Hello Kitty Must Die (12 page)

The article continued with a trite discussion about binge drinking being an occupational hazard of the law profession, how young associates turned to the bottle after toiling through ninety-hour billable weeks and enduring abusive senior partners, how law firms needed to reexamine the culture and environment in which they operated, how senior attorneys needed to set better examples.

None of which mattered to me.

I logged onto Beamer Hodgins’ web site and searched for David Keener, hoping that the IT department had not yet deleted his profile from the firm directory. Keener’s profile popped up, along with his firm photo.

The pixilated image smiled insipidly at me. I recognized the dark wool suit, the perfect wavy blond hair, and the Hugo Boss tie.

I did what anyone would do. I drafted a cover letter and updated my resume. I researched Beamer Hodgins and its corporate and securities department. And Keener’s senior partner. Jack Betner. Another Jack. Also white, also old, also with the I’m-such-an-asshole look.

Same shit, different toilet.

I emailed my cover letter and resume directly to Jack. Then I clicked onto the firm bios to learn about the other associates in the corporate and securities group. One girl looked almost exactly like Laurie. Face like a pie. Rimless glasses.

I typed Keener’s name into the search box again.

NO RESULTS MATCHING YOUR SEARCH CRITERIA
.

Half a day. Keener had been dead half a day. Beamer Hodgins LLP had deleted him in less than twenty-four hours. The IT guys had made good use of their lunch hour. Clean, cold, efficient. My kind of firm.

Sean was right.

Beamer Hodgins LLP had a job opening.

A
N EMPTY OFFICE IS BAD
for business. Law firms pay a lot of money to rent fancy digs to impress the clients. And when there isn’t an associate sitting in an office billing furiously, the firm loses money. Lots of it.

An empty office also makes other associates uncomfortable. It’s like a slight hiccup in the world of bi-weekly big paychecks, graded pay scales, set bonuses, unlimited Westlaw legal research, unlimited pens, paper clips, legal pads, Post-It notes, unlimited Alhambra drinking water.

David Keener’s death gave Beamer Hodgins LLP the hiccups.

Jack Betner knew that.

Jack needed to fill Keener’s office with a warm body. Any warm body with a J.D. from a decent school who was willing to put up with his crap and bill ninety hours a week in exchange for a six-figure salary.

A warm body like mine.

“So do you golf, Fiona?”

“No, Mr. Betner, I do not.”

“It’s Jack. And good. Means you’ll be here every weekend instead of out farting about on the golf course.”

No, I’ll be going on arranged dates orchestrated by my father instead.

But it was a trick question, typical in a law firm interview. No way to know what answer Jack wanted.

And it really didn’t matter.

Either way I answered the question, Jack already knew what he was going to say. It’s a hallmark of a great lawyer.

Oh good. I’m a big golfer myself too. What’s your handicap?

Or

Oh good. Means you’ll be here every weekend instead of out farting about on the golf course.

His call. He opted for the latter as he needed to put someone in Keener’s office.

“Okay, you’ll be talking with Steve next, Fiona.”

Round robin interviews. That’s how they do it in big firms. You get passed around from associates to partners to associates to anyone who’s free. People you’ll be working with in your department. People you’ll never see again in your life. Everyone will get a chance to drill you with silly questions and to decide whether you’ll be what they call a “good fit” for the firm.

“Good fit” should mean whether you are competent to do the work required for the position. Whether you are a good lawyer. A smart lawyer.

But it doesn’t.

“Good fit” means exactly that. Whether you’ll fit in with the established crowd. It’s like going back to high school all over again. You’re getting interviewed to join the Goths, the Geeks, the Posers, the Jocks, the In-Crowd.

Firms don’t like Outcasts. They are not a “good fit.”

“So what do you like to do, Fiona?” asked Hannah, a first-year associate.

“Salsa dancing, when I have time. And flying.”

“Flying? Oh my God, you’re so daring.”

Yes, flying. I zip around in a two-seater Cessna at an airspeed of one hundred twenty knots per hour five thousand feet above the ground and my father sends me off with “have a good time.” I guess the thought of me nosediving into the earth at terminal velocity in great balls of fire wasn’t as bad as some boy playing with my vagina. Go figure.

“That’s so cool. You sound fun. We like fun people here. We want someone fun,” continued Hannah.

Something exotic. Something expensive. Something fun. Something the firm can brag about.

Our lawyers are also pilots, skiers, dancers, sailors. We’re a well-rounded firm. Our associates do well enough to take flying lessons and go sailing on the weekend. Even though the associates will probably never do any of that together. Even though no one has time to do anything because they are billing one hundred hours a week. And end up dead tired. Or just dead.

What kind of hobbies do you have? Where do you live? Do you like the city? What high school did you go to? Do you like to drink? Do you like to dance? Do you golf? Do you work out?

No one asked whether I knew anything about purchase and sale agreements or venture financing. No one asked what happened at Toller Benning LLP. No one asked whether I had even passed the bar. No one asked how I knew they had a job opening in their department.

It didn’t matter.

They just wanted someone fun to cure their hiccups.

On Friday, Jack called me.

“Fiona, everyone liked you. Can you start on Monday?”

Yes, Jack.

Of course I can, Jack.

Anything you say, Jack.

I CALLED SEAN, BUT
he was in the operating room, repairing a hymen. Making his living. Salvaging a woman’s ruptured honor. Doing God’s work. And most importantly, putting food in the mouth of his porcupine puffer.

