The Associate (20 page)

“This is too weird.”

A lady in front of Joey turned around and offered a curious glance. They did not speak for the rest of the first inning.

“How about the report on Elaine?” Joey whispered.

“It worries me.”

“So what’s next?”

“I think you should go see her.”

“No way.”

“It’s easy. Just bump into her and see what happens.”

“Right! Drive to Scranton, a town I can’t recall seeing in the past ten years, somehow find her, recognize her, assume she’ll recognize me, then what? Have a friendly little chat about the last time we were together? Have a laugh for old times’ sake? Hell, Kyle, she accused me of rape.”

“Shhhh,” Kyle hissed softly. The word “rape” sort of hung in the thick air, but no one reacted to it.

“Sorry,” Joey whispered, and they watched the game for a long time.

A ferocious argument erupted at first base after a close call, and all fifty thousand fans had an opinion. In the roar, Kyle said, “It would be an interesting meeting. To see how she reacts. Will she talk to you? Is she bitter, angry, full of vengeance? You take the high road and say that the encounter has always troubled you, that you want to talk about it. See if she’ll meet you for a drink and a serious conversation. You’re not going to admit anything, you just want to see how she feels. Maybe you want closure. What’s there to lose?”

“What if she recognizes me, pulls out a gun, and bam!?”

“I’ll take care of Blair.” Kyle managed this with a grin, though the thought of spending any more time with Joey’s girl was not pleasant.

“Thanks. She’s pregnant, you know. Thanks for asking.”

“Why is she pregnant?”

“Basic biology. But we’re both surprised.”

“Congratulations, Daddy.”

“Getting married is one thing, but I’m not so sure about this fatherhood business.”

“I thought her career was at full throttle.”

“Yep. Me too. She said she was on the pill, but I don’t know.”

This was not a topic Kyle wanted to explore. The more they talked, the easier conversation became, and that was not wise. “I’m going to the restroom,” Kyle said.

“Bring me a beer.”

“No. I don’t know you, remember?”

“Come on, Kyle. You think someone here is watching you?”

“With binoculars. At least two of them. They followed me here, probably bought tickets from a scalper outside the gates, and now they’re watching.”

“But why?”

“Basic surveillance, Joey. I’m a valuable asset, yet they don’t trust me. You should read some spy novels.”

“That’s your problem. Too much fiction.”

Kyle took his time between innings. He visited the men’s room, then bought a diet soda and peanuts. When he returned to his seat, he struck up a conversation with the kid on his right, a loyal Met fan who knew every player and all their stats. His father was in advertising, and Kyle managed to seem intrigued with that career. He cracked peanuts, scattered the hulls at his feet, and ignored Joey for a long time.

Joey, still half-blinded by the oversized Mets eyeglasses, suffered in silence. The Pirates were down four runs after four innings, and he was ready to
leave. Kyle eventually re-shifted, and began studying the scoreboard in center field. “Any word from Baxter?” he said without moving his jaws.

“Nothing. I think they’ve locked him in a cave.”

“I know the feeling. I’ve been in a dungeon all week.”

“I don’t want to hear it. For the money they’re paying you, no complaints.”

“Okay, okay. They know that he’s in rehab, and they probably know where he is,” Kyle said as a long fly ball was caught on the warning track.

“They?”

“The goons. Their leader told me last week that he’s in rehab.”

“How often do you meet with this guy?”

“Too often.”

“Have you handed over any secrets?”

“Nope. I have not been compromised.”

Joey sipped his beer, swallowed slowly, and with the cup in front of his mouth said, “If they know about Baxter, are they keeping tabs on me?”

“It’s possible. Play it safe. Vary your movements. Be careful with all correspondence.”

“Oh, this is just great.”

“My apartment is full of cameras and mikes. They come and go when they wish. I don’t have an alarm system, don’t want one, but I know when they’ve been there. Everything I do in my apartment is subject to being watched and recorded. But they don’t know that I know, so I give them nothing of consequence.”

“So you’re outsmarting these professional intelligence agents?”

“I think so.”

Another long pause in the conversation as the Pirates changed pitchers again.

“What’s the endgame, Kyle?”

