Three Classic Thrillers (4 page)

They walked past the lengthy conference table and between dozens of rows of books. “A hundred thousand volumes,” Mitch mumbled.

“Yeah, we spend almost half a million a year on upkeep, supplements and new books. The partners are always griping about it, but they wouldn’t think of cutting back. It’s one of the largest private law libraries in the country, and we’re proud of it.”

“It’s pretty impressive.”

“We try to make research as painless as possible. You know what a bore it is and how much time can be wasted looking for the right materials. You’ll spend a lot of time here the first two years, so we try to make it pleasant.”

Behind a cluttered workbench in a rear corner, one of the librarians introduced himself and gave a brief tour of the computer room, where a dozen terminals stood ready to assist with the latest computerized research. He offered to demonstrate the latest, truly incredible software, but Lamar said they might stop by later.

“He’s a nice guy,” Lamar said as they left the
library. “We pay him forty thousand a year just to keep up with the books. It’s amazing.”

Truly amazing, thought Mitch.

The second floor was virtually identical to the first, third and fourth. The center of each floor was filled with secretaries, their desks, file cabinets, copiers and the other necessary machines. On one side of the open area was the library, and on the other was a configuration of smaller conference rooms and offices.

“You won’t see any pretty secretaries,” Lamar said softly as they watched them work. “It seems to be an unwritten firm rule. Oliver Lambert goes out of his way to hire the oldest and homeliest ones he can find. Of course, some have been here for twenty years and have forgotten more law than we learned in law school.”

“They seem kind of plump,” Mitch observed, almost to himself.

“Yeah, it’s part of the overall strategy to encourage us to keep our hands in our pockets. Philandering is strictly forbidden, and to my knowledge has never happened.”

“And if it does?”

“Who knows. The secretary would be fired, of course. And I suppose the lawyer would be severely punished. It might cost a partnership. No one wants to find out, especially with this bunch of cows.”

“They dress nice.”

“Don’t get me wrong. We hire only the best legal secretaries and we pay more than any other firm in town. You’re looking at the best, not necessarily the prettiest. We require experience and maturity. Lambert won’t hire anyone under thirty.”

“One per lawyer?”

“Yes, until you’re a partner. Then you’ll get another, and by then you’ll need one. Nathan Locke has three, all with twenty years’ experience, and he keeps them jumping.”

“Where’s his office?”

“Fourth floor. It’s off-limits.”

Mitch started to ask, but didn’t.

The corner offices were twenty-five by twenty-five, Lamar explained, and occupied by the most senior partners. Power offices, he called them, with great expectation. They were decorated to each individual’s taste with no expense spared and vacated only at retirement or death, then fought over by the younger partners.

Lamar flipped a switch in one and they stepped inside, closing the door behind them. “Nice view, huh,” he said as Mitch walked to the windows and looked at the river moving ever so slowly beyond Riverside Drive.

“How do you get this office?” Mitch asked as he admired a barge inching under the bridge leading to Arkansas.

“Takes time, and when you get here you’ll be very wealthy, and very busy, and you won’t have time to enjoy the view.”

“Whose is it?”

“Victor Milligan. He’s head of tax, and a very nice man. Originally from New England, he’s been here for twenty-five years and calls Memphis home.” Lamar stuck his hands in his pockets and walked around the room. “The hardwood floors and ceilings came with the building, over a hundred years ago. Most of the building is carpeted, but in a few spots the wood was not damaged. You’ll have the option of rugs and carpet when you get here.”

“I like the wood. What about that rug?”

“Some kind of antique Persian. I don’t know its history. The desk was used by his great-grandfather, who was a judge of some sort in Rhode Island, or so he says. He’s full of crap, and you never know when he’s blowing smoke.”

“Where is he?”

“Vacation, I think. Did they tell you about vacations?”

“No.”

“You get two weeks a year for the first five years. Paid, of course. Then three weeks until you become a partner, then you take whatever you want. The firm has a chalet in Vail, a cabin on a lake in Manitoba and two condos on Seven Mile Beach on Grand Cayman Island. They’re free, but you need to book early. Partners get priority. After that it’s first come. The Caymans are extremely popular in the firm. It’s an international tax haven and a lot of our trips are written off. I think Milligan’s there now, probably scuba diving and calling it business.”

