Billionaire Secrets of a Wanglorious Bastard (10 page)

“Online research?”

“Yes.”

“Two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar-an-hour online research?”

“You got it.”

“Who did you bill?”

“A Swiss bank client that defrauded Holocaust survivors.”

“We defended Swiss banks?”

“I thought it was justifiable reparations.”

“Wow.”

“What made you change your tune?”

“They got me. Or at least tried to.”

“Let me guess. Plagiarism?”

“I would ask you how you knew, but you should have known better.”

“I should know better?”

“I finally realized the problem. It's revenge of the nerds.”

“Stop.”

“No, I'm serious. Think about it. Guys who used to get beaten up as kids.”

“I got beat up as a kid.”

“Just bear with me.”

She raised her hands.
 

I said, “Guys who couldn't get dates in high school, college, or law school. They finally have power, and they abuse it against people they feel threatened by. Women, good-looking guys, minorities, decent people.”

“Not everyone is like that, though.”

“Of course not, but there are enough so our profession gets a rap which isn't necessarily untrue.”

“So you finally see why I decided to leave, right?”

“Actually, I don't.”

“What?”

“You have a degree and skills that can be used to help so many people. People who don't have the money to afford legal assistance. People who don't even know their rights.”

“But I don't have the training, so what help would I be giving them?”

“A lot more than they already have. Think about it, Sif. Instead of learning how to make cafe latte, you could've learned landlord-tenant law and helped someone from getting evicted.”

“That's easier said than done.”

“You know, Sif. I finally understand what you meant by picking the trash can or the pillow.”

“Right. I picked the trash can.”

“No, you're still there.”

She was clueless.

I said, “Why aren't you practicing law right now? You don't believe in yourself. You don't believe in the law. So you run away from the firm, but they're still there.” I pointed to her head. “In there. You internalized your experience.”

“That's crazy.”

“You're working at a coffee shop. How crazy is that? They said you weren't shit, and you're proving it.”

“You're such a fucking Columbia snob.”

“Sif, why don't you come with me? They have openings all over the place. All you have to do is—”

“Stop, Rufus.”

“Sif, you can't run away from it. Especially not like this. Don't let them win.”

“I'm sorry. I just can't.”

“But—”

“Look, I'm not talking about this anymore. If you want to make an order, do it. Otherwise, I'll have to ask you to leave.”

“Fine.”

44

NO SIF, NO
Rhage, no job, no apartment. I needed something stronger than a latte. So I went to the nearest bar I could find.
 

It was a dive and totally gross. The floor was sticky. The bar itself had splinters in it. Eighties music played in the background. It took about three Amaretto Sours to calm me down. Would this be my fate? I couldn't go back to Rhage. I couldn't sleep at my desk anymore. So I'd have to stay up all night and roam bars. Maybe turn into a barfly and pimp myself out for drinks, food, and a place to sleep.

That's it. I could totally whore myself out. I was young. Kind of hot. And a law grad. Maybe it could work. I'd have to find a swankier place than this, and sooner rather than later, since all my clothes were back with Rhage. Maybe I could sneak in and put them in a suitcase.

If I had a suitcase.

I could use a trash bag for my clothes and toiletries, but after what I saw her doing, I couldn't trust their cleanliness. Maybe I could toss the toiletries and take the clothes to a laundromat.
 

I felt good I’d put most of my shit on the cloud; otherwise I would've lost my movie collection.

Man, I'd probably have to move back home, home with my parents. Talk about a fate worse than death.
 

Unless.

No, although he would definitely let me crash, it wouldn't be fair to him. And I didn't mean Enos, although I wasn't ruling out that possibility. Still, I was single again. As liberating as it might seem, I hated being single, because I totally sucked at it.

Then it hit me. I'd sucked a lot at many things in life, but still came through. I was going to turn this shit around. I was tired of being whipped. This time, I'd be the whipper.

Figuratively speaking, of course.

45

“LET ME SEE
a staff directory.”

Enos went to a page on Krueller's portal. I gestured at his seat. “May I?”

He got up. “Mi chair, es su chair.” Then he sniffed. “Hold up, cuz. You smell.”

“So?”