“I don’t have one. I’m taking small, safe steps. Next, we make contact with the girl and see how bad things are there.”

“Pretty bad, I’d guess.”

“Let’s see.”

Kyle reached for his vibrating pocket and yanked out the FirmFone. He scrolled down, found the message, and felt like cursing. “What is it?” Joey asked, trying not to look at the phone.

“It’s a partner. He’s got a project. Wants me at the office at seven in the morning.”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday, Kyle.”

“Just another day at the office.”

“Are these guys crazy?”

“No, just greedy.”

During the seventh-inning stretch, Kyle eased out of his seat and made his way to the gates. Joey stayed until the eighth, and finally he left as his beloved Pirates were losing their ninetieth game.

_________

Jeans were allowed on Saturdays and Sundays. The fact that there was a dress code for the weekend, however relaxed, said much about the practice of corporate law on Wall Street.

Why were they even there?

Kyle wore jeans, as did Dale, who looked spectacular in a pair of tight ones. Tim Reynolds wore starched khakis. All three were dazed at the reality of being in a small conference room on the thirty-fourth
floor at 7:00 a.m. on the second Saturday of their fledgling careers. They joined four older associates, four young men Kyle had not had the pleasure of meeting or even seeing during his first two weeks on the job. Passing introductions were made, but only because they were expected.

The partner who had called the meeting was nowhere to be seen. His name was Tobias Roland, Toby behind his back, and of all the sizzling gossip Kyle had heard so far, the worst had been about Toby. Toby stories were abundant, and very few were even remotely flattering. Yale undergrad, Columbia Law, poor kid from a rough neighborhood with a gigantic chip on his shoulder. Brilliant, ruthless, conniving, he’d made partner in only five years, primarily because he worked harder than the rest of the workaholics and never relaxed. His idea of time off was a ten-minute tryst with a secretary on the sofa in his office. Most secretaries were terrified of him, too frightened to complain or file suit. Some, though, found him sexy enough for a quick romp. For fun he berated young associates, often cursing them in the foulest of language for the smallest of infractions. He intimidated the other partners because he was smarter and always better prepared. At the age of forty-four, he was the top-producing (billing) litigator in the firm and had not lost a jury trial in eight years. Toby was in demand by the in-house lawyers of many major corporations. A year earlier, Kyle had read and clipped an article in
Fortune
touting the greatness of Scully & Pershing’s “fanciest litigator.”

When Toby beckoned, you went running, albeit with a great deal of trepidation.

In his place that morning was a senior associate named Bronson, who, as he explained without a trace of enthusiasm, was standing in for Mr. Roland, who was just down the hall working on another aspect of the lawsuit at hand. He might pop in at any moment, and this prospect kept everyone wide awake.

Their client was a major oil company that was about to be sued by a Dutch firm over some disputed reserves in the Gulf of Mexico. The lawsuit was expected to be filed in New Orleans, but Mr. Roland had decided to file a preemptive lawsuit in New York. The plan was to file it first thing Monday morning. It was an ambush, a daring tactic that could backfire, the type of risky maneuver that Toby was famous for.

After a few minutes of listening to a lawsuit described in terms reminiscent of the D-day invasion, Kyle realized that his Saturday and Sunday were shot to hell and would be spent researching jurisdictional issues in the law library. He glanced at his FirmFone, scrolled down through the e-mails, and something caught his eye. At 7:30 on a Saturday morning, the firm was sending an e-mail to all lawyers announcing the resignation of Gavin Meade, a fourth-year associate in litigation. No details. No comments. Nothing but a quiet and quick exit.

Everybody has secrets, Bennie said. How did he do it? Perhaps an anonymous package mailed to someone in Human Resources. Affidavits, police records, the works. Poor Meade, ten years removed from his crime and hustling through the grind at $400,000 a year, when suddenly he gets a summons to a meeting with closed doors.

Bronson was rattling on about being the hub of a
wooden wheel, with spokes running down and out to the seven associates below him, and several running upward to Mr. Roland and the other litigation partners. At the hub, he, Bronson, would direct traffic between the big boys and the rookies. He would organize the work, supervise the research, and handle correspondence with the partners. Everything crossed his desk.

