Plus, I’d been out ‘til two in the morning the night before with a hottie from the New York office. I know you’re not supposed to dip your pen in the company inkwell, but I figured shit, she was three thousand miles away and we worked in different teams…so what was the harm? Besides, I hadn’t fucked her. But she did give me the blowie of a lifetime.
I’d had just enough time before my meeting to run out for a third cup of coffee. At all costs, I avoided the free slop from the company lunchroom. I left that for truly dire emergencies, and I wasn’t that bad off yet.
On my way out, I stuck my head into my boss’s office. She had a real office. It had windows
and a table in the corner where she could hold small meetings, and a door that closed. My office, on the other hand, was an interior one that was more like a converted broom closet. But, hey, it was a step up from the cube I used to camp out in.
“Sandra, you want a coffee? I’m running out,” I asked.
She looked up from the papers she was pouring over. Damn, she looked more tired than I did.
“No thanks, Nat. I’ll just grab some from the break room.”
Yuck. Suit yourself.
As I was exiting the building, my cell rang. It was Rick Jones, one of the guys from the Dolphin Club, a bunch of crazies I swam with every so often in the freezing water of the San Francisco Bay.
“Hey, buddy,” I answered.
“Nat. How are things?” Jonesy asked.
“Ugh. Dude, I’m so exhausted. Just got back from New York in time for an eleven a.m. meeting with a big client.”
“God, they’re working you hard.”
“I know, right? I’m just hoping it pays off when they are adding new partners to their roster at the end of the year,” I said.
“Yeah man. Good luck with that. The hours I worked to become a partner at the firm here just about killed me. But I have to say, it was worth it.”
Of course it was worth it for him. Jonesy was with one of the biggest law firms in San Francisco, and since he’d made partner, he’d bought a sweet house in Pacific Heights and a hot little Porsche. He was also reportedly dating some former model from Maxim. Asshole.
“So, Nat, I got something for ya. It could be a good client or not. I’m not at liberty to tell you much. But I’d like to pass your info onto this woman so she’s set up with a good accountant, if and when she needs one.”
“Thanks man, I appreciate the referral. And if this is a good client, it’ll surely help me shine in my boss’s eyes, too,” I said.
“Hey, happy to help a fellow swimming buddy. I’ll email you all the info you need.”
* * *
Not three hours later, I was looking for some bar in the South of Market District called the Drive By Saloon. Normally, we accountants held meetings in offices and conference rooms, but if a potential client wanted to meet at a drinking establishment, who was I to argue? I was only sorry it was too early in the day to have a beer. It probably would have been a free one. And until I made partner, I consumed all the free beer I could get my hands on. I hadn’t “made it” yet, like Jonesy had. But I was working on it.
I pulled open a heavy wooden door that was otherwise pretty non-descript and entered a room so dark, I had to wait for my eyes to adjust. When they did, I found myself in an old-time establishment, the kind I loved to visit when I was back in New York for business. The setup was the standard bar extending the length of the room on one side, with booths and benches running along the other. Ceiling fans swung lazily from above, most likely left from the days when you could smoke indoors. In fact, the place still smelled smoky, even though it had been decades since anyone had lit up in there.
I grabbed a booth after nodding at a couple of guys settled in at the bar, who looked like regulars. Actually, they looked like they lived in the damn place.
“What can I get you, sir?” an accented voice called from behind the bar.
“I’m here to see Garnet Foster,” I said to a small man whom I guessed bussed tables and did other dirty work, judging by the greasy handprints on his white apron.
“Garnet!” he hollered, bringing some life to the place.
I ordered a ginger ale while I waited. Finally, a figure emerged from the back, moving toward me.
Whoa. Jonesy hadn’t told me everything.
A tall, curvy woman approached, wearing those high-heeled boots all the chicks were wearing, with what I think they also called skinny jeans. It was a hot-as-hell look, making even the shortest girls look like they had legs that stretched for miles.
“I’m Garnet,” she said, extending her hand.