by Joyce, Eddie
Pick your battles, Petey. In court. In your marriage. Even here, in this fucking place. You can’t win them all. Choose the ones that are important, that mean something, that can improve your position, improve your life. Fight those like you’re in the street, like it’s knuckles and knives. Win those. But pick ’em well. Only a few mean something. The trick is learning which ones those are.
Which one was this? What would Dom have said about this looming confrontation? Peter rubs the back of his sweaty neck. He knows what Dom would have said. This is a fight that could have been avoided.
Don’t shit where you eat.
That’s what he would have said.
“Sorry, Dom,” Peter says, to the empty room, “but that ship has sailed.”
* * *
His stomach still empty, Peter sits down across from Kevin McCoury, who is finishing up a call. Phil Langley closes the door and stands sentry in front of it. Behind Peter, Truman Peabody sits impassively on Kevin’s black leather couch, legs crossed, suit jacket on. Kevin hangs up, picks up a legal pad, and looks over a sea of piled papers at Peter.
“Well, I ain’t gonna pussyfoot around, Pete. You fucked up big time. Put the firm in a bad position. Endangered your partners.”
Kevin is a giant, roaring asshole of a man, the type of bellicose litigator who bullies his way to results. His face is fleshy and red and it sits atop a handful of chins. His sleeves are rolled up above his elbows, dark sweat stains sneak out from under the arms of his blue shirt. He spends his days screaming into phones and waddling down the hall while terrified associates scurry into their offices to avoid him. He is the type of lawyer who enjoys living up to the worst stereotypes of the profession. He is also extremely effective.
“Before we get into it, is there a reason that Phil is here?” Peter asks, nodding at Phil, who squeaks out an expression of surprise and hurt.
“What fucking difference does it make? Everyone knows what happened here, Pete. We’re not gonna get down into the nitty-gritty of it, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about. I just don’t understand why he’s here. He’s junior in the partnership to me, he doesn’t have an official position in the department . . .”
Truman interrupts, his voice sliding in over Peter’s shoulder.
“Phil has been acting as a firm counsel in this matter, Peter.”
“Firm counsel?”
“Ms. Giordano retained counsel some time ago. Given the sensitivity of the matter, we wanted to keep this in-house as long as possible.”
“She retained counsel? For what?”
“Jesus Christ, Pete,” Kevin says. “I knew you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants. I didn’t know you were dumb.”
Peter swallows, tries to bite down his anger.
“That’s not helpful, Kevin,” Phil says.
Peter looks over, uncertain. Maybe Phil wasn’t lying, maybe he is Peter’s only friend here. Then I’m truly fucked, he thinks.
Kevin clasps his hands behind his neck, exposing the ponds of sweat spreading from his armpits. He exhales, like he’s about to do Peter a favor.
“Okay, Pete, so here’s the deal. Devion Labs is looking for a deputy general counsel. Their GC, Marty Newman, is a few years away from retiring and they’re looking to groom someone to replace him. They don’t think they have anyone in-house. They asked us if we had anyone here who would be interested, maybe get a shot at a GC job. A tryout, so to speak.”
He pauses, shifts the position of his hands from behind his head to under his chin. He leans forward, like a man who’s about to confess something.
“This is a big opportunity. And if it doesn’t work out, you could always come back here.”
Kevin pauses again and Phil takes the baton.
“We want you to be the guy, Pete. You know them. They know you. They like you. It could end up being a great move for your career.”
He puts his hand on Peter’s shoulder, leaves it there. Peter feels blood pounding in his temples. He has to suppress another urge to do physical harm. She retained counsel?
“Let me get this straight. You want me to go in-house at Devion?” he says, more to buy time than to clarify.
“Yes,” says McCoury.
“In Chicago?”
“Yes,” Phil says. “Lot of time in New York, but yes, our understanding is that you’d be working out of their home office in Chicago.”
