The Associate

"This is too weird."

A lady in front of Joey turned around and offered a curious glance. They did not speak for the rest of the first inning.

"How about the report on Elaine?" Joey whispered.

"It worries me."

"So what’s next?"

"I think you should go see her."

"No way."

"It’s easy. Just bump into her and see what happens."

"Right! Drive to Scranton, a town I can’t recall seeing in the past ten years, somehow find her, recognize her, assume she’ll recognize me, then what? Have a friendly little chat about the last time we were together? Have a laugh for old times’ sake? Hell, Kyle, she accused me of rape."

"Shhhh," Kyle hissed softly. The word "rape" sort of hung in the thick air, but no one reacted to it.

"Sorry," Joey whispered, and they watched the game for a long time.

A ferocious argument erupted at first base after a close call, and all fifty thousand fans had an opinion. In the roar, Kyle said, "It would be an interesting meeting. To see how she reacts. Will she talk to you? Is she bitter, angry, full of vengeance? You take the high road and say that the encounter has always troubled you, that you want to talk about it. See if she’ll meet you for a drink and a serious conversation. You’re not going to admit anything, you just want to see how she feels. Maybe you want closure. What’s there to lose?"

"What if she recognizes me, pulls out a gun, and bam!?"

"I’ll take care of Blair." Kyle managed this with a grin, though the thought of spending any more time with Joey’s girl was not pleasant.

"Thanks. She’s pregnant, you know. Thanks for asking."

"Why is she pregnant?"

"Basic biology. But we’re both surprised."

"Congratulations, Daddy."

"Getting married is one thing, but I’m not so sure about this fatherhood business."

"I thought her career was at full throttle."

"Yep. Me too. She said she was on the pill, but I don’t know."

This was not a topic Kyle wanted to explore. The more they talked, the easier conversation became, and that was not wise. "I’m going to the restroom," Kyle said.

"Bring me a beer."

"No. I don’t know you, remember?"

"Come on, Kyle. You think someone here is watching you?"

"With binoculars. At least two of them. They followed me here, probably bought tickets from a scalper outside the gates, and now they’re watching."

"But why?"

"Basic surveillance, Joey. I’m a valuable asset, yet they don’t trust me. You should read some spy novels."

"That’s your problem. Too much fiction."

Kyle took his time between innings. He visited the men’s room, then bought a diet soda and peanuts. When he returned to his seat, he struck up a conversation with the kid on his right, a loyal Met fan who knew every player and all their stats. His father was in advertising, and Kyle managed to seem intrigued with that career. He cracked peanuts, scattered the hulls at his feet, and ignored Joey for a long time.

Joey, still half-blinded by the oversized Mets eyeglasses, suffered in silence. The Pirates were down four runs after four innings, and he was ready to leave. Kyle eventually re-shifted, and began studying the scoreboard in center field. "Any word from Baxter?" he said without moving his jaws.

"Nothing. I think they’ve locked him in a cave."

"I know the feeling. I’ve been in a dungeon all week."

"I don’t want to hear it. For the money they’re paying you, no complaints."

"Okay, okay. They know that he’s in rehab, and they probably know where he is," Kyle said as a long fly ball was caught on the warning track.

"They?"

"The goons. Their leader told me last week that he’s in rehab."

"How often do you meet with this guy?"

"Too often."

"Have you handed over any secrets?"

"Nope. I have not been compromised."

Joey sipped his beer, swallowed slowly, and with the cup in front of his mouth said, "If they know about Baxter, are they keeping tabs on me?"

"It’s possible. Play it safe. Vary your movements. Be careful with all correspondence."

"Oh, this is just great."

"My apartment is full of cameras and mikes. They come and go when they wish. I don’t have an alarm system, don’t want one, but I know when they’ve been there. Everything I do in my apartment is subject to being watched and recorded. But they don’t know that I know, so I give them nothing of consequence."

"So you’re outsmarting these professional intelligence agents?"

"I think so."

Another long pause in the conversation as the Pirates changed pitchers again.

"What’s the endgame, Kyle?"

"I don’t have one. I’m taking small, safe steps. Next, we make contact with the girl and see how bad things are there."

"Pretty bad, I’d guess."

"Let’s see."

Kyle reached for his vibrating pocket and yanked out the Firm-Fone. He scrolled down, found the message, and felt like cursing. "What is it?" Joey asked, trying not to look at the phone.

"It’s a partner. He’s got a project. Wants me at the office at seven in the morning."

"Tomorrow’s Saturday, Kyle."

"Just another day at the office."

"Are these guys crazy?"

"No, just greedy."

During the seventh-inning stretch, Kyle eased out of his seat and made his way to the gates. Joey stayed until the eighth, and finally he left as his beloved Pirates were losing their ninetieth game.

JEANS WERE ALLOWED on Saturdays and Sundays. The fact that there was a dress code for the weekend, however relaxed, said much about the practice of corporate law on Wall Street.

Why were they even there?

Kyle wore jeans, as did Dale, who looked spectacular in a pair of tight ones. Tim Reynolds wore starched khakis. All three were dazed at the reality of being in a small conference room on the thirty-fourth floor at 7:00 a.m. on the second Saturday of their fledgling careers. They joined four older associates, four young men Kyle had not had the pleasure of meeting or even seeing during his first two weeks on the job. Passing introductions were made, but only because they were expected.

The partner who had called the meeting was nowhere to be seen. His name was Tobias Roland, Toby behind his back, and of all the sizzling gossip Kyle had heard so far, the worst had been about Toby. Toby stories were abundant, and very few were even remotely flattering. Yale undergrad, Columbia Law, poor kid from a rough neighborhood with a gigantic chip on his shoulder. Brilliant, ruthless, conniving, he’d made partner in only five years, primarily because he worked harder than the rest of the workaholics and never relaxed. His idea of time off was a ten-minute tryst with a secretary on the sofa in his office. Most secretaries were terrified of him, too frightened to complain or file suit. Some, though, found him sexy enough for a quick romp. For fun he berated young associates, often cursing them in the foulest of language for the smallest of infractions. He intimidated the other partners because he was smarter and always better prepared. At the age of forty-four, he was the top-producing (billing) litigator in the firm and had not lost a jury trial in eight years. Toby was in demand by the in-house lawyers of many major corporations. A year earlier, Kyle had read and clipped an article in Fortune touting the greatness of Scully & Pershing’s "fanciest litigator."