Authors: Gini Hartzmark
“What makes you say that?” I asked, wondering what on earth I’d done this time to get on the wrong side of Callahan Ross’s imperious office manager.
“I’m afraid you’ve violated the three-strikes rule.“
“And what, pray tell, is that?”
“One of the things I’m really going to miss about this place is the way that the lawyers are always the last ones to figure out how things really work around here. The three-strikes rule, as in three strikes and you’re out, means that you’re expected to choose one of the first three applicants that Mrs. Goodlow sends you to interview.”
“And if you don’t?” I demanded, doing some rapid calculating in my head and ending up in double digits.
“Then she decides that you’re just being unreasonable, and to prove her point, she starts sending you terrible applicants until you come crawling on your knees to her office and beg for mercy, which, by the way, is exactly what she always wanted in the first place.”
“Great,” I complained. “So what you’re telling me is that unless I pick somebody soon, I’m going to end up interviewing Chi-Chi the Chimp Girl and her fun-loving family of primate personal assistants.”
“I’d say that pretty much sums up your current situation.”
“Wonderful. Now tell me the good news.”
“Your mother’s called twice since you came back from lunch.” I meant to groan, but instead it came out as a kind of plaintive keening sound. “She sounded even more annoyed than usual. What’s going on with her, anyway? Are you really going to try to stop the sale of the hospital? „
“Do I look like an insane person to you?” I demanded.
“I elect to exercise my rights under the Fifth Amendment on the grounds that a truthful answer may have an adverse impact on any future job-performance evaluations.”
“Thanks for that vote of confidence,” I cracked, “but in response to your question, no, I am not. Not only is my mother’s name to be found in the legal dictionary under the heading
client from bell,
but trying to block the sale of Prescott Memorial would be like trying to stop a locomotive by standing on the tracks.”
“Then what do you want me to tell your mother when she calls?”
“I’ll give you fifty bucks if you tell her that I’ve fled the country under an assumed name.”
Cheryl gazed balefully around the office, her eyes traveling from the pink message slips that littered my desk like confetti to the stacks of files that lay in ramparts*! covering every available surface.
“I have a better idea,” she suggested. “Why don’t I give you a hundred and you take me with you?”
CHAPTER 5
Now that the pinball machine was on its way to the Four Seasons, I found myself having second thoughts. It wasn’t so much that I was afraid that Hurt wouldn’t want it. If he didn’t, I figured I always had room for it in the new apartment. It was more that I didn’t want to look foolish—no, scratch that, desperate—in the eyes of Jeff and the other associates who’d been working on Delirium. Large law firms like Callahan Ross are like feudal kingdoms, where the number of knights you control reveals the size of your castle. While far from power hungry, I still had no desire to embarrass myself in front of the troops.
In the meantime I had other clients, clients who all had one thing in common—they expected to have their phone calls returned. As I worked my way through a three-day backlog of messages, I found myself glad to be diverted by other matters. I was also glad that Bill Delius and Mark Millman were busy at the COMDEX show at McCormack Place since it kept them from calling to ask what I was doing to resurrect negotiations with Icon. Under the circumstances I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell them.
I don’t know what made me think that Gabriel Hurt would call. The telephone was hardly his metier, but nonetheless every time Cheryl buzzed to tell me I had a call, I felt a small jolt of adrenaline followed by the in-l evitable letdown of disappointment. It was just chance that I thought to check my e-mail. Usually I left it to Cheryl to sort through the interoffice spam, but Cheryl had another interview, so I logged on and gave it a cursory scroll.
The message from Hurt was very cool. When I clicked it open, a character that I recognized from the Dark; Invaders pinball game appeared on the screen, walked forward, and knelt before me, beckoning with a graceful gesture of his hand. Unlike the figure illuminated on the back panel of the game, this warrior was three dimensional and astonishingly real. Behind him loomed an enormous iron gate whose intricately wrought arch spelled out the word ENTER.