Silence. Everyone in the room seems to be sweating bullets except Truman. Peter is certain that Truman hasn’t squeezed out a bead in his life.
“For how long?”
“I wouldn’t look at it that way, Peter. You may love it, get the GC job, never come back.”
Peter turns to Kevin.
“You said I could come back if it doesn’t work out. How long do I have to stay?”
“A few years.”
“A few?”
“Minimum five.”
Another silence descends on the room, heavy with the weight of what’s been proposed. Peter is trying to process what’s happening, but he keeps returning to one thought: She retained counsel? Kevin coughs to remind Peter that he hasn’t responded.
“I don’t know what to say. I’m shocked.”
“Don’t say anything,” Truman pipes in from the couch. “Think about it.”
“But what about my family? My kids are in school, all their friends are here. I mean, my family . . .”
Across from him, Kevin raises an eyebrow.
“Maybe you should have thought about your family before . . .”
He doesn’t finish the thought. He doesn’t have to.
Peter wants to reach across the desk and slam the hypocrite’s head onto the table. Taking moral crow from Kevin McCoury? The fat bastard has fucked his way through half the hookers in Manhattan, but the McCoury family photos still sit on the credenza behind him, smiling emblems of a pleasant, tranquil household.
And Truman, the old-line WASP already on wife number three, with mistress number four in the minors waiting to get the call up to the big leagues.
And Phil, well, he didn’t know whether Phil fucked around, but he probably did. The little fucker was certainly pleased with himself about something.
Peter’s head is swimming. This will complicate a million things, but he’s not sure he can refuse. Exile is preferable to execution. His mind turns to the one thing he knows it shouldn’t.
“What’s gonna happen to Gina?”
A flurry of glances triangulates around Peter’s head. A decision is reached and Kevin nods to Phil, who looks down at his tie, suddenly sheepish.
“Ms. Giordano will continue to be paid during this extended, uhh, let’s call it a sabbatical. And next October, after her honeymoon, she will come back to work. With a new class. A fresh start, so to speak.”
After her honeymoon?
“Wait, she’s still getting married?”
“That’s what we’ve been told.”
“Really?”
“Let it go, Pete,” says Phil, with more sympathy than Peter expects.
Kevin chimes in, glad to play the bulldog.
“Let me remind you, Peter, not to reach out to her. Leave this alone. Leave her alone.”
Truman stands, puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder.
“You’re a good partner, Peter. I know you’ll make the best decision for the partnership. Best thing for you is to move on, put this behind you.”
He walks around to Peter’s side, buttoning his jacket as he does.
“When do I need to let you know?”
Truman frowns, displeased that the conversation isn’t over.
“We ain’t exactly asking, Pete,” Kevin says in a low bellow.
“Kevin, easy,” says Phil. “There’s no rush, Pete. This doesn’t have to be do
ne next week. Or even by next month.”
“Just before October,” Peter says.
Phil shrugs his shoulders in agreement.
“Bingo,” says the bulldog.
* * *
When Peter slinks back to his office, his voice mail light is blinking and two dozen new e-mails have arrived, but he’s too shaken to work. His shoulders and neck ache; he is suddenly exhausted. His stomach is still empty, but he’s lost his appetite. All he wants is to suck back a few stiff drinks, sleep for a month, and wake up in his old life.
The one with two wonderful children and a mostly happy wife. The one with a soft mattress in a big house. The one with suburban boredoms and quotidian worries. The one that had its ups and down, its crises and joys, its mild irritations and simple pleasures.
The one in which he felt moored to things bigger than himself. His family. This firm. Even this city.
His office phone rings and he answers it reflexively. “Peter Amendola.”
“Hey, Pete, it’s Wade. Are you okay?”
“Hey, Wade. I’m fine. Just tired. What’s up?”
“Nothing. Listen, I know things are not good for you right now.”
“That would be a mild understatement.”
“I know. I’m sorry about that.”
“Not your fault.”
