The Associate (10 page)

“So how's school?” John asked.

“Downhill. I graduate in three months.”

“That's hard to believe.”

Kyle swallowed hard and decided to get it over with. “I've changed my mind about employment. I'm going to Wall Street. Scully & Pershing.”

John slowly lit another cigarette. He was sixty-two, thick but not fat, with a head full of wavy gray hair that began no more than three inches above his eyebrows. Kyle, at twenty-five, had lost more hair than his father.

John took a long drag from his Winston and studied his son from behind wire-rimmed reading glasses perched on his nose. “Any particular reason?”

The list of reasons had been memorized, but Kyle knew they would sound flat regardless of how smoothly they were delivered. “The legal services gig is a waste of time. I'll end up on Wall Street eventually, so why not get the career started?”

“I don't believe this.”

“I know, I know. It's an about-face.”

“It's a sellout. There's nothing that requires you to pursue a career in a corporate firm.”

“It's the big leagues, Dad.”

“In terms of what? Money?”

“That's a start.”

“No way. There are trial lawyers who make ten times more each year than the biggest partners in New York.”

“Yes, and for every big trial lawyer there are five thousand starving sole practitioners. On the average, the money is much better in a big firm.”

“You'll hate every minute of a big firm.”

“Maybe not.”

“Of course you will. You grew up here, around people and real clients. You won't see a client for ten years in New York.”

“It's a nice firm, Dad. One of the best.”

John yanked a pen from his pocket. “Let me write this down, so a year from now I can read it back to you.”

“Go ahead. I said, ”It's a nice firm. One of the best.“ ”

John took notes and said, “You're gonna hate this firm and its lawyers and cases, and you'll probably even hate the secretaries and the other rookie associates. You're gonna hate the grind, the routine, the sheer drudgery of all the mindless crap they dump on you. Response?”

“I disagree.”

“Great,” John said, still writing. Then he pulled on the cigarette and blew out an impressive cloud of smoke. He put down the pen. “I thought you wanted to try something different and help people in the process. Did I not hear these words from you just a few weeks ago?”

“I've changed my mind.”

“Well, change it back. It's not too late.”

“No.”

“But why? There must be a reason.”

“I just don't want to spend three years in rural Virginia trying to learn enough Spanish so I can listen to the problems of people who are here illegally in the first place.”

“I'm sorry, but that sounds like a great way to spend the next three years. I don't buy it. Give me another reason.” With that, John shoved his leather swivel chair back and jumped to his feet. Kyle had seen this a million times. His father preferred to pace and toss his hands about when he was agitated and firing questions. It was an old habit from the courtroom, and it was not unexpected.

“I'd like to make some money.”

“For what? To buy things, some new toys? You won't have the time to play with them.”

“I plan to save--”

“Of course you will. Living in Manhattan is so cheap you'll save a fortune.” He was walking in front of his Ego Wall, framed certificates and photos almost to the ceiling. “I don't buy it, and I don't like it.” His cheeks were turning colors. The Scottish temper was warming up.

Speak softly, Kyle reminded himself. A sharp word or two would make things much worse. He would survive this little clash, as he had survived the others, and one day soon all the harsh words would be over and Kyle would be off to New York.

“It's all about the money, isn't it, Kyle?” John said. “You were raised better.”

“I'm not here to be insulted, Dad. I've made my decision. I ask you to respect it. A lot of fathers would be thrilled with such a job.”

John McAvoy stopped pacing and stopped smoking, and he looked across his office at the handsome face of his only son, a twenty-five-year-old who was quite mature and unbelievably bright, and he decided to back off. The decision was made. He'd said enough.

Any more and he might say too much. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. It's all you. You're smart enough to know what you want, but I'm your father and I'll have some opinions about your next big decision, and the next. That's what I'm here for. If you screw up again, I'll damned sure let you know it.”

“I'm not screwing up, Dad.”

“I will not bicker.”

“Can we go to dinner? I'm starving.”

“I need a drink.”

THEY RODE TOGETHER to Victor's Italian Restaurant, John's Friday night ritual for as long as Kyle could remember. John had his usual end-of-the-week martini. Kyle had his standard drink--club soda with a twist of lime. They ordered pasta with meatballs, and after the second martini John began to mellow. Having his son at the largest and most prestigious law firm in the country did have a nice ring to it.

But he was still puzzled by the abrupt change in plans.

If you only knew, Kyle kept saying to himself. And he ached because he couldn't tell his father the truth.

