“I beg your pardon?” Deacon Cromwell, an Oxford-educated expat who’d started the firm forty years ago and was more ancient than the Bible, furrowed his bushy brows.
“Christian believes he earned a corner office and his last name on the door after putting in the time and the effort,” Ryan Traurig, head of the litigation department and the partner who actually showed his face between the office’s walls every now and then, explained to the old man.
“Don’t you think this was something we should’ve discussed?” Cromwell turned to Traurig.
“We’re discussing it now.” Traurig smiled good-naturedly.
“Privately,” Cromwell spit out.
“Privacy is overrated.” I took a sip of my wine, wishing it were scotch. “Wake up and smell the roses, Deacon. I’ve been a senior associate for three years. I charge partner rates. My annual reviews are flawless, and I reel in the big fish. You’ve been jerking me around for too long. I’d like to know where I stand. Honesty is the best policy.”
“That’s a bit rich coming from a lawyer.” Cromwell shot me a side-eyed glance. “Also, in the spirit of open conversation, may I remind you you’ve graduated seven years ago, with a two-year stint at the DA’s office upon graduation? It’s not exactly like we’re robbing you of an opportunity. Our firm has a nine-year partner track. Timeline-wise, you haven’t paid your dues.”
“Timeline-wise, you’ve been making three hundred percent more in this firm since I joined,” I countered. “Fuck the track. Make me equity—and name partner.”
“Cutthroat to the bone.” He tried to look unaffected, but his brow became clammy. “How do you sleep at night?”
I swirled the wine in my glass the way an award-winning sommelier had taught me a decade earlier. I also golfed, used the firm’s time-share in Miami, and suffered through talking politics in gentlemen’s clubs.
“Usually with a leggy blonde by my side.” False, but I knew a pig like him would appreciate it.
He chuckled, the predictable simpleton that he was. “Wiseass. You’re too ambitious for your own good.”
Cromwell’s view of ambition varied, depending on the person who possessed it. On junior associates who clocked sixty billable hours a week, it was terrific. On me, it was a nuisance.
“No such thing, sir. Now I’d like an answer.”
“Christian.” Traurig shot me a smile that begged me to shut up. “Give us five minutes. I’ll meet you outside.”
I didn’t like being tossed to the street while they discussed me. Deep down, I was still Nicky from Hunts Point. But that boy had to be curbed in polite society. Gently bred men didn’t shout and flip tables. I had to speak their language. Soft words, sharp knives.
After pushing my chair back, I slipped into my Givenchy coat. “Fine. It’ll give me time to try out that new Davidoff cigar.”
Traurig’s eyes lit up. “Winston Churchill?”
“Limited edition.” I winked. Bastard rode my ass for everything cigar and liquor related like he didn’t earn six times my wage.
“My, my. Got a spare?”
“You know it.”
“See you in a few.”
“Not if I see you first.”
On the curb, I puffed on my cigar and watched yellow traffic lights turning red and green vainly, as jaywalkers glided in thick streams, like schools of fish. The trees on the street were naked, save for the pale string lights that had yet to be stripped after Christmas.
My phone pinged in my pocket. I pulled it out.
Arsène: You coming? Riggs is leaving tomorrow morning and he is getting grabby with someone who needs her diaper changed.
That could mean either she was too young or she had ass implants. Most likely, it meant both. I tucked the cigar into the corner of my mouth, my fingers floating over the touch screen.
Me: Tell him to keep it in his pants. I’m on my way.
Arsène: Being jerked around by Daddy and Daddy?
Me: Not all of us were born with a two hundred mil trust fund, baby.
I slipped my phone back into my pocket.
A friendly pat landed on my shoulder. When I turned around, Traurig and Cromwell were there. Cromwell looked like he was the not-so-proud owner of every hemorrhoid in New York City, clutching his walking cane with a pained expression. Traurig’s thin, cunning sneer revealed little.
“Sheila’s been nagging me about getting more exercise. I think I’ll walk my way home. Gentlemen.” Cromwell nodded curtly. “Christian, congratulations on bringing Emerson. I will see you at our weekly meeting next Friday.” And then he was off, disappearing in the throng of bundled-up people and white steam curling from manholes.
I passed Traurig a cigar. He gave it a few puffs, patting his pockets, like he was looking for something. Maybe his long-lost dignity.
“Deacon thinks you’re not ready yet.”
“That’s bull crap.” My teeth pressed into my cigar. “My track record is impeccable. I work eighty-hour weeks. I oversee every big case in litigation, even though it is technically your job, and I’m teamed with a junior associate for all my cases, just like a partner. If I walk away right now, I am taking with me a portfolio you cannot afford to lose, and we both know that.”