Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

The one in which he felt moored to things bigger than himself. His family. This firm. Even this city.

His office phone rings and he answers it reflexively. “Peter Amendola.”

“Hey, Pete, it’s Wade. Are you okay?”

“Hey, Wade. I’m fine. Just tired. What’s up?”

“Nothing. Listen, I know things are not good for you right now.”

“That would be a mild understatement.”

“I know. I’m sorry about that.”

“Not your fault.”

“Anyway, I wondered whether we could get a drink sometime this week. I wanted to tell you something.”

A vision appears in Peter’s head: three olives impaled on a toothpick, leaning against the side of a glass full of clear, purifying liquid. He should go home and think this through. Correction: go to Alberto’s and think this through. He should get a good night’s rest. This is going to be a long, painful week and he should have his wits about him. The last thing he needs is a drink.

But the call of temporary numbness is too strong.

“What about right now?” he says.

“Now? Yeah, I could do that. I’m in midtown anyway. Just a few blocks from your office. Where should we meet?”

“Somewhere I won’t run into anyone I know.”

“Grand Central Oyster Bar?”

“Good enough. See you in twenty.”

Peter retrieves his suit jacket from behind his door, braces himself for the walk to the elevators. He says the words because they always make him feel better, even if it’s only a fraction.

“Fuck ’em, bro. They don’t know.”

He opens the door and strides to the elevator, not bothering to look into the offices he passes.

* * *

It was a small matter for a forgotten client. A regional bank, the type of client that had fallen out of favor with the firm’s management because really, how many billable hours could you squeeze from a backwater bank in Dover, Delaware? The bank had been acquiring other smaller banks around Delaware, trying to grow so they could compete with the big boys. Or, at least, survive. An employee had been tipping his friend about which banks were going to be acquired and the friend had bought the stock of those banks before acquisition and then sold them immediately after, netting himself a tidy profit, which he’d then split with his friend at the bank. Classic insider trading performed in outlandishly stupid fashion. As soon as the SEC got involved, the bank cut loose local counsel and called Dominic. Only Dominic had retired and the bank had been given Peter’s name instead.

So here they were.

The bank’s general counsel, a man named Wilson Temple, explained all of this to Peter in excruciating detail during a two-hour phone call. He stated several times that the bank had been founded in 1887 and each time, Peter wondered whether Mr. Temple had served as general counsel for the entirety of the bank’s existence. He pictured an ancient, withered shell of a man, hand shaking as he moved a magnifying glass over yellowed parchment.

“Of course, Peter, we aren’t entirely unconcerned about cost. In these trying times, a scattergood cannot prosper.”

Scattergood? Who was this guy? How the hell did he and Dominic ever meet? If the bank wanted to cut costs, it should keep Wilson Temple off the phone when the clock was running.

“So it would be appreciated if you staffed this matter very leanly, perhaps only yourself and a very junior associate.”

An image of Gina appeared in his head, soft and dreamlike.

“I’m sure we can accommodate you on that front, Mr. Temple.”

“Excellent.”

Another twenty minutes passed before Peter could extricate himself from the call. When he hung up, he exhaled and checked his e-mail in-box. Nothing pressing had streamed in. He looked at his schedule. Nothing pressing until a four o’clock conference call. He had a relatively open afternoon. He could get a little organized, clear his head, and maybe reconcile the internal conflict that had been fomenting in the three weeks since Gina Giordano had walked into his office.

Maureen was sipping tea from a large Styrofoam cup when he walked out of his office. She was always sipping tea, even in the dead of summer.

“Shit, Mo. What are you putting in that tea?”

“Language, Peter.”

“Your virgin ears.”

She put the cup down, gave him her serious look.

“What’s up?”

“I’m going to lunch. My usual.”

“Fancy.”

He looked down the hall to the closed door of Dom’s old office. He’d been gone since June. Didn’t feel completely right going to the diner without him.

“Miss your playmate?” Maureen asked.

“Yes,” Peter replied, honestly.

“What if your new playmate drops by?” she asked.

“New playmate?”

“Yeah, the one with the long black hair. The one who laughs at everything you say?”

Peter rolled his eyes.

“Good-bye, Mo.”

“Umbrella, Peter. It’s drizzling.”

“I don’t mind. I like the rain.”

“Bully for you,” she said and then turned back to her crossword puzzle.

* * *

The Splendid Diner was a greasy spoon joint on Fiftieth Street between First and Second avenues. Years earlier, Dominic had taken Peter here for his “welcome” lunch a few weeks after Peter landed at the firm. Peter was more than a little surprised — other people had been taken to Le Bernardin or Nobu or Sparks — until Dominic explained that since his heart attack, his wife had him on a strict low-cholesterol diet and the one thing he missed, really missed, was bacon and eggs. So he came here once a month to get his fix and he was sorry, really sorry, but he’d been on trial last month and missed his fix and he’d been dying for bacon and eggs and Peter was gonna have to fucking deal with it.

Dominic was the first person at the firm who made him feel comfortable. He wasn’t plastic. He was real. You could ask him about the Giants game. You could drop an f-bomb. He ate bacon and eggs in a shit-hole diner to avoid his wife’s wrath.

A waiter came to Peter’s booth. It had been a while, but he recognized Peter.

“You waiting for you friend?” he said in an accent Peter couldn’t place.

“No, just me today.”

“Same as usual? French toast with a side of sausage?”

“No. Two eggs, fried over easy, bacon, rye toast.”

The waiter scurried off with the order, Dominic’s old standby. Peter took a sip of his coffee.

Maureen had noticed. Not only noticed but said something to him. That was probably significant. Since their initial meeting, Gina had made a habit of dropping by his office every afternoon, ostensibly to talk about what she was working on, but the work talk inevitably gave way to a flirty repartee that left him breathless and addled. She possessed a sort of beguiling sensuality; when he was in her presence, it was difficult for him not to think about touching her. Kissing her. Making love to her.

Even when he wasn’t with her, he was thinking about her a lot. Too much. Not in a sexual way. Well, not only in a sexual way. It was like he’d rediscovered an old friend. One he’d grown up with but who also understood his life now. Strange as it was to admit it, it wasn’t so different from how he’d felt all those years ago when he first met Dominic. A kindred spirit in a foreign land. Only this time he was the experienced, elder statesman and Gina was the wide-eyed protégée.

Yes, it’s exactly like your relationship with Dominic. Except for the fact that you want to drape Gina over your desk and fuck her senseless.

The voice — the pragmatic, caution-urging voice — hadn’t grown softer with the passing weeks. If anything, it had gotten louder, developed a sarcastic and crass tone. He’d been arguing with it for the better part of a month.