Jennifer kept telephoning prospective employers, going from despair to indignation to frustration and back to despair again. She wondered what she was going to do with the rest of her life, and each time it came back to the same thing: All she wanted to do, the one thing she really cared about, was to practice law. She was a lawyer and, by God, until they stopped her she was going to find a way to practice her profession.
She began to make the rounds of Manhattan law offices. She would walk in unannounced, give her name to the receptionist and ask to see the head of personnel. Occasionally she was granted an interview, but when she was, Jennifer had the feeling it was out of curiosity. She was a freak and they wanted to see what she looked like in person. Most of the time she was simply informed there were no openings.
At the end of six weeks, Jennifer’s money was running out. She would have moved to a cheaper apartment, but there were no cheaper apartments. She began to skip breakfast and lunch, and to have dinner at one of the little corner dinettes where the food was bad but the prices were good. She discovered the Steak & Brew and Roast-and-Brew, where for a modest sum she was able to get a main course, all the salad she could eat, and all the beer she could drink. Jennifer hated beer, but it was filling.
When Jennifer had gone through her list of large law firms, she armed herself with a list of smaller firms and began to call on them, but her reputation had preceded her even there. She received a lot of propositions from interested males, but no job offers. She was beginning to get desperate. All right, she thought defiantly, if no one wants to hire me, I’ll open my own law office. The catch was that that took money. Ten thousand dollars, at least. She would need enough for rent, telephone, a secretary, law books, a desk and chairs, stationery…she could not even afford the stamps.
Jennifer had counted on her salary from the District Attorney’s office but that, of course, was gone forever. She could forget about severance pay. She had not been severed; she had been beheaded. No, there was no way she could afford to open her own office, no matter how small. The answer was to find someone with whom to share offices.
Jennifer bought a copy of The New York Times and began to search through the want ads. It was not until she was near the bottom of the page that she came across a small advertisement that read: Wanted:/Prof man sh sm off w/2 oth/prof men. Rs rent.
The last two words appealed to Jennifer enormously. She was not a professional man, but her sex should not matter. She tore out the ad and took the subway down to the address listed.
It was a dilapidated old building on lower Broadway. The office was on the tenth floor and the flaking sign on the door read:
KENNETH BAILEY
ACE INVEST GA IONS
Beneath it:
ROCKEFELLER C LLECTION AG NCY
Jennifer took a deep breath, opened the door and walked in. She was standing in the middle of a small, windowless office. There were three scarred desks and chairs crowded into the room, two of them occupied.
Seated at one of the desks was a bald, shabbily dressed, middle-aged man working on some papers. Against the opposite wall at another desk was a man in his early thirties. He had brick-red hair and bright blue eyes. His skin was pale and freckled. He was dressed in tight-fitting jeans, a tee shirt, and white canvas shoes without socks. He was talking into the telephone.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Desser, I have two of my best operatives working on your case. We should have news of your husband any day now. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you for a little more expense money…No, don’t bother mailing it. The mails are terrible. I’ll be in your neighborhood this afternoon. I’ll stop by and pick it up.”
He replaced the receiver and looked up and saw Jennifer.
He rose to his feet, smiled and held out a strong, firm hand. “I’m Kenneth Bailey. And what can I do for you this morning?”
Jennifer looked around the small, airless room and said uncertainly, “I—I came about your ad.”
“Oh.” There was surprise in his blue eyes.
The bald-headed man was staring at Jennifer.
Kenneth Bailey said, “This is Otto Wenzel. He’s the Rockefeller Collection Agency.”
Jennifer nodded. “Hello.” She turned back to Kenneth Bailey. “And you’re Ace Investigations?”
“That’s right. What’s your scam?”
“My—?” Then, realizing, “I’m an attorney.”
Kenneth Bailey studied her skeptically. “And you want to set up an office here?”
Jennifer looked around the dreary office again and visualized herself at the empty desk, between these two men.
“Perhaps I’ll look a little further,” she said. “I’m not sure—”
“Your rent would only be ninety dollars a month.”
“I could buy this building for ninety dollars a month,” Jennifer replied. She turned to leave.
“Hey, wait a minute.”
Jennifer paused.
Kenneth Bailey ran a hand over his pale chin. “I’ll make a deal with you. Sixty. When your business gets rolling we’ll talk about an increase.”
It was a bargain. Jennifer knew that she could never find any space elsewhere for that amount. On the other hand, there was no way she could ever attract clients to this hellhole. There was one other thing she had to consider. She did not have the sixty dollars.
“I’ll take it,” Jennifer said.
“You won’t be sorry,” Kenneth Bailey promised. “When do you want to move your things in?”
“They’re in.”
Kenneth Bailey painted the sign on the door himself. It read: