The Firm

Lomax listened and watched the rows of parked cars in front of him. He held his camera.

He did not notice the door of the brown van. It quietly and slowly slid open, just three feet behind him. A man in a black turtleneck wearing black gloves crouched low in the van and waited. When the parking lot was still, he jumped from the van, yanked open the left rear door of the Lincoln and fired three times into the back of Eddie’s head. The shots, muffled with a silencer, could not be heard outside the car.

Eddie slumped against the wheel, already dead. Kilbury bolted from the Lincoln, ran to the van and sped away with the assassin.

Chapter 18

After three days of unbillable time, of no production, of exile from their sanctuaries, of turkey and ham and cranberry sauce and new toys that came unassembled, the rested and rejuvenated lawyers of Bendini, Lambert & Locke returned to the fortress on Front Street with a vengeance. The parking lot was full by seven-thirty. They sat fixed and comfortable behind their heavy desks, drank coffee by the gallon, meditated over mail and correspondence and documents and mumbled incoherently and furiously into their Dictaphones. They barked orders at secretaries and clerks and paralegals, and at each other. There were a few "How was your Christmas?" greetings in the halls and around the coffeepots, but small talk was cheap and unbillable. The sounds of typewriters, intercoms and secretaries all harmonized into one glorious hum as the mint recovered from the nuisance of Christmas. Oliver Lambert walked the halls, smiling with satisfaction and listening, just listening to the sounds of wealth being made by the hour.

At noon, Lamar walked into the office and leaned across the desk. Mitch was deep into an oil and gas deal in Indonesia.

"Lunch?" Lamar asked.

"No, thanks. I’m behind."

"Aren’t we all? I thought we could run down to the Front Street Deli for a bowl of chili."

"I’ll pass. Thanks."

Lamar glanced over his shoulder at the door and leaned closer as if he had extraordinary news to share. "You know what today is, don’t you?"

Mitch glanced at his watch. "The twenty-eighth."

"Right. And do you know what happens on the twenty-eighth of December of every year?"

"You have a bowel movement."

"Yes. And what else?"

"Okay. I give up. What happens?"

"At this very moment, in the dining room on the fifth floor, all the partners are gathered for a lunch of roast duck and French wine."

"Wine, for lunch?"

"Yes. It’s a very special occasion."

"Okay?"

"After they eat for an hour, Roosevelt and Jessie Frances will leave and Lambert will lock the door. Then it’s all the partners, you see. Only the partners. And Lambert will hand out a financial summary for the year. It’s got all the partners listed, and beside each name is a number that represents their total billing for the year. Then on the next page is a summary of the net profits after expenses. Then, based on production, they divide the pie!"

Mitch hung on every word. "And?"

"And, last year the average piece of pie was three hundred and thirty thousand. And, of course, it’s expected to be even higher this year. Goes up every year."

"Three hundred and thirty thousand," Mitch repeated slowly.

"Yep. And that’s just the average. Locke will get close to a million. Victor Milligan will run a close second."

"And what about us?"

"We get a piece too. A very small piece. Last year it was around nine thousand, on the average. Depends on how long you’ve been here and production."

"Can we go watch?"

"They wouldn’t sell a ticket to the President. It’s supposed to be a secret meeting, but we all know about it. Word will begin drifting down late this afternoon."

"When do they vote on who to make the next partner?"

"Normally, it would be done today. But, according to rumor, there may not be a new partner this year because of Marty and Joe. I think Marty was next in line, then Joe. Now, they might wait a year or two."

"So who’s next in line?"

Lamar stood straight and smiled proudly. "One year from today, my friend, I will become a partner in Bendini, Lambert & Locke. I’m next in line, so don’t get in my way this year."

"I heard it was Massengill – a Harvard man, I might add."

"Massengill doesn’t have a prayer. I intend to bill a hundred and forty hours a week for the next fifty-two weeks, and those birds will beg me to become a partner. I’ll go to the fourth floor, and Massengill will go to the basement with the paralegals."

"I’m putting my money on Massengill."

"He’s a wimp. I’ll run him into the ground. Let’s go eat a bowl of chili, and I’ll reveal my strategy."

"Thanks, but I need to work."

Lamar strutted from the office and passed Nina, who was carrying a stack of papers. She laid them on a cluttered corner of the desk. "I’m going to lunch. Need anything?"

"No. Thanks. Yes, a Diet Coke."

The halls quietened during lunch as the secretaries escaped the building and walked toward downtown to a dozen small cafes and delicatessens nearby. With half the lawyers on the fifth floor counting their money, the gentle roar of commerce took an intermission.

Mitch found an apple on Nina’s desk and rubbed it clean. He opened a manual on IRS regulations, laid it on the copier behind her desk and touched the green Print button. A red warning lit up and flashed the message: Insert File Number. He backed away and looked at the copier. Yes, it was a new one. Next to the Print button was another that read Bypass. He stuck his thumb on it. A shrill siren erupted from within the machine, and the entire panel of buttons turned bright red. He looked around helplessly, saw no one and frantically grabbed the instruction manual.

"What’s going on here?" someone demanded over the wailing of the copier.

"I don’t know!" Mitch yelled, waving the manual.

Lela Pointer, a secretary too old to walk from the building for lunch, reached behind the machine and flipped a switch. The siren died.

"What the hell?" Mitch said, panting.

"Didn’t they tell you?" she demanded, grabbing the manual and placing it back in its place. She drilled a hole in him with her tiny fierce eyes, as if she had caught him in her purse.

"Obviously not. What’s the deal?"

"We have a new copying system," she lectured downward through her nose. "It was installed the day after Christmas. You must code in the file number before the machine will copy. Your secretary was supposed to tell you."

"You mean this thing will not copy unless I punch in a ten-digit number?"

"That’s correct."

"What about copies in general, with no particular file?"

"Can’t be done. Mr. Lambert says we lose too much money on unbilled copies. So, from now on, every copy is automatically billed to a file. You punch in the number first. The machine records the number of copies and sends it to the main terminal, where it goes on the client’s billing account."

"What about personal copies?"

Lela shook her head in total frustration. "I can’t believe your secretary didn’t tell you all this."

"Well, she didn’t, so why don’t you help me out."

"You have a four-digit access number for yourself. At the end of each month you’ll be billed for your personal copies."

Mitch stared at the machine and shook his head. "Why the damned alarm system?"