So I left him a message.

“Sean, name a restaurant. Dinner’s on me.”

“Who are you taking to dinner?” asked my father. My parents always listened in on my phone conversations. One of the disadvantages of living at home, made up for by the delicious home-cooking.

“Oh, I got a job at another firm, Dad. I’m going out to celebrate with an old friend.”

“A man?”

“Yes, but he’s just a friend. From law school.”

“Oh, what is he?”

“He’s white.”

“Is he your boyfriend?”

“No, Dad. Just a friend.”

“You should eat something before you go to dinner.”

“But I’m going out to dinner.”

“You don’t know that yet. Eat something.”

So I ate some oatmeal and fruit. And lucky I did. When Sean called me back later that evening, it was way past dinner time.

“I take it you got the job then.”

“I did. They called me earlier. I’m starting on Monday.”

“Awesome, Fi. Buy yourself some new shoes.”

“Well, before that, I want to buy you dinner. But it’s kind of past dinner time.”

“Nah, it’s okay. I already ate. Let’s go do something else to celebrate.”

“Like what? I do have a date tomorrow.”

“Hm. Okay. Do you know where South Beach Harbor is, Fi?”

“Sure, it’s next to ATT Park. Where all the little sailboats are. Why?”

“Meet me at Gate E at noon on Sunday. Bring food and drinks.”

“Ooh, are we going sailing?”

“You ask too many questions, Fi. Just bring food and drinks. Preferably finger foods. See you then. And have fun on your date tomorrow.”

Another eating date. At least it wasn’t karaoke.

On Saturday afternoon, I had dim sum with Don, son of a chef. And the chef himself. And his mother, his grandmother, his aunt, his little sister. And my parents.

Everyone wanted to check out the potential new member of the family. To make sure that he and I were both were Chinese. And ensure that there would be no premature hymen destruction.

No need for pepper spray, knives, or roofies.

Don was fat. Porky fat with a badly-groomed goatee and pimples. Five foot ten. Thirty years old. Home done crew cut, probably by his mother. Short-sleeved plaid shirt and jeans. Dirty sneakers. He had not troubled to make himself look nice for the big occasion.

Maybe he wanted me to like him for him. Laurie’s game plan.

“So what do you like to do, Don?” I asked, trying to make some polite conversation.

Don helped himself to shrimp dumplings, avoiding all eye contact.

“Dunno. Not much. I work on my car a lot.”

“You race?”

“No, I just like to work on my car. Soup it up. Looks hella good, you know.”

“I’m sure it does. What else do you do?”

“Not much. Hang out at people’s houses. Not much else to do in San Bruno.”

“So why don’t you come up to the City?”

“Nah. Nothing to do here in the City.”

“But there’s a lot more than what you have in San Bruno.”

“Doesn’t matter. All my friends are married. No one to do stuff with.”

“So come up to the city and make new friends, man.”

“Nah, but sometimes I like to go crabbing with my friends.”

“Crabbing?”

“Yeah, catching crabs.”

Okay.

I stuffed myself with some spring rolls to fill the awkward silence. No one else said anything. They were watching us converse, get to know each other, make first impressions, sniff each other’s asses, paw the ground, circle around. Like zoo animals in a cage.

Don scratched the corner of his nose with his pinky, a pinky with a long, pointed fingernail. I shuddered.

Chinese boys and long fingernails. What Americans call the coke fingernail.

But it has nothing to do with drugs, and everything to do with an ancient Chinese superstition. If your pinky finger doesn’t reach the farthest joint line of your fourth finger, you are destined to be poor. For life.

So Chinese folks let their pinky nails grow out. Long and pointy to ensure wealth and prosperity.

Five thousand years of Chinese wisdom and logic came up with that idea. The same logic that made using deodorant and shaving your legs and armpits taboo. Which was why my mother always hid my Degree for Women and my Gilette Satin Care shaving gel. My unmentionables.

“Mom, where did you put my deodorant? Where’s my razor?”

“Not so loud, Fiona,” she whispered.

“Where’s my stuff, Mom?” I said louder.

“Underneath the bathroom sink. I hid them away for you.”

“Why?”

“Shame.”

“What?”

“Shame. If people see them, they’ll think you smell and have hair, down there. I don’t know why you use those things.”

Because if I didn’t, I would smell and have hair, down there and everywhere else.

“Mom, it’s just shaving cream.”

“For people who have hair.”

Christ. Asian logic. Chinese mental gymnastics. Two somersaults and an Arabian flip and you’re not even close to there, wherever there is.

Only people who have body odor use deodorant. So if you don’t use deodorant, you don’t have body odor.

Only people who have hair shave. So if you don’t shave, you don’t have hair. Leg hair, armpit hair, pubic hair. Shameful allusion to pubic hair.

Shame.

“So what do you like to do?” asked Don’s father.

“Oh, lots of things. I started flying lessons last year. I like to drive around the city too. Clears my head.”

“But those are boy things.”

Boy things. Not Hello Kitty things.

“She’s tuned out,” said Don, like I wasn’t sitting there.

“Tuned out?” I asked.

“Yeah, to life.”

Yeah, because I wasn’t spending my weekends tinkering with my car and hanging out at people’s houses, playing Super Mario Brothers.

“Dad, do these have nuts in them?” asked Don, who had torn a pork and spinach dumpling apart. He poked at a piece of pork with his chopsticks, turning it over to search for hidden nuts.