The Associate

Chapter 9

Kyle was relieved when his mother did not answer the phone. He waited until almost eleven on Saturday morning before calling. He left a pleasant little message about popping in for a quick hello as he was passing through York for some vague reason. She was either asleep or medicated, or if it was a good day, she was in her studio thoroughly absorbed in creating some of the most dreadful art never seen in a gallery or an exhibition. Visits with his mother were painful. She rarely left her loft, for any reason, so the suggestion that they meet for coffee or lunch was always dismissed. If the meds were in sync, she talked incessantly while forcing Kyle to admire her latest masterpieces. If the meds were out of order, she would lie on the sofa with her eyes closed, unbathed, unkempt, often inconsolable in her gloom and misery. She seldom asked about his life--college, law school, girlfriends, plans for the future. She was much too absorbed in her own sad little world. Kyle's twin sisters stayed far away from York.

He left the message on her recorder as he was hustling out of town and hoped she didn't return the call anytime soon. She did not;

in fact, the call was never returned, which was not unusual. Four hours later he was in Pittsburgh. Joey Bernardo had tickets for the Penguins-Senators hockey game Saturday night. Three tickets, not two.

They met at Boomerang's, a favorite watering hole from their college days. After Kyle quit drinking (Joey did not), he avoided most bars. Driving to Pittsburgh, he had hoped for some quiet time with his old roommate, but it wasn't to be.

The third ticket was for Blair, Joey's soon-to-be-announced fiancee. By the time the three of them settled into a tight booth and ordered drinks, Joey was gushing with the news that they had just become engaged and were looking at wedding dates. Both were glowing with love and romance and seemed oblivious to everything else. They held hands, sat close, even giggled at each other, and after five minutes Kyle felt uncomfortable. What had happened to his friend? Where was the old Joey--the tough kid from South Pittsburgh, son of a fire captain, accomplished boxer, all-conference high school fullback, tremendous appetite for girls, a cynical, smart-ass wisecracker who believed women were disposable, the guy who'd vowed he wouldn't marry until he was at least forty?

Blair had turned him to mush. Kyle was astonished at the transformation.

They eventually tired of their wedding plans and potential honeymoon destinations, and the talk turned to careers. Blair, a chatterbox who began every sentence with either “I” or “me” or “my,” worked for an advertising agency and spent far too much time detailing some of their latest marketing maneuvers. Joey hung on every word while Kyle began glancing at the clock behind them, high above a row of windows. As she prattled on, Kyle worked hard at maintaining enough eye contact to feign interest, but his mind drifted to the video.

“Is she awake?” Joey asks as Baxter has sex with a dangerously intoxicated Elaine Keenan.

“Blair travels to Montreal quite often,” Joey said, then Blair ricocheted onto the subject of Montreal and its beauty. She was learning French!

Is she awake? Joey, sitting there with his hand under the table no doubt rubbing some flesh, had no earthly idea that such a video existed. When was the last time Joey even thought about the incident? Ever? Had he forgotten it completely? And what good would it do for Kyle to bring it up now?

After the Pittsburgh police quietly closed the file on Elaine and her rape, the brothers of Beta buried it, too. During his last two years of college, Kyle could not remember a single instance when the episode was discussed. Elaine disappeared and was quickly forgotten.

If Bennie Wright and his operatives had been snooping around Duquesne and Pittsburgh in recent weeks, Kyle wanted to know about it. Perhaps Joey might have seen or heard something. Perhaps not. Joey wasn't noticing much these days except for Blair.

“Have you talked to Baxter?” Joey asked when Blair finally stopped for air.

“Not in a month or so.”

Joey was grinning as if a joke was on the way. “He finally got in a movie, you know.”

“No kidding. He didn't tell me.”

Blair giggled like a first grader because she undoubtedly knew the rest of the story.

“That's because he doesn't want you to know,” Joey went on.

“Must be a great movie.”

“Yep, he got drunk one night--and by the way, the drinking is now in no-man's-land--so he called and told me he'd made his debut. It was a cheap cable flick about a young girl who finds a human leg washed up on a beach, and for the rest of the movie she has nightmares about being chased by a one-legged killer.”

“Where does the great Baxter Tate fit in?”

“Well, you have to watch real close or you'll miss him. There's a scene on a boat where the cops are gazing at the ocean, presumably looking for the rest of the body, though this is never clear. The movie has a lot of uncertainties. One of the deputies walks over to the sheriff and says, ”Sir, we're low on fuel.“ That's our movie star.”

“Baxter is a deputy?”

“And a bad one. He has only that one line and delivers it like a frightened sophomore in the school play.”

“Was he sober?”

“Who knows, but I would say yes. If he'd been drunk, as usual, he would've nailed the line.”

“I can't wait to see it.”

“Don't, and don't tell him I mentioned it. He called the next morning, begging me not to watch it and threatening me if I told anyone. He's a mess.”

And that reminded Blair of one of her friends who knew someone “out there” who landed a role in a new sitcom, and away she went. Kyle smiled and nodded as his brain switched compartments. Of the three roommates, Joey was the only one who could possibly help, if indeed help was possible. Baxter Tate was in dire need of intensive rehab. Alan Strock was thoroughly consumed with medical school at Ohio State and, of the four, was clearly the least likely to get involved.