Clicking my way through it, I was treated to a performance by three brightly clothed computer-generated figures from the game, doing impossible handsprings and acrobatics. Finally they scampered off, and a herald in rich medieval garb took their place and blew a fanfare. Lowering his horn, he unfurled a parchment scroll, which he seemed to turn for me to read. Written in Gothic script and beautifully illuminated in the margins, Gabriel Hurt’s message thanked me for my gift and invited me “and my seconds from Delirium” for a Dark Invader tournament at the Four Seasons “commencing at nine o’clock this evening.” I whooped my way down the hall to Jeff Tannenbaum’s office to tell him about our summons from the king. Delighted, I told him that he needed to figure out a way to get in touch with Delius and Millman right away, even if it meant going down to McCormack Place with a bullhorn. Rolling his eyes, Jeff punched up the numbers he had for the two men on his computer Rolodex, but before he dialed, he fished a single sheet of paper from the in-tray on his desk and handed it to me.
“What’s this?” I demanded, scanning the sheet on which were the names and addresses of what looked like three different bars.
“The only places within city limits that still have a working Dark Invaders game,” he replied. “Their machines aren’t in the same kind of cherry condition as the one we sent Hurt, but I figured they’d do for you.”
“For me what?” I demanded.
“For you to practice.”
Three hours and seventeen dollars in quarters and all I had to show for it was a matching set of blisters on my thumbs from working the flippers on the Dark Invaders machine at Mother’s, the yuppie watering hole on Division. If that wasn’t bad enough, my head ached from tracking the quicksilver ball and my ears rang from the game’s incessant mechanical chirping. The only consolation was that I was billing the time to the Delirium file, which meant that if and when we made the deal with Icon, Gabriel Hurt would wind up paying for my crash course in his favorite game.
Unfortunately, I still wasn’t any good. I suspected that pinball, like an appreciation of the Three Stooges, was one of those exclusively Y-chromosome activities. Not that it mattered. Tonight’s “tournament” was like being invited to join in a pickup game of hoops with Michael Jordan. You went in knowing that you were going to get killed.
While I was busy dropping quarters at Mother’s, Jeff Managed to track down Bill Delius, who was attending the COMDEX engineering banquet. According to Jeff, Delius was so excited by the news that he practically hyperventilated. I planned on using the drive from COMDEX to the Four Seasons to deliver a little seminal on the importance of keeping cool and the hidden costs of gushing.
Like Soldier Field and the Field Museum of Natural History, McCormack Place was one of those landmarks I passed by every day but seldom visited. Yet in the years since I’d first moved to Hyde Park, I’d watched the city’s convention center spread and mutate like a fungus. From a simple, albeit gigantic rectangle of smoked glass and steel, it now squatted on both sides of Lake Shore Drive. With completion of the latest, most ambitious phase of construction, it now resembled not so much a public building as a space station, self-contained and turned inward on itself against an inhospitable environment.-Futuristic walkways connected the far-flung buildings, while the exhibition halls were linked by a catacomb of underground service passages. When I thought about it, I realized that the building was the nightmare stuff of childhood, the kind of place one might venture into and yet never emerge from alive.
Millman was supposedly having dinner downtown with a group of Japanese businessmen and therefore unreachable. I had no way of knowing if this was true. I suspected that Delius wanted to have Gabriel Hurt all to himself. As far as I was concerned, it was probably better that way. As when dealing with two-year-olds, I found that it was easier to handle the Delirium partners one at a time.
But when I pulled into the service drive on the west: side of the building, there was no sign of Bill Delius. Wretchedly certain that he was panicking in front of a distant door in some other part of the building, punched in the number of his cell phone. But before could press SEND, I spotted him in the shadows. He was sitting on the edge of a waist-high concrete planter. He was mopping at his brow with a handkerchief.