“You are not putting your funky ass in my chair.”

“Fine. You sit down and I'll stand and surf.” I clicked through each attorney, because names weren't reliable.

“Rufus, there's a filter for that.”

“Not for what I'm looking for.”

“Columbia Law grads, right?”

“Nope.”

“New York attorneys?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Then who are you looking for?”

A few clicks more.

“I'm looking for her.”

He looked at the screen and tapped the photo. “You're not gonna—”

“Yup.” I wrote down her name and kept clicking.
 

“Wait a minute, cuz. What are you doing?”

“What I just did.”

“You already have one.”

“I need backup.” A few clicks more. “Got her.”

“Her? There's no way she'd get with you.”

I ignored him and kept clicking.
 

“Oh no. Not her, too.”

“Yup.”

Enos turned off his monitor. “Look, cuz. I get what you're trying to do, but it's not gonna work.”

“First of all, you don't know what I'm gonna do. Second, it will work.”

“I get it if there's one or two maybe? But all of them?”

“I need protection, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I'm gonna find it. If I have to date every partner in this godforsaken firm.” I had to work fast. I didn't know how long I had until I got the boot.

46

MY FIRST RESPONSE
came later that evening. A partner who was thirty-four. An attractive Middle Eastern-looking woman who kind of looked like a tanned Cher. The seventies sex symbol Cher, not the sailor ship collagen nineties version. She described herself as a Lebowski-lovin' belly dancer. I was amazed at how witty and fascinating she was. I had to meet her. Sure enough, the next day, we met at a gallery.
 

After ten minutes, I thought she was running late.

At the twenty-minute mark, I thought she was waiting at another entrance. I walked around and didn't see any tall, tanned seventies sex symbol Chers.
 

“Maybe she stood me up.” I didn't have her phone number on me, so I didn't have a means of figuring out if she was alive or overslept.
 

Then I realized that I probably shouldn't be looking for a seventies Cher. Perhaps she looked like a nineties sailor ship collagen Cher, you know, since people have ten- to twenty-year-old profile photos. I circled the gallery again, but to no avail.

She described herself as tall, but there weren't any tall women around. I stood next to a column. Puzzled. When I turned my head, I saw her, or something that looked like her. Only shorter and wider, with a big nose.
 

Now, I loves me a schnozz. Big beaks are the shizzy. But this? It was the mother of all noses.
 

I realized what she had done. She’d stretched her photo. Instead of being Cher, she looked like Snuffleupagus. To make matters worse, she was boring. I'm a chatty motherfucker. Been chatty my whole life. I could converse with a broomstick and make it appear to be as entertaining as Chris Rock. Unfortunately, Snuffy was no broomstick.
 

We were in the perfect venue for shooting the shit. An art gallery. For those who don't know, the drill is simple: walk by artwork, ask your date about their opinion, crack a joke, and repeat. There were over eighty-seven pieces of artwork, and she had exactly two responses: “I dunno” or “hmmm.” Sometimes she combined the two. “Hmmm. I dunno…hmmm” or “I dunno…hmmm…I dunno.” It reminded me of a guy I went to law school with. He had only three words he ever said: “Ri-ight,” “totally,” or “wha-at.” People
raved
about how conversational and deep he was, but I knew his trick.
 

The same guy had a crush on a girl who had a boyfriend. She'd call him, all post-coital, and ask him if he'd want to have brunch so she could rave about her boyfriend's sexual prowess. The entire time, the motherfucker could only muster “ri-ight,” “totally,” or “wha-at,” I figured, if he only knew a few more words, he could've probably hooked up with the girl, but “ri-ight,” “totally,” and “wha-at” can only get you laid if the woman is
extremely
proactive:

“I think you're cute!”

“Wha-at?”

“Wanna fuck?”

“Totally.”

“Let's go to my place”

“Ri-ight.”

Instead, he probably got:

“My boyfriend's schlong puts Ron Jeremy to shame.”

“Wha-at?”

“He loves anal.”

“Totally.”

“Sticks it in so deep, I can't shit right for a month.”

“Ri-ight.”

But I digress.
 

