Authors: Eddie Joyce
Flirting,
he realized,
we were flirting.
And then he heard a voice from a different part of him, the practical, married part of him.
Careful
, it said,
careful
.
* * *
After Peter hangs up with Alberto, the day grows wheels. Clients return from their weekends and want updates: the latest draft of a brief, the status on a document review, the next steps in an internal investigation. When Maureen cracks the door open to say good night, Peter realizes he hasn’t eaten anything all day and that the sky outside his window is almost dark. He prefers days like this, when there’s so much going on that he has no time to get lost in his own thoughts. His stomach turns over, reminding him it is empty. He needs some fuel, half a sandwich and some chips.
He walks out of his office, intent on the cafeteria, and nearly knocks over Phil Langley, the reigning fair-haired child of the litigation department. Phil is trim and tidy, has chiseled features that belie his untrustworthiness. He’s got upward charm. Treats associates and staff like shit. Kisses the ass of everyone he thinks is important. Peter’s never made that cut, even though he made partner two years before Phil. He has a reputation for bad-mouthing his peers, Peter included, to the higher-ups in the department. Peter has little doubt that Phil has exploited Peter’s present predicament in every way possible.
“Peter, just the man I was coming to see.”
He extends his hand and Peter reluctantly shakes it.
“How are you? How you holding up?”
The falsity of his concern is so apparent that Peter has to suppress an urge to slap him.
“I’m great, Phil. Thanks. On my way down to the cafeteria, so excuse me.”
Phil puts a hand on Peter’s arm.
“One second, Pete. Kevin’s waiting for you in his office. Truman’s there too.”
“You mind taking your hand off of me, Phil?” he says, louder than he wanted.
A pair of associates—one male, one female—who were chatting by the communal printer fall quiet and retreat to their offices.
Phil releases his grip, leans in.
“Relax, Peter. I’m your friend here. Don’t lose your temper.”
“Phil, it’s probably best that I eat something before this meeting. I haven’t eaten all day and I get grouchy when I haven’t eaten.”
He also needs a few minutes to figure out how to handle this. Kevin is Kevin McCoury, the head of litigation. Truman is Truman Peabody, the head of the firm. This can’t be good. His executioners await.
“Okay, Peter. We’ll be waiting for you in Kevin’s office.”
“Thanks.”
Peter watches Phil walk off and turn the corner toward Kevin’s office. His heart is pounding. He wishes he could walk into Dominic’s office, close the door, and bend his ear. Like he used to. Dominic would know what to do, would know what cards to play.
But Dominic is gone, almost a year into a retirement that he appears to be enjoying, contrary to the expectations of nearly all who know him. Golfing three days a week. Spent a month in Rome. Another two weeks in Montana, fly-fishing, of all the fucking things, with his son and son-in-law. Enjoying his grandkids. Peter hasn’t seen him since last summer. They haven’t spoken in months.
He walks into Dom’s old office anyway. The air is still, a little fusty. An abandoned cardboard box sits forlornly on the floor, a crooked Redweld jutting above its lip. Otherwise, the office is barren. All of Dom’s personal effects have been removed. Spend fifty years at a place and a year after you leave, there’s no trace of you. Peter was supposed to slide over here months ago—into the coveted corner spot, into Dom’s spot—but that’s been put on hold, like everything else.
How many times did he step in here for Dom’s advice over the years? A hundred? A thousand? On how to handle an impossible client? Whether to make a certain motion? Which arguments to highlight, which to abandon? How to deal with an aggressive SEC lawyer? Dom had seen it all, knew the chessboard and all its pieces. He knew which situations called for honey and which for vinegar. He had shepherded Peter through the tensest moments of his professional career.
And how often did he end up imparting personal advice? About marriage. About raising kids with money without spoiling them. About the firm and the often poisonous personal politics that plagued it. Peter can hear Dom’s voice, the gravelly, reassuring susurrations of a man who’d spent his life counseling others.
Pick your battles, Petey. In court. In your marriage. Even here, in this fucking place. You can’t win them all. Choose the ones that are important, that mean something, that can improve your position, improve your life. Fight those like you’re in the street, like it’s knuckles and knives. Win those. But pick ’em well. Only a few mean something. The trick is learning which ones those are.