“Oh, no,” I groaned. Even from a distance I could see that he looked drunk. The couple of times I’d had dinner with them I’d noticed that Millman was a hard drinker of the old school, but I’d thought Delius didn’t drink alcohol at all. Obviously I’d been mistaken.
I got out of the car and crossed the concrete plaza toward him, wondering how on earth I was going to get him sobered up in time, when it occurred to me that instead of being drunk, he’d probably been mugged. The area south of the Loop around McCormack Place was the current hotbed of gentrification, but it was also still gang turf. That was the reason that conventioneers were funneled in and out of only a handful of entrances. It was also why the long lines of cars and unwieldy crowds sent convention veterans scrambling for alternate exits.
“Hey, Bill,” I said when I got close to him. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, Kate, it’s you,” he said. He sounded startled to find me there. As usual, he was dressed entirely in black. Indeed, every time I’d seen him, Bill Delius had been wearing exactly the same thing: black trousers, a black single-pocket T-shirt, and a black blazer. Even his shoes were invariably the same. When I’d asked him about it, he explained that whenever he found something that he liked, he stuck with it. As for his shoes, there was something of a story behind them. He’d initially bought the black canvas slip-ons because they were comfortable and cheap. But when he learned that Sears was planning to discontinue the style, he’d used the several thousand dollars he’d made as a graduate student—by selling his solution to Rubik’s Cube through a small ad in
The New York Times
—to buy every pair in his size that the retailer still had in stock. Shyly he’d confided that he had enough pairs left to last the rest of his life, with one pair set aside to be buried in.
As Bill Delius rose unsteadily to his feet he tried to stuff his handkerchief back into his pocket, but he kept on missing.
“Are you okay?” I inquired.
“Sure. Fine.”
“You don’t look so fine.”
“I’m okay, really. Something I ate at dinner didn’t agree with me, that’s all,” he complained. “I’m usually pretty strict about what I’ll eat, but tonight I was so excited, I’m afraid I threw caution to the wind.”
I was tempted to tell him that whatever he’d washed it down with probably hadn’t helped, but I held my tongue and helped him to his feet, taking him by the elbow and gently steering him in the direction of my car.
As we passed under the streetlight I couldn’t help but notice that his skin was not just pale, but a pasty shade of green—one that I’d had an opportunity to see quite a bit of in college, usually right before the one afflicted tossed their dinner. I slowed my pace, hoping that if he was going to throw up, he’d do it before he got into my car. We were almost to the door when he lunged for me. At first I thought it was an attempt at ardor, only clumsier and more blatant than the guys who’d hit on me while I played the pinball machine at Mother’s. But as soon as I got a clear look at his face, pouring sweat and in a rictus of agony, I realized that what was happening was infinitely worse. As if to confirm my worst fears, Bill Delius suddenly staggered as if he’d been struck in the chest, let out a feral cry of agony, and then collapsed to the pavement like a dropped marionette.
Even before he hit the sidewalk I began calculating the alternatives: the distance to the ballroom where the computer wizards were still dining and the likelihood that there was a physician among them; the time it would take for an ambulance to respond to a 911 call; the chance of the paramedics finding us amid the hundreds of doors to the sprawling convention center; and, of course, the probability of my being able to keep him alive using CPR until they did.
I knew a little bit about heart attacks. While I was still their chief legal counsel, Stephen’s company had been seeking FDA approval for a portable defibrillation device, the equivalent of jumper cables for the heart, designed to be used in situations just like this one. While I wished desperately that I had one now, the information gleaned from that time all came back to me with startling clarity. I knew that CPR alone would not restart his heart. The only way to save him was to get him to the hospital.
To this day I don’t know how I managed to get Delius into the car. Even though he was thin, he was well over six feet and he was dead weight. It took all my strength to just drag him the few steps to the car and shovel him into the front seat. Within ten seconds of shutting the passenger door behind him, I was on my way to Prescott Memorial Hospital with the gas pedal to the floor, putting the limits of British engineering to the test.