The Associate

Alone, Kyle eased away and tried to relax. He headed north on Centre Street, drove four blocks, then turned left on Leonard and headed west. Every inch of available space was packed with vehicles and motorbikes. An amazing abundance of signs warned against parking anywhere near a potential space. Kyle had never noticed so many threatening signs. He passed no parking garages, but he did pass several traffic cops working the streets, slapping tickets on windshields. After a long, slow block, he turned left on Broadway, and the traffic was even heavier. He inched along for six blocks, then turned left onto Chambers. Two blocks later he was back at the courthouse in which he was supposed to be making his debut as a litigator, if only as a reserve.

Left on Centre, left on Leonard, left on Broadway, left on Chambers, back at the courthouse. Ever concerned about billing, he noted the time. The second loop ate seventeen minutes of the clock, and along the way Kyle again saw nowhere to park. He saw the same signs, same traffic cops, same street bums, same drug dealer sitting on a bench working his cell phone.

Nine o’clock came and went without a call from Peckham, not even a quick "Where the hell are you?" The hearing was under way, but without Kyle the litigator. Kyle the chauffeur, though, was hard at work. After three loops, he was bored with the route and added extra blocks to the north and west. He thought about stopping for a coffee to go, but decided against it out of fear of spilling something onto the fine beige leather of Bard’s wife’s new Jaguar. He had settled into the leather and was comfortable behind the wheel. It was a very nice car. A hundred thousand dollars and no doubt worth every penny. The gas tank was half-full, and this was worrying him. The stop-and-go driving was a strain on such a large engine. The hearing that he was missing was an important one, no doubt requiring the presence of many high-powered lawyers, all anxious to plead their positions, and things might drag on for a long time. It was obvious that every legal parking spot in lower Manhattan was taken, and with clear instructions to "just keep moving," Kyle accepted the fact that he had no choice but to burn fuel. He began to look for a gas station. He’d fill the tank, bill the client, and score a few points with Bard.

Once the tank was full, he began to ponder other ways to score points. A quick car wash? A quick lube job? When he passed the courthouse for the seventh or eighth time, a street vendor selling soft pretzels looked at him, spread his arms, and said something like "Are you crazy, man?" But Kyle was unperturbed. He decided against a wash or oil change.

Now confident in traffic, he picked up his phone and called Dale. She answered on the third ring and in a hushed voice said, "I’m in the library."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes."

"That’s not what I hear."

A pause. "I haven’t slept in two nights. I think I’m delirious."

"You sound terrible."

"Where are you?"

"Right now I’m on Leonard Street, driving Noel Bard’s wife’s new Jaguar. What do you think I’m doing?"

"Sorry I asked. How was the funeral?"

"Terrible. Let’s do dinner tonight. I need to unload on someone."

"I’m going home tonight, to bed, to sleep."

"You have to eat. I’ll grab some Chinese, we’ll have a glass of wine, then sleep together. No sex whatsoever. We’ve done it before."

"We’ll see. I gotta get out of here. Later."

"Are you gonna make it?"

"I doubt it."

At 11:00 a.m., Kyle congratulated himself because he could now bill the client $800 for driving in circles. Then he laughed at himself. Editor in chief of the Yale Law Journal behind the wheel here, making perfect turns, clean stops and goes, taking in the sights, dodging the cabs, ah, the life of a big-time Wall Street lawyer.

If his father could see him now.

The call came at 11:40. Bard said, "We’re leaving the courtroom. What happened to you?"

"I couldn’t find a parking space."

"Where are you?"

"Two blocks from the courthouse."

"Pick us up where you dropped us off."

"My pleasure."

Minutes later, Kyle wheeled to the curb like a veteran driver, and his two passengers jumped into the rear seat. He pulled away and said, "Where to?"

"The office," came the terse reply from Peckham, and for several minutes nothing was said. Kyle expected to be grilled about what he’d been doing for the past few hours. Where were you, Kyle? Why did you miss the hearing, Kyle? But nothing. Sadly, he began to realize that he had not been missed at all. To create some noise, he finally asked, "So how’d the hearing go?"

"It didn’t," said Peckham.

"What hearing?" said Bard.

"What have you been doing since 9:00 a.m.?" Kyle asked.

"Waiting for the Honorable Theodore Hennessy to shake off his hangover and grace us with his presence," Bard said.

"It was postponed for two weeks," Peckham said.

AS THEY STEPPED off the elevator on the thirty-second floor, Kyle’s phone vibrated. A text message from Tabor read: "Hurry to cube. Problem."

Tabor met him at the stairs. "So how was court?"

"Great. I love litigation. What’s the problem?" They were walking quickly through the hall, past Sandra the secretary.

"It’s Dale," Tabor whispered. "She fainted, collapsed, passed out, something."

"Where is she?"

"I’ve hidden the body."

At the cube, Dale was lying peacefully on a sleeping bag partially hidden under Tabor’s desk. Her eyes were open, she seemed alert, but her face was very pale.

"She woke up at five Tuesday morning, and she hasn’t slept since. That’s about fifty-five hours, which might be a record."

Kyle knelt beside her, gently took her wrist, and said, "You okay?"

She nodded yes, but was not convincing.

Tabor, the lookout, glanced around and kept talking: "She doesn’t want anyone to know, okay. I say we call the nurse. She says no. What do you say, Kyle?"

"Don’t tell anyone," Dale said, her voice low and raspy. "I fainted, that’s all. I’m fine."

"Your pulse is good," Kyle said. "Can you walk?"

"I think so."

"Then the three of us will slip out for a quick lunch," Kyle said. "I’ll take you home, and you’re going to rest. Tabor, call a car."

With a hand under each arm, they slowly pulled her up. She stood, took deep breaths, and said, "I can walk."

"We’re right beside you," Kyle said.

They caught a curious glance or two as they left the building  –  one petite, well-dressed young associate, with very pale skin, arm in arm with two of her colleagues, off for a quick lunch, no doubt, but no one cared. Tabor helped her into the car, then returned to the cube to cover their trails if necessary.

Kyle half-carried her up the three flights to her apartment, then helped her undress and tucked her in. He kissed her forehead, turned off the lights, and closed the door. She did not move for hours.

In the den, he took off his coat, tie, and shoes. He covered the small kitchen table with his laptop, FirmFone, and a file full of research for a memo he’d been neglecting. Once he was fully situated, his eyelids became heavier and heavier until he walked to the sofa for a quick nap. Tabor called an hour later and woke him up. Kyle assured him Dale was sleeping well and would be fine after a long rest.

"There’s an announcement coming at 4:00 p.m.," Tabor said. "Big news about the split. Watch your e-mails."