“Anyway, I wondered whether we could get a drink sometime this week. I wanted to tell you something.”
A vision appears in Peter’s head: three olives impaled on a toothpick, leaning against the side of a glass full of clear, purifying liquid. He should go home and think this through. Correction: go to Alberto’s and think this through. He should get a good night’s rest. This is going to be a long, painful week and he should have his wits about him. The last thing he needs is a drink.
But the call of temporary numbness is too strong.
“What about right now?” he says.
“Now? Yeah, I could do that. I’m in midtown anyway. Just a few blocks from your office. Where should we meet?”
“Somewhere I won’t run into anyone I know.”
“Grand Central Oyster Bar?”
“Good enough. See you in twenty.”
Peter retrieves his suit jacket from behind his door, braces himself for the walk to the elevators. He says the words because they always make him feel better, even if it’s only a fraction.
“Fuck ’em, bro. They don’t know.”
He opens the door and strides to the elevator, not bothering to look into the offices he passes.
* * *
It was a small matter for a forgotten client. A regional bank, the type of client that had fallen out of favor with the firm’s management because really, how many billable hours could you squeeze from a backwater bank in Dover, Delaware? The bank had been acquiring other smaller banks around Delaware, trying to grow so they could compete with the big boys. Or, at least, survive. An employee had been tipping his friend about which banks were going to be acquired and the friend had bought the stock of those banks before acquisition and then sold them immediately after, netting himself a tidy profit, which he’d then split with his friend at the bank. Classic insider trading performed in outlandishly stupid fashion. As soon as the SEC got involved, the bank cut loose local counsel and called Dominic. Only Dominic had retired and the bank had been given Peter’s name instead.
So here they were.
The bank’s general counsel, a man named Wilson Temple, explained all of this to Peter in excruciating detail during a two-hour phone call. He stated several times that the bank had been founded in 1887 and each time, Peter wondered whether Mr. Temple had served as general counsel for the entirety of the bank’s existence. He pictured an ancient, withered shell of a man, hand shaking as he moved a magnifying glass over yellowed parchment.
“Of course, Peter, we aren’t entirely unconcerned about cost. In these trying times, a scattergood cannot prosper.”
Scattergood? Who was this guy? How the hell did he and Dominic ever meet? If the bank wanted to cut costs, it should keep Wilson Temple off the phone when the clock was running.
“So it would be appreciated if you staffed this matter very leanly, perhaps only yourself and a very junior associate.”
An image of Gina appeared in his head, soft and dreamlike.
“I’m sure we can accommodate you on that front, Mr. Temple.”
“Excellent.”
Another twenty minutes passed before Peter could extricate himself from the call. When he hung up, he exhaled and checked his e-mail in-box. Nothing pressing had streamed in. He looked at his schedule. Nothing pressing until a four o’clock conference call. He had a relatively open afternoon. He could get a little organized, clear his head, and maybe reconcile the internal conflict that had been fomenting in the three weeks since Gina Giordano had walked into his office.
Maureen was sipping tea from a large Styrofoam cup when he walked out of his office. She was always sipping tea, even in the dead of summer.
“Shit, Mo. What are you putting in that tea?”
“Language, Peter.”
“Your virgin ears.”
She put the cup down, gave him her serious look.
“What’s up?”
“I’m going to lunch. My usual.”
“Fancy.”
He looked down the hall to the closed door of Dom’s old office. He’d been gone since June. Didn’t feel completely right going to the diner without him.
“Miss your playmate?” Maureen asked.
“Yes,” Peter replied, honestly.
“What if your new playmate drops by?” she asked.
“New playmate?”
“Yeah, the one with the long black hair. The one who laughs at everything you say?”
Peter rolled his eyes.
“Good-bye, Mo.”
“Umbrella, Peter. It’s drizzling.”
“I don’t mind. I like the rain.”
“Bully for you,” she said and then turned back to her crossword puzzle.