For Joey, the stakes were high. He was on the tape, wondering aloud if Elaine was awake and conscious while Baxter did the deed, then Joey himself took a turn. He was currently handling accounts at a regional brokerage firm in Pittsburgh and had two promotions under his belt. He was goofy in love with Air Blair here, and any hint of an old rape charge would upset their perfect lives.

On the one hand, Kyle felt as though he was taking the fall for Joey. He hadn't touched Elaine that night, yet it was his life and career

now getting hijacked by Bennie Wright and his dirty little video. Shouldn't Joey at least know about it?

And on the other hand, Kyle couldn't convince himself that he should drop the bomb on Joey at this point. If he, Kyle, took the Scully & Pershing job and met the demands of Bennie Wright, and didn't get caught, there was a decent chance the video would eventually be forgotten.

Hours later, during a break in the game, with Blair off in the ladies' room, Kyle suggested they meet Sunday for breakfast. He needed to leave town early, he said, and might it be possible to get together without Blair for an hour or so? Let her sleep in, maybe?

They met for bagels at a shop owned by a chain, a place that had not existed when Kyle was at Duquesne. Blair was still asleep somewhere, and Joey admitted to needing a break. “Sweet girl,” Kyle said more than once, and each time felt guilty for lying. He could not imagine a life with such a windbag. She had great legs, though, the type Joey had always coveted.

They talked about New York for a long time--life in a big firm, the grind of the city, the sports teams, other friends who were there, and so on. Kyle eventually brought the conversation around to the old Beta gang, and they played catch-up for a while. They laughed at pranks and hazing and parties and stupid stunts pulled by themselves and others. They were twenty-five now, far removed from the craziness of their early college days, and the nostalgia was fun for a few minutes. Several times, the “Elaine thing” was at the surface, waiting for a comment or a question, but Joey did not mention it. It was forgotten.

When they said goodbye, Kyle was convinced Joey had buried the episode forever, and, more important, no one had brought it to his attention recently.

He drove north to Interstate 80, then headed east. New York

was not far away, neither in time nor in distance. A few more weeks in the cozy world of academia, then two months prepping for the bar exam, and in early September he would report for duty at the largest law firm in the world. There would be a hundred associates in his class, all bright kids from the finest schools, all polished and decked out in their newest clothes, all anxious to jump-start their brilliant legal careers.

Kyle felt lonelier each day.

BUT HE WASN'T exactly isolated, not even close. His movements to, in, and around York and Pittsburgh were closely monitored by Bennie Wright and his gang. A small magnetic transmitter, the size of a man's wallet, was tucked away under some mud and dirt in the rear bumper of Kyle's red Cherokee. It was hot-wired from the left taillight and emitted a constant GPS signal that kept track of the vehicle anywhere it went. From his office in lower Manhattan, Bennie knew precisely where the Jeep was located. He was not surprised by Kyle's visit home, but the trip to see Joey Bernardo was far more interesting.

Bennie had no shortage of gadgets--some high-tech, some low-tech, and all very effective because he tracked simple civilians and not real spies. Corporate espionage was far easier than that of the military or national security variety.

Kyle's cell phone had long since been compromised, and they listened to every conversation. The kid had yet to mention his predicament to anyone on the phone. They were also listening to Olivia's chatter, as well as that of Mitch, his roommate. So far, nothing.

They were reading Kyle's e-mails. He averaged twenty-seven a day, and almost all were law school related.

Other efforts to listen were far more difficult. An agent had eaten at Victor's in York, at a table twenty feet from Kyle and his father, but heard almost nothing. Another had managed to land a seat

two rows away at the Penguins game, but it was a wasted effort. At Boomerang's, though, one of Bennie's stars, a twenty-six-year-old blonde in tight jeans, managed to secure the booth next to Kyle, Joey, and Blair. She sipped one beer for two hours, read a paperback, and reported that the girl talked nonstop, and about nothing.

Bennie was generally pleased with the progress. Kyle had abruptly declined the legal services job in Virginia. He had hustled over to New York and cleared things with Scully & Pershing. He was seeing less of Olivia, and it was obvious, at least to Bennie, that the relationship was going nowhere.

But the sudden trip to Pittsburgh was bothersome. Had he planned to confide in Joey? Had he in fact done so? Was Alan Strock next? Would Kyle attempt to contact him and/or Baxter Tate?

Bennie was listening in all the right places, and waiting. He had leased two thousand square feet of office space in a building across Broad Street and two blocks down from Scully & Pershing. The tenant's name was Fancher Group, a financial services start-up domiciled in Bermuda. Its registered agent in New York was Aaron Kurtz, also known as Bennie Wright, also known as a dozen other men, with perfect identification to prove any alias he chose. From his new perch, Bennie could glance out his window and gaze down Broad Street, and in a few short months he'd be able to actually see their boy Kyle enter and leave his place of employment.