Time was crucial. If word leaked, the Dutch firm and its lawyers might do all sorts of evil things. The nation’s oil supply hung in the balance, perhaps even Western civilization.

Off they went to the library.

A
fter a series of phone calls that became more and more tense, a deal was finally reached. Dr. Boone and Uncle Wally acquiesced, but managed to keep one string attached. Baxter would leave early, but spend three nights in a halfway house in Reno before “reentry” into the real world. A hundred and five days after arriving sloppy drunk, with a blood alcohol content of 0.28, and with significant residues of cocaine in his system, Baxter rode through the gates and left behind the safety of the Washoe Retreat. He was squeaky-clean and ten pounds lighter, and not only had he kicked booze and drugs, he had also quit smoking. He was fit, tanned, and clearheaded and thoroughly believed he had conquered his demons and would henceforth live the sober life. He was armed for battle with the teachings of Dr. Boone and the other counselors. He had confessed his sins and surrendered to a higher power, whatever and whoever that was. At the age of twenty-five, he was beginning a new life, and Baxter was both proud and apprehensive, even frightened. As
the miles passed, he found himself more uncomfortable. His confidence was rapidly disappearing.

He had failed so many times in so many ways. It was a family tradition. Was it in his DNA?

An orderly drove him from the clinic in the Nightingale Mountains into Reno, a two-hour drive in which little was said. As they approached the city, they passed a splashy billboard advertising an imported beer in a cold green bottle. The slinky young woman holding it could entice any man to do almost anything. Fear hit Baxter harder. It consumed him, and beads of sweat lined his forehead. He wanted to turn around, to run back to the clinic, where there was no alcohol and no temptations. But he said nothing.

Hope Village was in a run-down section of Reno—abandoned buildings, cheap casinos, and bars. It was the domain of Brother Manny, the founder, pastor, and leader of Hope Village. He was waiting at the curb outside the church’s front door when Baxter stepped onto the hot sidewalk. He grabbed Baxter’s hand and shook it violently. “Mr. Tate, may I call you Baxter?”

The question suggested its own answer. He was Baxter, not Mr. Tate.

“Sure,” Baxter said, his spine stiffened from this physical assault.

“I’m Brother Manny,” he said, placing his thick left arm on Baxter’s shoulder, completing a rather rough howdy do. “Welcome to Hope Village.”

He was about fifty, Hispanic, bronze skin, gray hair pulled back tightly into a long ponytail that fell to his waist, warm eyes, big toothy smile, a small scar beside his left nostril and a larger one on his right
cheek. His face was adorned with a soft white goatee that had been pampered for many years.

“Another escapee from Washoe Retreat,” he said with a deep, melodious voice. “How is the good Dr. Boone doing up there?”

“Fine,” Baxter said. Brother Manny’s nose was about five inches from his. Close contact obviously did not bother him, but it made Baxter uncomfortable. “He sends his regards.”

“A fine man. Come, I’ll show you around. We have you for just three nights, as I understand.”

“That’s right.”

They began walking slowly. Brother Manny kept one arm across Baxter’s shoulders. He was a large man, with a thick barrel chest, and he wore dungarees and a white linen shirt—top two buttons open—with a long tail left out so that it swept behind him. Sandals, no socks.

The church had once belonged to an affluent white congregation that fled to the suburbs. As Baxter shuffled through the tour, he also got the backstory. Manny Lucera had found the Lord during his second term in prison—armed robbery, the proceeds from which were meant to buy drugs for personal consumption—and upon his parole he was led by the Spirit to Reno to start his ministry. Seventeen years ago, and the Lord had blessed him mightily. The church had grown and now housed a shelter for the homeless in the basement, a soup kitchen that fed anyone who showed up, a community center for the poor kids in the neighborhood, an intake center for women and children fleeing abusive men, and there were plans for an orphanage. The old buildings next door had
been purchased and renovated. The complex was crawling with people—employees, volunteers, street people—and they almost bowed in deference when they saw Brother Manny.

They parked themselves on a picnic table in the shade and sipped canned lemonade. “What’s your drug?” Manny asked.

“Coke, booze, but I didn’t say no to anything,” Baxter admitted. After fifteen weeks of baring his soul to people who already knew everything, he did not hesitate to tell the truth.