* * *
The Splendid Diner was a greasy spoon joint on Fiftieth Street between First and Second avenues. Years earlier, Dominic had taken Peter here for his “welcome” lunch a few weeks after Peter landed at the firm. Peter was more than a little surprised—other people had been taken to Le Bernardin or Nobu or Sparks—until Dominic explained that since his heart attack, his wife had him on a strict low-cholesterol diet and the one thing he missed, really missed, was bacon and eggs. So he came here once a month to get his fix and he was sorry, really sorry, but he’d been on trial last month and missed his fix and he’d been dying for bacon and eggs and Peter was gonna have to fucking deal with it.
Dominic was the first person at the firm who made him feel comfortable. He wasn’t plastic. He was real. You could ask him about the Giants game. You could drop an f-bomb. He ate bacon and eggs in a shit-hole diner to avoid his wife’s wrath.
A waiter came to Peter’s booth. It had been a while, but he recognized Peter.
“You waiting for you friend?” he said in an accent Peter couldn’t place.
“No, just me today.”
“Same as usual? French toast with a side of sausage?”
“No. Two eggs, fried over easy, bacon, rye toast.”
The waiter scurried off with the order, Dominic’s old standby. Peter took a sip of his coffee.
Maureen had noticed. Not only noticed but said something to him. That was probably significant. Since their initial meeting, Gina had made a habit of dropping by his office every afternoon, ostensibly to talk about what she was working on, but the work talk inevitably gave way to a flirty repartee that left him breathless and addled. She possessed a sort of beguiling sensuality; when he was in her presence, it was difficult for him not to think about touching her. Kissing her. Making love to her.<
br />
Even when he wasn’t with her, he was thinking about her a lot. Too much. Not in a sexual way. Well, not only in a sexual way. It was like he’d rediscovered an old friend. One he’d grown up with but who also understood his life now. Strange as it was to admit it, it wasn’t so different from how he’d felt all those years ago when he first met Dominic. A kindred spirit in a foreign land. Only this time he was the experienced, elder statesman and Gina was the wide-eyed protégée.
Yes, it’s exactly like your relationship with Dominic. Except for the fact that you want to drape Gina over your desk and fuck her senseless.
The voice—the pragmatic, caution-urging voice—hadn’t grown softer with the passing weeks. If anything, it had gotten louder, developed a sarcastic and crass tone. He’d been arguing with it for the better part of a month.
He wasn’t a cheater, he told it; he didn’t have the stomach for it. He’d had opportunities to cheat, the surreptitious invitations that every married man detects. From bored neighbors with their suburban malaise and come-hither eyes. From his wife’s friends who chased their broods around his pool in revealing bathing suits, flaunting their reclaimed bodies right in front of him. Nothing explicit. Subtle little gestures that indicated a willingness, a restlessness. He’d never pursued any of them.
And he’d spent countless hours on various cases with a fair share of young, fetching female associates—working late hours, traveling together, lots of tension begging for release—and he’d never given them more than a passing thought. Not in that way.
You’re making my case for me.
He loved his wife. Sure, they didn’t have as much sex as they used to, as much as he would like, but he didn’t blame Linds. It was more his fault than hers. Long hours and unreasonable clients left him tired and irritable. The little energy he had left over was sucked clean by the kids. Six nights out of seven, he wanted sleep or the mind-dulling torpor that a few glasses of really good red wine provided. They’d settled into a routine, one that didn’t prioritize sex, and you couldn’t blame them. It was clichéd, but it was clichéd for a reason. He and Lindsay had been dating since their second year of law school. They’d gone through the humping frenzy of early love, the safe experimentations of settled monogamy, the clinical coitus of attempted procreation, the semi-abstinence of two pregnancies, the sleep-deprived sparsity of two infancies, the temporary revitalization afforded by procedural infertility. Sex was an important part of marriage, but it was elusive, inconsistent. They’d had peaks and valleys. Were presently in a valley and had been for some time.