Through one of his tax courses, Mitch had heard of the Cayman Islands and knew they were somewhere in the Caribbean. He started to ask exactly where, but decided to check it himself.

“Only two weeks?” he asked.

“Uh, yeah. Is that a problem?”

“No, not really. The firms in New York are offering at least three.” He spoke like a discriminating critic of expensive vacations. He wasn’t. Except for the three-day weekend they referred to as a honeymoon, and an occasional drive through New England, he had never participated in a vacation and had never left the country.

“You can get an additional week, unpaid.”

Mitch nodded as though this was acceptable. They left Milligan’s office and continued the tour. The hallway ran in a long rectangle with the attorneys’ offices to the outside, all with windows, sunlight, views. Those with views of the river were more prestigious, Lamar explained, and usually occupied by partners. There were waiting lists.

The conference rooms, libraries and secretarial desks were on the inside of the hallway, away from the windows and distractions.

The associates’ offices were smaller—fifteen by fifteen—but richly decorated and much more imposing than any associates’ offices he had seen in New York or Chicago. The firm spent a small fortune on design consultants, Lamar said. Money, it seemed, grew on trees. The younger lawyers were friendly and talkative and seemed to welcome the interruption. Most gave brief testimonials to the greatness of the firm and of Memphis. The old town kind of grows on you, they kept telling him, but it takes time. They, too, had been recruited by the big boys in Washington and on Wall Street, and they had no regrets.

The partners were busier, but just as nice. He had been carefully selected, he was told again and again, and he would fit in. It was his kind of firm. They promised to talk more during lunch.

An hour earlier, Kay Quin had left the kids with the baby nurse and the maid and met Abby for brunch at the Peabody. She was a small-town girl, much like Abby. She had married Lamar after college and lived in Nashville for three years while he studied law at Vanderbilt. Lamar made so much money she quit
work and had two babies in fourteen months. Now that she had retired and finished her childbearing, she spent most of her time with the garden club and the heart fund and the country club and the PTA and the church. Despite the money and the affluence, she was modest and unpretentious, and apparently determined to stay that way regardless of her husband’s success. Abby found a friend.

After croissants and eggs Benedict, they sat in the lobby of the hotel, drinking coffee and watching the ducks swim in circles around the fountain. Kay had suggested a quick tour of Memphis with a late lunch near her home. Maybe some shopping.

“Have they mentioned the low-interest loan?” she asked.

“Yes, at the first interview.”

“They’ll want you to buy a house when you move here. Most people can’t afford a house when they leave law school, so the firm loans you the money at a lower rate and holds the mortgage.”

“How low?”

“I don’t know. It’s been seven years since we moved here, and we’ve bought another house since then. It’ll be a bargain, believe me. The firm will see to it that you own a home. It’s sort of an unwritten rule.”

“Why is it so important?”

“Several reasons. First of all, they want you down here. This firm is very selective, and they usually get who they want. But Memphis is not exactly in the spotlight, so they have to offer more. Also, the firm is very demanding, especially on the associates. There’s pressure, overwork, eighty-hour weeks and time away from home. It won’t be easy on either of you, and the firm knows it. The theory is that a strong marriage
means a happy lawyer, and a happy lawyer is a productive lawyer, so the bottom line is profits. Always profits.

“And there’s another reason. These guys—all guys, no women—take a lot of pride in their wealth, and everyone is expected to look and act affluent. It would be an insult to the firm if an associate was forced to live in an apartment. They want you in a house, and after five years, in a bigger house. If we have some time this afternoon, I’ll show you some of the partners’ homes. When you see them, you won’t mind the eighty-hour weeks.”

“I’m used to them now.”

“That’s good, but law school doesn’t compare with this. Sometimes they’ll work a hundred hours a week during tax season.”

Abby smiled and shook her head as if this impressed her a great deal. “Do you work?”

“No. Most of us don’t work. The money is there, so we’re not forced to, and we get little help with the kids from our husbands. Of course, working is not forbidden.”

“Forbidden by whom?”

“The firm.”

“I would hope not.” Abby repeated the word “forbidden” to herself, but let it pass.

