Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

He smiled at her earnestly for a few awkward seconds. Her gaze drifted around his office until his phone rang.

“Well, I’m sure you’re busy, Mr. Amendola…”

“Please call me Peter.”

“Okay. Well, Peter, I know you’re busy, but I just wanted to drop in and introduce myself and thank you for the scholarship. And I know it’s silly because we don’t really know each other, but I’ve always looked at you as a role model for me, someone whose career I could study and learn from, being that we’re from the same place. And I would really love it if we could work together on a case someday. So, thank you again and I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time.”

“Not a problem, Regina. And if anyone owes an apology, it’s me. My mind is mush these days.”

Maureen’s voice buzzed in.

“Peter, it’s Lindsay.”

“One minute, Mo.” He turned to Regina. “I have to take this, I’m afraid. The wife.”

She stood and they shook hands. He watched her walk to the door, his eyes drifting down to her ass, its firmness snugly showcased by her pinstriped pants. She had curves, a pleasant change from the spindly, near anorexic look presently in vogue with almost all the young female associates. He called after her.

“Regina, one last question.”

She turned at the door.

“Shoot.”

“Denino’s or Joe and Pat’s?”

She shook her head.

“Lee’s? Nunzio’s?”

“Nucci’s.”

“Nucci’s? Never heard of it.”

“You’ve lost touch with your roots.”

He waved her away, smiling. He was about to press the button to accept the waiting call when she called back to him.

“I have a question for you, Pete.”

“Shoot.”

“Where’s your wife from?”

Peter chuckled.

“I plead the Fifth.”

She pursed her lips in a mock pout.

“Wisconsin.”

“C’mon, Pete. The girls from Wisconsin already get all the breaks. You can’t let them take the nice guys from Staten Island too.”

“Too late.”

She laughed and waved good-bye. He pressed the button and lifted the receiver to his ear.

“Hey, babe, you’ll never guess who started working here. Do you remember that luncheon that we went to for Bobby’s…”

“So,” Lindsay interrupted, clearly irritated, “I guess you’re not making the five forty-seven?”

Peter glanced at the clock. It was 5:44.

“No, Linds. I guess not. Sorry. Time got away from me.”

“It always does.”

She hung up.

Peter put the receiver down. He felt a warm tingle in his stomach, realized his cheeks were still pressed in a smile. He felt a charge he hadn’t felt in years, the electricity of new attraction.

Flirting, he realized, we were flirting.

And then he heard a voice from a different part of him, the practical, married part of him. Careful , it said, careful .

* * *

After Peter hangs up with Alberto, the day grows wheels. Clients return from their weekends and want updates: the latest draft of a brief, the status on a document review, the next steps in an internal investigation. When Maureen cracks the door open to say good night, Peter realizes he hasn’t eaten anything all day and that the sky outside his window is almost dark. He prefers days like this, when there’s so much going on that he has no time to get lost in his own thoughts. His stomach turns over, reminding him it is empty. He needs some fuel, half a sandwich and some chips.

He walks out of his office, intent on the cafeteria, and nearly knocks over Phil Langley, the reigning fair-haired child of the litigation department. Phil is trim and tidy, has chiseled features that belie his untrustworthiness. He’s got upward charm. Treats associates and staff like shit. Kisses the ass of everyone he thinks is important. Peter’s never made that cut, even though he made partner two years before Phil. He has a reputation for bad-mouthing his peers, Peter included, to the higher-ups in the department. Peter has little doubt that Phil has exploited Peter’s present predicament in every way possible.

“Peter, just the man I was coming to see.”

He extends his hand and Peter reluctantly shakes it.

“How are you? How you holding up?”

The falsity of his concern is so apparent that Peter has to suppress an urge to slap him.

“I’m great, Phil. Thanks. On my way down to the cafeteria, so excuse me.”

Phil puts a hand on Peter’s arm.

“One second, Pete. Kevin’s waiting for you in his office. Truman’s there too.”

“You mind taking your hand off of me, Phil?” he says, louder than he wanted.

A pair of associates — one male, one female — who were chatting by the communal printer fall quiet and retreat to their offices.

Phil releases his grip, leans in.

“Relax, Peter. I’m your friend here. Don’t lose your temper.”

“Phil, it’s probably best that I eat something before this meeting. I haven’t eaten all day and I get grouchy when I haven’t eaten.”

He also needs a few minutes to figure out how to handle this. Kevin is Kevin McCoury, the head of litigation. Truman is Truman Peabody, the head of the firm. This can’t be good. His executioners await.

“Okay, Peter. We’ll be waiting for you in Kevin’s office.”

“Thanks.”

Peter watches Phil walk off and turn the corner toward Kevin’s office. His heart is pounding. He wishes he could walk into Dominic’s office, close the door, and bend his ear. Like he used to. Dominic would know what to do, would know what cards to play.

But Dominic is gone, almost a year into a retirement that he appears to be enjoying, contrary to the expectations of nearly all who know him. Golfing three days a week. Spent a month in Rome. Another two weeks in Montana, fly-fishing, of all the fucking things, with his son and son-in-law. Enjoying his grandkids. Peter hasn’t seen him since last summer. They haven’t spoken in months.

He walks into Dom’s old office anyway. The air is still, a little fusty. An abandoned cardboard box sits forlornly on the floor, a crooked Redweld jutting above its lip. Otherwise, the office is barren. All of Dom’s personal effects have been removed. Spend fifty years at a place and a year after you leave, there’s no trace of you. Peter was supposed to slide over here months ago — into the coveted corner spot, into Dom’s spot — but that’s been put on hold, like everything else.

How many times did he step in here for Dom’s advice over the years? A hundred? A thousand? On how to handle an impossible client? Whether to make a certain motion? Which arguments to highlight, which to abandon? How to deal with an aggressive SEC lawyer? Dom had seen it all, knew the chessboard and all its pieces. He knew which situations called for honey and which for vinegar. He had shepherded Peter through the tensest moments of his professional career.

And how often did he end up imparting personal advice? About marriage. About raising kids with money without spoiling them. About the firm and the often poisonous personal politics that plagued it. Peter can hear Dom’s voice, the gravelly, reassuring susurrations of a man who’d spent his life counseling others.

Pick your battles, Petey. In court. In your marriage. Even here, in this fucking place. You can’t win them all. Choose the ones that are important, that mean something, that can improve your position, improve your life. Fight those like you’re in the street, like it’s knuckles and knives. Win those. But pick ’em well. Only a few mean something. The trick is learning which ones those are.

Which one was this? What would Dom have said about this looming confrontation? Peter rubs the back of his sweaty neck. He knows what Dom would have said. This is a fight that could have been avoided.