William Bernhardt - Primary Justice

Ben swallowed. Didn’t Raven recognize him from the incident in the stairwell?

“Er … no, sir.”

“Hager?”

“No, sir.”

Raven continued his microscopic scrutiny of the paper. “Well, I give up then. Who are you?”

“Kincaid, sir. Benjamin Kincaid.”

“Ahh, Kincaid!” he exclaimed. He took a pencil from his jacket and drew a line through one name on his list. “Good. Nice to meet you.” They shook hands.

Ben stared at the old man. Was this some sort of bizarre test, or did he really not remember? Ben decided to play along.

“It’s a true honor to meet you, sir.”

Raven nodded and returned his gaze to his list. “All right,” he said, “who’s Amberson?” He moved around the new associates’ table in search of the other names on his list.

“Well, if he won’t introduce me, I’ll have to do it myself.”

Ben looked away from the table and saw a thin, black-haired woman in an exquisite décolleté black gown. It was trashy, but an expensive, tasteful sort of trashy. Black mesh at top and bottom, covering her figure just enough in strategically chosen places.

“I’m Raven’s new wife, Mona. And you’re …?”

“Ben Kincaid,” he said, suddenly flustered. He realized he’d been caught staring. He offered her his hand.

Standing closer to her, Ben saw that Alvin was right. She was nowhere near Raven’s age—late thirties, maybe. He wondered how much of the rest of Alvin’s information about this woman was accurate.

“Ben. Very nice to meet you.” She took his hand and held it tightly between both of hers. Her fingernails were painted black. She made eye contact and smiled. The smile seemed to answer most of Ben’s questions.

The band returned from their break and began plugging in their instruments for the next dance. Mr. Raven bowed gallantly beside Marianne.

“May I have the pleasure of this dance?” he asked. Marianne laughed, adjusted her glasses, and let him lead her to the dance floor.

“That husband of mine,” Mona said dryly. “Always on the make. Well, I guess that leaves you and me, Benjy.” She linked her arm through Ben’s and before he knew what was happening, he was being hauled toward the dance floor. Ben realized any protest was probably futile.

“So what are you working on, Ben?”

“Oh, several projects for Richard Derek—”

“Derek? Oh, poor boy.” She looked nostalgically at Derek, who was standing at the opposite side of the room. “Nice enough in the looks department, but he couldn’t sustain, if you know what I mean.”

Ben hoped he didn’t.

“Just do what he says and try not to laugh when he tells you about his old polo injury. You’ll do okay. Got any oil-and-gas work?”

“Ahh, not yet. I’m working on a domestic matter for Joseph Sanguine—”

“Really? Have you met him?”

Ben shook his head no.

“He’s here, you know. I’ll introduce you.” She waved her free hand in the air. “Joey! Yoo-hoo, Joey! Over here!”

Ben’s face reddened. He wanted to meet Sanguine, but he had hoped for a more respectable introduction.

After a moment, a tall, distinguished-looking man with a full head of gray and black hair and a thick mustache walked toward the yoo-hooing Mona. He had a dark, rugged face that bespoke many hours exposed to the sun. Native American descent, Ben guessed, at least in part.

Sanguine’s lips turned up slightly when he saw Mona. “Mona! Good to see you again. Where’s Arthur?”

She poked Sanguine in the side. “Oh, you know how he is. He’s got some nymphet on the dance floor. You look awfully good tonight, Joey.”

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“Joey, I want you to meet a new Raven associate. He’s working for you.”

Ben stepped forward and extended his hand. “Benjamin Kincaid, sir.”

They shook hands. Ben felt an inexplicable shiver run up his arm. This was a man with presence. A presence that he wore like an overcoat and that seemed just as tangible.

“Pleased to meet you,” Sanguine said. “I always like to know who Raven’s got working for me. They’ve got so damn many lawyers doing so damn many things, I can’t possibly keep track of them all. What are you working on, son?”

Ben hesitated. “Well … I’m working on the adoption matter for Bertha Adams, the woman whose husband …” He trailed off.

“Yes,” Sanguine said. “Very much a tragedy. Jonathan had been with the company for a long time, even before I bought it. He seemed like … part of the furniture to me.” He paused. “You never know just how much you depend on someone until you lose him. I hope there won’t be any problem helping that sweet lady adopt that child. I want us to do anything we can to help her.”

“In that regard, Mr. Sanguine,” Ben said slowly, “I’d like to speak to you at your convenience. You and perhaps some of the other Sanguine employees who knew Mr. Adams.”

Sanguine’s brow wrinkled. “Really? I can’t imagine what help I could be.” He scrutinized Ben’s face. “Still, if you think it will assist you, fine. Come up to my office Monday morning.”

“Thank you, sir. I will.”

Mona decided to reassert her dominance of the conversation. “Enough, enough. You two are starting to talk about business. Ben has promised me a dance. At the very least.”

Sanguine looked at Ben with an arched eyebrow. Ben tried his best to communicate his denial nonverbally. Mona’s arm again clamped down on his.

The band was in full swing now. They were playing a Bruce Springsteen tune, but making it sound like a Lawrence Welk standard. Ben and Mona reached the dance floor and began to sway roughly in time to the music. Ben was not much of a dancer, and given that he had worked at Raven for less than a week and had no idea what shareholder might be watching him, he decided to play it low-key.

Mona, he discovered to his dismay, was from the full-body, free-spirit school that perceived dancing as a tribal rite of foreplay. She wriggled, she squirmed, she heaved. When they were close, Ben heard strange guttural noises emanating from between her teeth. And stealing occasional furtive glances over her shoulder, Ben saw that many eyes in the ballroom were understandably fixed upon Mona. And, by association, Ben.

And then, just when Ben thought he had reached the apex of embarrassment, matters got worse. The band finished the Springsteen and began another song. A slow dance.

“Well, thanks,” Ben said, edging away. “I enjoyed the dance.”

Mona seized his hand. “You’re not slipping away yet, my sweet young thing. Come cuddle with Mona.”

Ben felt his face burning. He was finished. He knew it. Might as well get the résumés back in the mail. He extended his arms to hold her in the traditional waltz posture, but she insisted upon the full-body press more popular in junior high schools. Blissfully, the lights dimmed.

Ben tried to keep in step with the music, but he found Mona was more interested in groping than dancing. He felt her hot breath in his ear.

“Let’s do something crazy,” she whispered, breathing hard.

“Like what?” he responded, wishing he hadn’t.

“Don’t play games with me, Kincaid. You’ve been teasing me all night long. You don’t give a girl a chance, do you?” She leaned forward and nibbled on his ear.

“Stop that!” Ben said. He looked around quickly to see if anybody was watching. “You could get me fired.”

“You could get me fired up.” She blew into his ear.

“Please!” Ben pleaded. “You’re the senior partner’s wife. If anyone found out—”

“So don’t tell anyone. I think boys who kiss and tell are naughty.” She licked her lips suggestively. “I’m ready to go.”