Which one was this? What would Dom have said about this looming confrontation? Peter rubs the back of his sweaty neck. He knows what Dom would have said. This is a fight that could have been avoided.
Don’t shit where you eat.
That’s what he would have said.
“Sorry, Dom,” Peter says, to the empty room, “but that ship has sailed.”
* * *
His stomach still empty, Peter sits down across from Kevin McCoury, who is finishing up a call. Phil Langley closes the door and stands sentry in front of it. Behind Peter, Truman Peabody sits impassively on Kevin’s black leather couch, legs crossed, suit jacket on. Kevin hangs up, picks up a legal pad, and looks over a sea of piled papers at Peter.
“Well, I ain’t gonna pussyfoot around, Pete. You fucked up big time. Put the firm in a bad position. Endangered your partners.”
Kevin is a giant, roaring asshole of a man, the type of bellicose litigator who bullies his way to results. His face is fleshy and red and it sits atop a handful of chins. His sleeves are rolled up above his elbows, dark sweat stains sneak out from under the arms of his blue shirt. He spends his days screaming into phones and waddling down the hall while terrified associates scurry into their offices to avoid him. He is the type of lawyer who enjoys living up to the worst stereotypes of the profession. He is also extremely effective.
“Before we get into it, is there a reason that Phil is here?” Peter asks, nodding at Phil, who squeaks out an expression of surprise and hurt.
“What fucking difference does it make? Everyone knows what happened here, Pete. We’re not gonna get down into the nitty-gritty of it, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about. I just don’t understand why he’s here. He’s junior in the partnership to me, he doesn’t have an official position in the department . . .”
Truman interrupts, his voice sliding in over Peter’s shoulder.
“Phil has been acting as a firm counsel in this matter, Peter.”
“Firm counsel?”
“Ms. Giordano retained counsel some time ago. Given the sensitivity of the matter, we wanted to keep this in-house as long as possible.”
“She retained counsel? For what?”
“Jesus Christ, Pete,” Kevin says. “I knew you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants. I didn’t know you were dumb.”
Peter swallows, tries to bite down his anger.
“That’s not helpful, Kevin,” Phil says.
Peter looks over, uncertain. Maybe Phil wasn’t lying, maybe he is Peter’s only friend here.
Then I’m truly fucked,
he thinks.
Kevin clasps his hands behind his neck, exposing the ponds of sweat spreading from his armpits. He exhales, like he’s about to do Peter a favor.
“Okay, Pete, so here’s the deal. Devion Labs is looking for a deputy general counsel. Their GC, Marty Newman, is a few years away from retiring and they’re looking to groom someone to replace him. They don’t think they have anyone in-house. They asked us if we had anyone here who would be interested, maybe get a shot at a GC job. A tryout, so to speak.”
He pauses, shifts the position of his hands from behind his head to under his chin. He leans forward, like a man who’s about to confess something.
“This is a big opportunity. And if it doesn’t work out, you could always come back here.”
Kevin pauses again and Phil takes the baton.
“We want you to be the guy, Pete. You know them. They know you. They like you. It could end up being a great move for your career.”
He puts his hand on Peter’s shoulder, leaves it there. Peter feels blood pounding in his temples. He has to suppress another urge to do physical harm.
She retained counsel?
“Let me get this straight. You want me to go in-house at Devion?” he says, more to buy time than to clarify.
“Yes,” says McCoury.
“In Chicago?”
“Yes,” Phil says. “Lot of time in New York, but yes, our understanding is that you’d be working out of their home office in Chicago.”
Silence. Everyone in the room seems to be sweating bullets except Truman. Peter is certain that Truman hasn’t squeezed out a bead in his life.
“For how long?”
“I wouldn’t look at it that way, Peter. You may love it, get the GC job, never come back.”
Peter turns to Kevin.
“You said I could come back if it doesn’t work out. How long do I have to stay?”
“A few years.”
“A few?”
“Minimum five.”
Another silence descends on the room, heavy with the weight of what’s been proposed. Peter is trying to process what’s happening, but he keeps returning to one thought:
She retained counsel?
Kevin coughs to remind Peter that he hasn’t responded.
