"Oh, yes. Lethal."
"So why are we messing with them?"
"I want to know who they are."
Joey shook his head and looked away, toward the scoreboard, then he took a sip and leaned close to Kyle. "I say we leave them alone. I say you do what they want you to do, play their games, don't get caught, keep the damned video buried, and life will be good for all of us."
"Maybe. Can you come to New York?"
"I don't know. I'll have to figure it out."
"It's very important. Please."
"How, old buddy, do you plan to get a picture of this guy Bennie? He's a professional operative, right?"
"Something like that."
"You're a lawyer, I'm a stockbroker. We have no idea what we're doing, and we could easily get ourselves in trouble."
"Yes, we could."
Kyle took a small package from a pocket of his bulky black and gold Steelers parka. "Take this," he said, keeping it low so that no one could see it. Joey took it and stuffed it into a pocket of his own black and gold Steelers parka. "What is it?"
"It's a video camera."
"Doesn't feel like a video camera."
"It's a video camera, but not one you're likely to see in a store window."
The Steelers scored on a long pass, the game's first touchdown, and the crowd celebrated for five minutes. During the ensuing timeout, Kyle continued: "It's not much larger than an ink pen. It goes in the pocket of either a shirt or a jacket, with a thin wire running to a control switch in your left hand. You can talk to someone face-to-face and video the conversation without their knowledge."
"So I just walk up to Bennie, who's probably heavily armed and has several other heavily armed pals nearby, and introduce myself and ask him to smile."
"No. There's a better way. But this week you need to practice with it."
"Does it have a name?"
"It's all there in the paperwork - specs, instructions, all that stuff. Just bone up on it this week and learn how to use it. If things go perfectly, you'll have about three seconds to video Bennie."
"And if they don't go perfectly?"
"I'll rescue you."
"Great." A long, nervous swig from the flask. "So, Kyle, let's say we get Bennie on video. How do you, not me, but you, go about identifying him?"
"I haven't figured that out."
"There's a lot you haven't figured out."
"I'll e-mail you Tuesday, tell you I've got tickets, the usual drill. Are you in, Joey, old pal?"
"I don't know. I think you're crazy, and you're making me crazy."
"Come on. You need to have some fun while you can."
KYLE WAS hard at work in the main library when the FirmFone rattled softly at four on Thursday afternoon. The e-mail described itself as urgent and commanded the first-year associates to congregate immediately on the forty-fourth-floor mezzanine, the largest gathering place at Scully & Pershing. The message meant only one thing - the bar exam results were in. And the fact that Kyle was being summoned meant that he had passed.
For weeks they had labored against the clock and suffered the often unbearable pressure of adjusting to life in the big firm, and added to that misery was the bar exam hanging over them like a dark cloud. It was always there, seldom discussed because the exam was over and talking about it only made life worse. But it woke them up when they desperately needed sleep. It followed them to the table and could ruin a meal in an instant. The bar exam. What if they flunked the bar exam?
The ritual varied from firm to firm, but Scully & Pershing had a rather pleasant way of breaking the news. They gathered the lucky ones together and threw a party. Though it was supposed to be a surprise, by the second week of September every new associate knew the drill. The cruel part of the festivities was that the unlucky ones were simply not invited. They were left to retreat, to sneak out of the building and go wander the streets for the rest of the day.
As Kyle ran up the stairs and raced along the hallways, he searched for his friends. There were high fives, yelps for joy, people running in shoes that were not meant for running. He saw Dale and gave her a hug, and they walked quickly together. Once on the mezzanine, the crowd was already in a raucous mood before Mr. Howard Meezer, the firm's managing partner, stepped to a small podium and said, "Congratulations. Let's have a party. Not another hour can be billed today."
Champagne corks were soon flying. Bartenders were busy, and waiters began passing delicious antipasto. The general feeling was one of euphoria, even giddiness, because the nightmare was over and they were now lawyers forever.
Kyle was enjoying a glass of champagne with Dale and a few others when the conversation shifted to their less fortunate colleagues. "Does anybody see Garwood?" And they began searching the party for Garwood, who was unaccounted for and soon presumed to be on the other list.
Tim Reynolds approached them with a nasty smile, a drink in one hand and a printout in the other. "Tabor flunked," he announced proudly. "Can you believe it? A Harvard casualty." Kyle wasn't as pleased. Sure, Tabor was obnoxious and opportunistic, but he was their cube mate, and flunking the bar would kill him. He wasn't a bad guy.
Word spread; the body count rose. In all, there were 8 failures out of 103, a pass rate of 92 percent, an excellent number for any class at any firm. Once again it was clear that they were the brightest stars and were now destined for even greater things.
They got as drunk as possible, then rode home in private sedans arranged by the firm. Kyle had only two drinks and walked to Chelsea. Along the way, he called his father with the wonderful news.
Chapter 24
His appointment at noon Friday with Doug Peckham was described as a working lunch to review some discovery, but when Kyle arrived ten minutes early, the partner said, "Let's celebrate." They left the building and crawled into the back of a Lincoln sedan, one of the innumerable "black cars" that roam the city and keep the professionals out of the yellow cabs. The firm had a fleet of black cars on call.
"Been to Eleven Madison Park?" Doug asked.
"No. I don't get out much these days, Doug, because I'm a first-year associate and I'm either usually too tired to eat, or I don't have time, or I simply forget."
"Whining, are we?"
"Of course not."
"Congrats on passing the bar."
"Thank you."
"You'll like this place. Great food, beautiful dining room. Let's have a long lunch, with some wine. I know just the client we can stick it to."
Kyle nodded. Two months in, and he was still uncomfortable with the notion of sticking it to clients. Padding the file. Overbilling. Racking up expenses. He wanted to ask what, exactly, the client was about to get stuck for. Just the lunch, which was a certainty, or would the client also get billed for two hours of his time and two hours of Peckham's? But he didn't ask.
The restaurant was in the lobby of the old Metropolitan Life Building, with views of Madison Square Park. The decor was contemporary, with high ceilings and wide windows. Doug, of course, claimed to know the chef and the mattre d' and the sommelier, and Kyle was not surprised when they were seated at a choice table looking at the park.
"Let's get your evaluation out of the way," Doug said, snapping a bread stick and sending crumbs across the pristine white tablecloth.
"Evaluation?"
"Yes, it's my job as your supervising partner to evaluate you after the bar results. Obviously, if you'd flunked, we wouldn't be here, and I wouldn't have nice things to say. We'd probably be stopping by one of those carts pushed by a street vendor, selecting a greasy kielbasa, taking a walk, and having a bad conversation. But you passed, so I'm going to be nice."