Kay sipped her coffee and watched the ducks. A small boy wandered away from his mother and stood near the fountain. “Do you plan to start a family?” Kay asked.

“Maybe in a couple of years.”

“Babies are encouraged.”

“By whom?”

“The firm.”

“Why should the firm care if we have children?”

“Again, stable families. A new baby is a big deal around the office. They send flowers and gifts to the hospital. You’re treated like a queen. Your husband gets a week off, but he’ll be too busy to take it. They put a thousand dollars in a trust fund for college. It’s a lot of fun.”

“Sounds like a big fraternity.”

“It’s more like a big family. Our social life revolves around the firm, and that’s important because none of us are from Memphis. We’re all transplants.”

“That’s nice, but I don’t want anyone telling me when to work and when to quit and when to have children.”

“Don’t worry. They’re very protective of each other, but the firm does not meddle.”

“I’m beginning to wonder.”

“Relax, Abby. The firm is like a family. They’re great people, and Memphis is a wonderful old town to live in and raise kids. The cost of living is much lower and life moves at a slower pace. You’re probably considering the bigger towns. So did we, but I’ll take Memphis any day over the big cities.”

“Do I get the grand tour?”

“That’s why I’m here. I thought we’d start downtown, then head out east and look at the nicer neighborhoods, maybe look at some houses and eat lunch at my favorite restaurant.”

“Sounds like fun.”

Kay paid for the coffee, as she had the brunch, and they left the Peabody in the Quin family’s new Mercedes.

The dining room, as it was simply called, covered the west end of the fifth floor above Riverside Drive and
high above the river in the distance. A row of eight-foot windows lined the wall and provided a fascinating view of the tugboats, paddle-wheelers, barges, docks and bridges.

The room was protected turf, a sanctuary for those lawyers talented and ambitious enough to be called partners in the quiet Bendini firm. They gathered each day for lunches prepared by Jessie Frances, a huge, temperamental old black woman, and served by her husband, Roosevelt, who wore white gloves and an odd-fitting, faded, wrinkled hand-me-down tux given to him by Mr. Bendini himself shortly before his death. They also gathered for coffee and doughnuts some mornings to discuss firm business and, occasionally, for a glass of wine in the late afternoon to celebrate a good month or an exceptionally large fee. It was for partners only, and maybe an occasional guest such as a blue-chip client or prospective recruit. The associates could dine there twice a year, only twice—and records were kept—and then only at the invitation of a partner.

Adjacent to the dining room was a small kitchen where Jessie Frances performed, and where she had cooked the first meal for Mr. Bendini and a few others twenty-six years earlier. For twenty-six years she had cooked Southern food and ignored requests to experiment and try dishes she had trouble pronouncing. “Don’t eat it if you don’t like it,” was her standard reply. Judging from the scraps Roosevelt collected from the tables, the food was eaten and enjoyed immensely. She posted the week’s menu on Monday, asked that reservations be made by ten each day and held grudges for years if someone canceled or didn’t show. She and Roosevelt worked four hours each day and were paid a thousand each month.

Mitch sat at a table with Lamar Quin, Oliver Lambert and Royce McKnight. The entrée was prime rib, served with fried okra and boiled squash.

“She laid off the grease today,” Mr. Lambert observed.

“It’s delicious,” Mitch said.

“Is your system accustomed to grease?”

“Yes. They cook this way in Kentucky.”

“I joined this firm in 1955,” Mr. McKnight said, “and I come from New Jersey, right? Out of suspicion, I avoided most Southern dishes as much as possible. Everything is battered and fried in animal fat, right? Then Mr. Bendini decides to open up this little café. He hires Jessie Frances, and I’ve had heartburn for the past twenty years. Fried ripe tomatoes, fried green tomatoes, fried eggplant, fried okra, fried squash, fried anything and everything. One day Victor Milligan said too much. He’s from Connecticut, right? And Jessie Frances had whipped up a batch of fried dill pickles. Can you imagine? Fried dill pickles! Milligan said something ugly to Roosevelt and he reported it to Jessie Frances. She walked out the back door and quit. Stayed gone for a week. Roosevelt wanted to work, but she kept him at home. Finally, Mr. Bendini smoothed things over and she agreed to return if there were no complaints. But she also cut back on the grease. I think we’ll all live ten years longer.”