“I don’t know what to say. I’m shocked.”
“Don’t say anything,” Truman pipes in from the couch. “Think about it.”
“But what about my family? My kids are in school, all their friends are here. I mean, my family . . .”
Across from him, Kevin raises an eyebrow.
“Maybe you should have thought about your family before . . .”
He doesn’t finish the thought. He doesn’t have to.
Peter wants to reach across the desk and slam the hypocrite’s head onto the table. Taking moral crow from Kevin McCoury? The fat bastard has fucked his way through half the hookers in Manhattan, but the McCoury family photos still sit on the credenza behind him, smiling emblems of a pleasant, tranquil household.
And Truman, the old-line WASP already on wife number three, with mistress number four in the minors waiting to get the call up to the big leagues.
And Phil, well, he didn’t know whether Phil fucked around, but he probably did. The little fucker was certainly pleased with himself about something.
Peter’s head is swimming. This will complicate a million things, but he’s not sure he can refuse. Exile is preferable to execution. His mind turns to the one thing he knows it shouldn’t.
“What’s gonna happen to Gina?”
A flurry of glances triangulates around Peter’s head. A decision is reached and Kevin nods to Phil, who looks down at his tie, suddenly sheepish.
“Ms. Giordano will continue to be paid during this extended, uhh, let’s call it a sabbatical. And next October, after her honeymoon, she will come back to work. With a new class. A fresh start, so to speak.”
After her honeymoon?
“Wait, she’s still getting married?”
“That’s what we’ve been told.”
“Really?”
“Let it go, Pete,” says Phil, with more sympathy than Peter expects.
Kevin chimes in, glad to play the bulldog.
“Let me remind you, Peter, not to reach out to her. Leave this alone. Leave her alone.”
Truman stands, puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder.
“You’re a good partner, Peter. I know you’ll make the best decision for the partnership. Best thing for you is to move on, put this behind you.”
He walks around to Peter’s side, buttoning his jacket as he does.
“When do I need to let you know?”
Truman frowns, displeased that the conversation isn’t over.
“We ain’t exactly asking, Pete,” Kevin says in a low bellow.
“Kevin, easy,” says Phil. “There’s no rush, Pete. This doesn’t have to be done next week. Or even by next month.”
“Just before October,” Peter says.
Phil shrugs his shoulders in agreement.
“Bingo,” says the bulldog.
* * *
When Peter slinks back to his office, his voice mail light is blinking and two dozen new e-mails have arrived, but he’s too shaken to work. His shoulders and neck ache; he is suddenly exhausted. His stomach is still empty, but he’s lost his appetite. All he wants is to suck back a few stiff drinks, sleep for a month, and wake up in his old life.
The one with two wonderful children and a mostly happy wife. The one with a soft mattress in a big house. The one with suburban boredoms and quotidian worries. The one that had its ups and down, its crises and joys, its mild irritations and simple pleasures.
The one in which he felt moored to things bigger than himself. His family. This firm. Even this city.
His office phone rings and he answers it reflexively. “Peter Amendola.”
“Hey, Pete, it’s Wade. Are you okay?”
“Hey, Wade. I’m fine. Just tired. What’s up?”
“Nothing. Listen, I know things are not good for you right now.”
“That would be a mild understatement.”
“I know. I’m sorry about that.”
“Not your fault.”
“Anyway, I wondered whether we could get a drink sometime this week. I wanted to tell you something.”
A vision appears in Peter’s head: three olives impaled on a toothpick, leaning against the side of a glass full of clear, purifying liquid. He should go home and think this through. Correction: go to Alberto’s and think this through. He should get a good night’s rest. This is going to be a long, painful week and he should have his wits about him. The last thing he needs is a drink.
But the call of temporary numbness is too strong.
“What about right now?” he says.
“Now? Yeah, I could do that. I’m in midtown anyway. Just a few blocks from your office. Where should we meet?”
“Somewhere I won’t run into anyone I know.”
“Grand Central Oyster Bar?”
“Good enough. See you in twenty.”
Peter retrieves his suit jacket from behind his door, braces himself for the walk to the elevators. He says the words because they always make him feel better, even if it’s only a fraction.