The Associate

DALE ARMSTRONG arrived promptly at seven, her usual time, and though she looked a bit sleepy, she was put together as always. Evidently, the bulk of her fat salary was being spent on designer clothing, and Kyle, along with Tim and Tabor, looked forward to the daily fashion statement.

"You look great today," Kyle said with a smile.

"Thank you."

"Prada?"

"Dolce & Gabbana."

"Killer shoes. Blahniks?"

"Jimmy Choo."

"Five hundred bucks?"

"Don’t ask."

Admiring her each day, Kyle was quickly learning the names of the high priests of female clothing. It was one of the few topics she cared to discuss. After six weeks of shared space in the cube, he still knew very little about her. When she talked, which was not very often, it was always about law firm business and the miserable life of a first-year associate. If there was a boyfriend, he had yet to be mentioned. She had dropped her guard twice and agreed to drinks after work, but she usually declined. And while every rookie was openly grousing about the hours and the pressure, Dale Armstrong seemed to be feeling the strain more than most.

"What are you doing for lunch?" Kyle asked.

"I haven’t had breakfast yet," she replied coolly and withdrew into her little section of the cube.

Chapter 22

The lights in the shelter came on each morning at six, and most of the homeless awoke and began making preparations for another day. The rules did not allow them to stay past eight o’clock. Many had jobs, but those who didn’t were expected to be on the streets looking for employment. Brother Manny and his staff were very successful in placing their "friends," even if the work was often part-time and minimum wage.

Breakfast was served upstairs in the fellowship hall, where volunteers manned the small kitchen and prepared eggs, toast, oatmeal, and cereal. And it was served with a smile, a warm "Good morning" for everyone, and a quick prayer of thanks once they were all seated. Brother Manny, a notorious late sleeper, preferred to delegate the early-morning duties at his compound. For the past month, the kitchen had been organized and supervised by Baxter Tate, a smiling young man who’d never boiled water in his previous life. Baxter scrambled eggs by the dozen, toasted loaves of white bread, prepared the oatmeal  –  real, not instant  –  and also restocked the supplies, washed the dishes, and he, Baxter Tate, often said the prayer. He encouraged the other volunteers, had a kind word for everyone, and knew the names of most of the homeless he graciously served. After they had eaten, he loaded them into three old church vans, drove one himself, and delivered them to their various jobs around Reno. He picked them up late in the afternoon.

Alcoholics Anonymous met three times each week at Hope Village  –  Monday and Thursday nights and at noon on Wednesday. Baxter never missed a meeting. He was warmly received by his fellow addicts, and quietly marveled at the groups’ compositions. All races, ages, male and female, professionals and homeless, rich and poor. Alcoholism cut a wide, jagged path through every class, every segment. There were old, confident drunks who boasted of being sober for decades, and new ones like himself who freely admitted that they were still afraid. They were comforted, though, by the veterans. Baxter had made a mess of his life, but his history was a cakewalk compared to that of some of the others. Their stories were compelling, often shocking, especially those of the ex-convicts.

During his third AA meeting, with Brother Manny watching from the rear, he walked to the front of the group, cleared his throat, and said, "My name is Baxter Tate, and I’m an alcoholic from Pittsburgh." After he uttered those words, he wiped tears from his cheeks and listened to the applause.

Following the Twelve Steps to recovery, he made a list of all the people he had harmed and then made plans to make amends. It wasn’t a long list and was heavily focused on his family. He did not, however, look forward to a return to Pittsburgh. He’d talked to Uncle Wally. The family knew he was still sober, and that was all that mattered.

After a month, he began to grow restless. He did not relish the thought of leaving the safety of Hope Village, but he knew the time was coming. Brother Manny encouraged him to make his plans. He was too young and smart and gifted to spend his life in a homeless shelter.

"God has big plans for you," Brother Manny said. "Just trust him and they will be revealed."

WHEN IT LOOKED as if they might escape at a decent hour on Friday night, Tim Reynolds and others quickly organized a drinking party and hurried out of the building. Saturday was to be a rare day off. No member of the litigation group at Scully & Pershing could be seen at work on Saturday because it was the annual family picnic in Central Park. Thus, Friday night was cleared for serious drinking.

Kyle declined, as did Dale. Around 7:00 p.m., as they were both wrapping up the last details of an endless week, and with no one else around, she leaned around the canvas partition that separated their tight cubicles and said, "What about dinner?"

"Great idea," Kyle said without hesitation. "Any place in particular?"

"My place. We can relax and talk and do whatever. You like Chinese?"

"Love it." The word "whatever" was bouncing around his addled brain. Dale was thirty, single, attractive, apparently straight, a pretty lady alone in the big city. At some point, she had to think about sex, though Kyle was depressed at how little he thought about it.

Was she picking him up? It was a startling idea. Dale was so shy and reserved it was hard to believe she would put the move on anyone.

"Why don’t you pick up some Chinese and bring it over?" she said.

"Great idea."

She lived alone in Greenwich Village, in a fourth-floor walk-up. They discussed various take-out restaurants in the neighborhood, then left the office together. An hour later, Kyle climbed the stairs with a sack of shrimp-and-chicken fried rice and knocked on the door. Dale opened it, with a smile, and welcomed him to her apartment.

Two rooms, a den-kitchen combo, and one bedroom. It was small but nicely decorated, a minimalist theme with leather and chrome and black-and-white photos on the wall. She, too, was well-appointed and pursuing the less-is-more approach. Her white cotton skirt was extremely short and revealed more of the slender legs Kyle and the other vultures had been admiring. Her shoes were short heels, open toe, no straps, red leather, high-class-tart stuff. Kyle glanced at them and said, "Jimmy Choos?"

"Prada."

The black cotton sweater was tight, without a bra under it. For the first time in far too many weeks, Kyle began to feel the excitement of sexual arousal.

"Nice place," he said, looking at a photograph.

"Four thousand a month, can you believe it?" She was opening the fridge, one about the size of a large desktop computer. She removed a bottle of white wine.

"Yes, I can believe it. It’s New York. But no one made us come here."

She was holding the bottle of chardonnay. "I’m sorry, but I don’t have any club soda. It’s either wine or water."

"I’ll have some wine," he said, with only a slight hesitation. And he decided on the spot that he would not torment himself by arguing back and forth about whether he should take a drink after five and a half years of sobriety. He’d never been to rehab, never been forced to detox, never considered himself an alcoholic. He had simply stopped drinking because he was drinking too much, and now he wanted a glass of wine.