann Dunn may be close to an AIDS vaccine.”

“I know-”

“Tell your clients to come with me when I take groceries to Daniel. He can’t even swallow because of the thrush, I have to buy him baby food. Tell that to your clients.”

“Client. I got the good guy.”

“Good guy? Screw him!” Sam reddened in anger. He had a low flashpoint, especially since he’d made partner. Mark always said it had gone to his head, but I’d disagreed. “Let him represent himself! Better yet, let one of his lab rats represent him, then see how well he does. I hope the cops beat some sense into him!”

“Calm down, you don’t mean that.”

“I do, too. I’ll beat that kid myself, for Christ’s sake! Me and every fegola I know. We’ll hit him with our purses!”

“Good-bye, honey.” I leaned over the desk and stole a smooch.

“I hope they broke his knees! I hope they snapped his dick right off!”

“Th-th-th-that’s all folks,” I said, and slipped out the door.

I opened the arched wooden door to R amp; B’s townhouse and experienced a familiar feeling. I was home. Mark and I bought the house as a brick shell with money from his family and remodeled it into law offices as we paid back the loan. I’d sanded and polished the hardwood floors; Mark had put up the dry-wall. We painted the walls and baseboards a golden yellow, and I decorated the offices comfortably, with soft chairs, pine side tables, and gentle watercolors.

“Hey, Bennie,” said Marshall, from the half-window above the reception desk. Her dark blond hair was gathered into a French braid and she wore a cotton dress that hung on a frame too fragile to bear any responsibility at all. In fact, Marshall was R amp; B’s receptionist, administrator, and bookkeeper, and ran the little office behind the reception window like Stalin.

“Why aren’t you at lunch, lady?” I asked.

“We’re too busy. You got a zillion calls.” She handed me a yellow stack. R amp; B, it said at the top of our internal stationery, in a hip font. Mark was in charge of hip, I could only do homey.

“Then go home early, will you? Leave at four and I’ll get the board covered.” I didn’t want Marshall defecting, too. Besides the fact that she ran the place, I felt comfortable with her in a way I didn’t with the associates, from whom I kept a professional distance.

“You sure? I might take you up on that. I have to get fitted for a bridesmaid dress.” She rolled her blue eyes.

“Pink or turquoise?”

“Turquoise.”

“Lucky break.”

“You got that right.”

The phone rang, and she reached for it as I wandered down the hall with my messages, scouting for associates. The hallway was empty, so I strayed casually into the law library, which doubled as our conference room. Nobody was there either. The round, egalitarian conference table was bare, surrounded by thick federal reporters, their gold foil volume numbers running in shiny rows. Maybe the associates were out to lunch. Or on job interviews.

I left the library, went back down the hall, and climbed the spiral staircase to peek at the upstairs offices. Each one was the same size, none smaller than Mark’s or mine, and each associate had been given a thousand-dollar office allowance to decorate it. Between our sexy caseload and permissive management, R amp; B attracted the best and the brightest from the local law schools-Penn, Temple, Widener, and Villanova. Our associates were all Law Review or close to it, and we paid them like the demigods they thought they were. What could they possibly have to complain about? And where the hell were they?

I walked down the hall, checking office after empty office. They’d put all sorts of crap up on the walls, and I hadn’t uttered a peep. Bob Wingate’s office was a memorial to Jerry Garcia; Eve Eberlein’s was redone in feminine chintz. The only businesslike office belonged to Grady Wells, a Civil War buff. It was furnished simply and the walls were covered with antique battlefield maps in wooden frames. Grady kept a map chest with skinny drawers in the corner, but he wasn’t in his office.

Nobody was in, anywhere. I considered snooping to see if there were any résumés lying around, but decided against it. I was committed to our individual liberties. Also, I might get caught.

I headed into my own messy office, kicked my pumps onto the dhurrie rug, and moved some papers so I could curl into the cushy maroon wing chair behind my desk. A client once told me that my sloppiness was the mark of a true outlaw, but he was wrong. I was just a slob, nothing political about it.

I unlocked a rickety desk drawer and pulled the file of computer printouts that listed the associates’ hours. Whoever was working the hardest could be the most unhappy. I read down the list of associates, ignoring the administrative hours, looking only for billable time. Fletcher, Jacobs, Wingate. Most of the associates were billing two hundred hours a month. Hard time, so everybody should be miserable. Even Eve Eberlein showed a hundred and ninety hours so far. I tried not to think about which activities she considered billable.

I flipped backwards to the previous months. The times rang true except for Renee Butler, who’d put in a rugged April on trial in family court. Renee had been Eve’s roommate since they graduated from Penn with Wingate, but the two women couldn’t have been more different. Renee was black, slightly overweight, and committed to her practice of domestic abuse cases. She was all substance to Eve’s pure form. Was Renee one of the associates who wanted to leave? Was there a way to find out?

Of course.

I tossed the time records aside and crossed the room to the unmatched bookshelves against the wall. Law reviews and treatises were mixed with clippings and reprints, and I forgot where I’d put the legal directory. Damn. I scanned the cluttered shelves.

Eureka! I yanked the directory off the shelf, found the listing, and called. “Meyers Placement?” I said weakly, when a woman picked up. “Uh… I may be out of a job soon and I need to talk to someone.”

“Hold please,” she said, then the phone clicked and another woman came on, with a professionally soothing voice. “May I help you?”

“Yes, I’m calling from R amp; B, Rosato amp; Biscardi? I need to find a job, I think.”

“To whom am I speaking?”

“I, uh, can’t say. I’d die if my boss found out. She’s a real bitch.”

A surprised laugh. “Well, you can send us a confidential résumé. Address it to-”

“Am I the only one from R amp; B who called you? Or have you gotten a call from Renee Butler?”