Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

Don’t shit where you eat.

That’s what he would have said.

“Sorry, Dom,” Peter says, to the empty room, “but that ship has sailed.”

* * *

His stomach still empty, Peter sits down across from Kevin McCoury, who is finishing up a call. Phil Langley closes the door and stands sentry in front of it. Behind Peter, Truman Peabody sits impassively on Kevin’s black leather couch, legs crossed, suit jacket on. Kevin hangs up, picks up a legal pad, and looks over a sea of piled papers at Peter.

“Well, I ain’t gonna pussyfoot around, Pete. You fucked up big time. Put the firm in a bad position. Endangered your partners.”

Kevin is a giant, roaring asshole of a man, the type of bellicose litigator who bullies his way to results. His face is fleshy and red and it sits atop a handful of chins. His sleeves are rolled up above his elbows, dark sweat stains sneak out from under the arms of his blue shirt. He spends his days screaming into phones and waddling down the hall while terrified associates scurry into their offices to avoid him. He is the type of lawyer who enjoys living up to the worst stereotypes of the profession. He is also extremely effective.

“Before we get into it, is there a reason that Phil is here?” Peter asks, nodding at Phil, who squeaks out an expression of surprise and hurt.

“What fucking difference does it make? Everyone knows what happened here, Pete. We’re not gonna get down into the nitty-gritty of it, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about. I just don’t understand why he’s here. He’s junior in the partnership to me, he doesn’t have an official position in the department…”

Truman interrupts, his voice sliding in over Peter’s shoulder.

“Phil has been acting as a firm counsel in this matter, Peter.”

“Firm counsel?”

“Ms. Giordano retained counsel some time ago. Given the sensitivity of the matter, we wanted to keep this in-house as long as possible.”

“She retained counsel? For what?”

“Jesus Christ, Pete,” Kevin says. “I knew you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants. I didn’t know you were dumb.”

Peter swallows, tries to bite down his anger.

“That’s not helpful, Kevin,” Phil says.

Peter looks over, uncertain. Maybe Phil wasn’t lying, maybe he is Peter’s only friend here. Then I’m truly fucked, he thinks.

Kevin clasps his hands behind his neck, exposing the ponds of sweat spreading from his armpits. He exhales, like he’s about to do Peter a favor.

“Okay, Pete, so here’s the deal. Devion Labs is looking for a deputy general counsel. Their GC, Marty Newman, is a few years away from retiring and they’re looking to groom someone to replace him. They don’t think they have anyone in-house. They asked us if we had anyone here who would be interested, maybe get a shot at a GC job. A tryout, so to speak.”

He pauses, shifts the position of his hands from behind his head to under his chin. He leans forward, like a man who’s about to confess something.

“This is a big opportunity. And if it doesn’t work out, you could always come back here.”

Kevin pauses again and Phil takes the baton.

“We want you to be the guy, Pete. You know them. They know you. They like you. It could end up being a great move for your career.”

He puts his hand on Peter’s shoulder, leaves it there. Peter feels blood pounding in his temples. He has to suppress another urge to do physical harm. She retained counsel?

“Let me get this straight. You want me to go in-house at Devion?” he says, more to buy time than to clarify.

“Yes,” says McCoury.

“In Chicago?”

“Yes,” Phil says. “Lot of time in New York, but yes, our understanding is that you’d be working out of their home office in Chicago.”

Silence. Everyone in the room seems to be sweating bullets except Truman. Peter is certain that Truman hasn’t squeezed out a bead in his life.

“For how long?”

“I wouldn’t look at it that way, Peter. You may love it, get the GC job, never come back.”

Peter turns to Kevin.

“You said I could come back if it doesn’t work out. How long do I have to stay?”

“A few years.”

“A few?”

“Minimum five.”

Another silence descends on the room, heavy with the weight of what’s been proposed. Peter is trying to process what’s happening, but he keeps returning to one thought: She retained counsel? Kevin coughs to remind Peter that he hasn’t responded.

“I don’t know what to say. I’m shocked.”

“Don’t say anything,” Truman pipes in from the couch. “Think about it.”

“But what about my family? My kids are in school, all their friends are here. I mean, my family…”

Across from him, Kevin raises an eyebrow.

“Maybe you should have thought about your family before…”

He doesn’t finish the thought. He doesn’t have to.

Peter wants to reach across the desk and slam the hypocrite’s head onto the table. Taking moral crow from Kevin McCoury? The fat bastard has fucked his way through half the hookers in Manhattan, but the McCoury family photos still sit on the credenza behind him, smiling emblems of a pleasant, tranquil household.

And Truman, the old-line WASP already on wife number three, with mistress number four in the minors waiting to get the call up to the big leagues.

And Phil, well, he didn’t know whether Phil fucked around, but he probably did. The little fucker was certainly pleased with himself about something.

Peter’s head is swimming. This will complicate a million things, but he’s not sure he can refuse. Exile is preferable to execution. His mind turns to the one thing he knows it shouldn’t.

“What’s gonna happen to Gina?”

A flurry of glances triangulates around Peter’s head. A decision is reached and Kevin nods to Phil, who looks down at his tie, suddenly sheepish.

“Ms. Giordano will continue to be paid during this extended, uhh, let’s call it a sabbatical. And next October, after her honeymoon, she will come back to work. With a new class. A fresh start, so to speak.”

After her honeymoon?

“Wait, she’s still getting married?”

“That’s what we’ve been told.”

“Really?”

“Let it go, Pete,” says Phil, with more sympathy than Peter expects.

Kevin chimes in, glad to play the bulldog.

“Let me remind you, Peter, not to reach out to her. Leave this alone. Leave her alone.”

Truman stands, puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder.

“You’re a good partner, Peter. I know you’ll make the best decision for the partnership. Best thing for you is to move on, put this behind you.”

He walks around to Peter’s side, buttoning his jacket as he does.

“When do I need to let you know?”

Truman frowns, displeased that the conversation isn’t over.

“We ain’t exactly asking, Pete,” Kevin says in a low bellow.

“Kevin, easy,” says Phil. “There’s no rush, Pete. This doesn’t have to be done next week. Or even by next month.”

“Just before October,” Peter says.

Phil shrugs his shoulders in agreement.

“Bingo,” says the bulldog.

* * *

When Peter slinks back to his office, his voice mail light is blinking and two dozen new e-mails have arrived, but he’s too shaken to work. His shoulders and neck ache; he is suddenly exhausted. His stomach is still empty, but he’s lost his appetite. All he wants is to suck back a few stiff drinks, sleep for a month, and wake up in his old life.

The one with two wonderful children and a mostly happy wife. The one with a soft mattress in a big house. The one with suburban boredoms and quotidian worries. The one that had its ups and down, its crises and joys, its mild irritations and simple pleasures.