I found out Snuffy was involved with advertising law, and it all made sense. She was a professional at selling shit people neither wanted nor needed. So professional, they came back for more without knowing what hit them. But I knew. And looking at photography at the gallery brought it all home.

After the date, I was puzzled. How could someone so witty online be so mind-numbingly dull offline?

“How do you know she writes her own emails?” Enos asked the next day.
 

“She does,” I replied, “but—”

“How long does it take her to write it?”

I looked at the emails. I'd reply within minutes. Writing shit off the top of my head. Her response? Ten hours.
 

“I thought she was busy, or trying not to appear desperate.”
 

“She was busy, all right. Busy trying to appear interesting. Let me see a picture.”
 

As we glared at the screen, I logged in. And there she was with a new photo. A profile, showing her nose in all its glory.

“Whoa,” Enos said. “Look at that beak! I'm not one for suggesting a nose job, but sometimes, you gotta put that thing out to pasture.”

“Too extreme. Maybe someone—”

“I got it,” he said while grabbing Post-it notes. “Here!”
 

He began strategically placing Post-it notes over the photo…the top of the head…over the nose…the side of the face. The only thing remaining visible was her eyes.

“She's looking good now.”

Enos had given her a Post-it burka.

“Maybe some of those folks in the Middle East know what they're doing with those ninja outfits after all.”

I sucked my teeth at the bad joke.

Enos reacted like I shot his ass. “Okay, okay. Totally uncalled for. Maybe there is something to chemistry after all. Something that can't be communicated online.”

“I call bullshit. Snuffy didn't work because she was deceptive…her photo, her wittiness, being quick with quips. No, it wasn't that chemistry couldn't be read, it was truth.”

Enos patted my back. “I'll tell you the truth, you need to find someone else.”

I made a few clicks.
 

“Already got someone.”

Enos did a double take. “She works at Krueller?”

“LA office. She's in town today.”

47

THE PARTNER'S NAME
was Kimmi. She had cafe au lait skin, wide-set eyes, and thick lips. She could've been light-skinned black (as ridiculous as that word combination sounds), southern European, hapa, or
The Muppet Show
's Janice's cousin.

I always liked Janice.

She wore no makeup and dressed kind of frumpy, but still looked hella good. She called me and we set up a date.

A half-hour before, she called to tell me that some friends of hers were going to a party, and did I mind if we changed plans? I didn't want to, but I thought that I had no real choice. Besides, if she was wack, maybe her friends wouldn't be. Or if they were, maybe there'd be someone tight at the party. This conjecture was all bullshit, as I'm generally such a loyal prick that I wouldn't feel it would be fair for me to disrespect my date, no matter how foul she was, by rolling up on someone else. It's a character flaw that contributed to my past prolonged celibacy.

Anyhoo, I was supposed to meet her in the third car of the subway at 8 p.m. When the doors opened, she wasn't there. Two subway trains later, she popped out and had two fine friends. One grinned at me like I was a pet pooch. The other gritted at me like I’d castrated her father. My girl was smoking. All frumpiness was gone and she rose to the best-looking woman (at that point in my life) I’d had the opportunity of going out with. Hands down.
 

After a few stops of chitchat, we reached the stop.

“Okay, guys,” she said to her friends, “we'll see you later.”

Her friends rolled out and she stayed with me. I guessed she’d realized I wasn't a serial killer after all. We went for drinks and she spoke about her aspirations as a filmmaker. Apparently, she was an actress in addition to being a film finance partner, but desired to tell her stories instead of being a puppet for other writers. I was blown away by how fine and righteous she was. I didn't want to fuck it up, so I played it safe.

She had quit following her dream as a filmmaker, because of pressure from her parents, who wanted her to go to law or med school. She was frustrated as to whether or not she’d made the right choice.
 

“Don't worry,” I told her, “you're still young and don't have any debts, no kids to feed, right? So you can do it.”

After the date, we went back to her place. Instead of living it up, she still kept her film school apartment she sublet to two students. One who was busted, and the other with a slamming body but butter-faced. She took me to her room to show me a script she’d written. I saw a slew of random photos. Her and some friends. Some folks who looked like her family. An older couple. A baby. A dog. I picked up the baby photo.