William Bernhardt - Deadly Justice

“Christ,” Herb said, wiping his forehead. “What happened to the bitch alert? Someone needs to get that thing fixed.”

“What’s with these, two?” Ben whispered to Rob.

“They’re lovers.”

“Lovers?”

“You heard me. Can’t you tell?”

Ben eavesdropped for another moment. “There must be some mistake.”

“No mistake. They’ve been boffing one another for at least six months. But the complication, you see, is that he’s married. To someone else. The affair is supposed to be a big secret. So they’ve been maintaining this hate-your-guts routine in public, trying to throw everyone off the track.”

“Unsuccessfully, I take it.”

“You take it right. The only ones being fooled are Herb and Candy.”

“Does the Consortium condone relations between employees?”

“Well, the general attitude is that boys will be boys. This isn’t Herb’s first interoffice dalliance by a long shot. Herbert the Pervert, we call him.”

A sharp increase in volume diverted Ben’s attention.

“Just fuck off, you bastard,” Candice said sharply.

“Don’t you wish?”

“Not even remotely.”

“That’s because you’re a frigid bitch.”

“No, that’s because you’re disgusting.”

“Probably a lesbian, too.”

“You’ll never know, you impotent toad.”

“Why don’t you shove a space heater between your legs and thaw yourself out?” Herb said.

“Why don’t you shove a cucumber in your pants and pretend you’re a man?” Candice sallied back.

Ben searched the room for a quieter haven, but alas, all the other seats except Crichton’s were taken.

“Hey,” Chuck said suddenly. “Where are the doughnuts?”

“Forget it.” The words came from a large man perched behind a small laptop computer. “In the words of Robert Frost, the doughnuts came down a road not traveled. Today was Shelly’s turn.” He took a drag on his cigarillo, then released a puff of smoke.

Ben saw Shelly, the woman who had been in Crichton’s office earlier, sitting three seats down the table, almost invisible. She didn’t reply.

“Aww,” Chuck said. “Don’t tell me she forgot again.”

“Worse,” the cigarillo man said. “She brought those bulgur wheat muffins.”

“Man! I hate those.”

A stricken look crossed Shelly’s face. She slumped down even lower, till her face was lost in the shadows.

“I think they look perfectly tasty,” Ben ventured. He picked up one of the offending pastries. “What’s wrong with wheat muffins? They’re much better for you.”

“I don’t want health food,” Chuck grunted. “I want doughnuts.” He released a rumbling sound that might have been a sigh. “I love doughnuts.”

Ben leaned into Rob’s ear. “Who’s the guy with the cigarillo?”

“Doug Gleason. Third-year employee. Fancies himself to be Ernest Hemingway. F. Scott Fitzgerald, at the least. Does nothing but write. Carries that damn computer everywhere. Doesn’t go to court, doesn’t negotiate, doesn’t do research. He just writes. Appeals, briefs, contracts, whatever.”

“Kind of a narrow specialty. He must be talented.”

“The jury’s still out. Personally, I’m not sure if he’s talented or if it’s all they trust him to do.”

“Well, at least he’s got a job he enjoys.”

“Maybe. I don’t know if he really likes writing or he just likes fancying himself a writer.”

At that moment, Crichton walked briskly into the conference room. Ben checked his watch; Crichton was a fashionable fourteen minutes late. He took the chair at the head of the table and rolled up his sleeves. “Let’s get to work, people. No more screwing around. I want to hear that projects are being completed, and that everyone is busting their butts to help the Apollo Consortium find the perfect proactive solutions.”

Ben winced. Proactive?

Chuck withdrew a stack of stapled papers from his briefcase and handed Crichton the top document. “I’ve taken the liberty of preparing an agenda, Mr. Crichton. Just to help you keep us in line.”

Crichton glanced at the top sheet for a millisecond, then turned it face down. “Any emergencies?”

No one volunteered any.

“First item, then: I want to formally introduce you to the newest member of the team, Benjamin Kincaid. Let me tell you—I have nothing but admiration for this guy. Ben is a hell of a litigator, and we’re damn lucky to have him. I want all of you to spend as much time with Ben as possible, whenever you have a chance. You could learn a lot from a lawyer of his mettle. I want you to watch him closely.”

Ben felt the rest of the room scrutinizing him, but sensed that their feelings were something other than admiration.

“You’ll have the opportunity to see Ben in action right off the bat,” Crichton added. “He’s taking over the Nelson case.”

“The Nelson case!” Candice said, far louder than necessary. “I thought Rob…” Her voice trailed off. “Oh, gosh. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll just bet,” Rob mumbled.

“Where’s the coffee?” Crichton barked suddenly, staring at the empty mug on the coaster before him. “Damn that Janice.” He whirled around in his chair, lifted the phone receiver on the credenza behind him, and dialed the four-digit number that connected him to his secretary.

Ben noticed a full coffeepot on a burner on the credenza. “Doesn’t he see—”

“Shhh,” Rob replied. “Just wait.”

A few seconds after Crichton hung up the phone, Janice hurried into the conference room, a fretful expression on her face. For the first time, Ben saw her standing up, and noticed the low-cut, high-hemmed dress that was not so much worn as affixed to her hips.

“Hurry it up,” Crichton grumbled. “You’re delaying the staff meeting.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Crichton.” She walked to the credenza, picked up the same coffeepot that had been inches from Crichton’s hand, and filled his mug.

Ben watched, marveling. “What, he doesn’t know how to pour his own coffee?” he whispered.

“Men at Crichton’s level don’t pour their own coffee,” Rob whispered back. “And he enjoys any excuse to drag Janice in here.”

“Why?”

“Just watch.”

Janice circumnavigated the table with the coffeepot, swinging her ample hips from side to side. She had a bounce like a well-tuned metronome, full and rhythmic. Ben noticed that Crichton’s eyes followed her back and forth, back and forth.

“Anyone else want coffee?” Janice asked, practically pleading for customers. Unfortunately, everyone else appeared to be capable of pouring for themselves.

“Thanks, Janice,” Crichton said dismissively. “I’ll call if I need a refill.”

Janice sashayed out of the office.

Crichton blew the steam off the top, then inhaled a steep swig of Java. “All right, Chuck, give me a status report on your contract negotiations.”

Chuck jumped to attention. “Yes, sir.” He removed a thick notebook from his briefcase. “The contracts for the license agreement with Amoco have been drafted and approved. I’ve brought copies—”

“I don’t want to hear about Amoco,” Crichton said abruptly. He downed another load of caffeine. “Tell me how the Ameritech joint venture negotiations are proceeding.”

“Ameritech? Joint venture?” Chuck appeared to be stalling.

“That’s right. I gave you that assignment over a month ago. Surely you haven’t forgotten.”

“Oh…uh, no. No, of course not, sir.” He scanned the room, desperately seeking salvation. “Shelly!”

She practically jumped out of her seat. “What?”

“I asked Shelly to research the possible antitrust ramifications of a joint venture, Mr. Crichton.” Chuck swiveled his chair toward hers. “What about it, Shelly? Where’s my memo?”