Death of a Jaded Samurai

by Diane Bator

  I just sat there, feeling like I should be doing something, as long as that something wasn't following Dougie into Adam Tiddle's orbit. So I measured a half cup of Dougie's protein powder into the blender for Missy while ogling the bare-chested model on the label—he was probably a louse, too. A stench rose from the blender, and I clamped the lid on to stifle it. Judging by the odor, Dougie's daily protein shakes tasted like Adam Tiddle's boots.

  Missy had gotten as far as slicing a banana when we heard a shout and the clatter of Bruno Maglis in the hallway, and then Dougie was back, panting, sweat running down his artificially bronze cheeks. His eyes were a little wild. "You could've told me Tiddle had a gun," he said to Missy. "I can't believe you didn't tell me Tiddle had a gun. He could've killed me out there! Do you really hate me that much?"

  She probably did, but Missy didn't confirm or deny. She dropped the banana pieces into the blender and hit a button, serene as the Virgin Mary, and watched Dougie's protein shake slop around for a few seconds.

  He turned to me, hands propped on his hips. "Did you know Tiddle had a gun?"

  "I didn't know it was Tiddle," I said, which wasn't quite the same thing.

  "Christ." He shook his head, snatching the glass Missy offered him. "You broads are too friggin' much. Good thing he forgot to load it."

  That explained the yelling. Probably Adam Tiddle, out of frustration. As slippery as Dougie Digits was, you didn't get too many shots at him. So to speak.

  Dougie drank half the shake in one motion, let out a ripping belch, and left his upper lip unwiped. Between the protein shake and the makeup, his face looked like a color wheel. "I threw the dumb country fuck out," he groused. "Next time he sets foot in here, call the cops." He fixed me with the death stare. "That means you, too, if you can stop humping the refrigerator long enough."

  "There's nothing going on between me and the refrigerator," I said hotly, but Dougie had gone back to his protein drink. Probably a good thing. There was a cheesecake in the fridge that might say the fridge and I had something very real. But that was for another time. I got out of the kitchen before Missy had the blender rinsed out.

  My desk was squeezed into the reception area with Missy's and the firm's third secretary's, Paige Ford, who hadn't graced us with her presence yet. Probably got lost on her way to work. After all, she'd only been with the firm for six years. I dropped my handbag beneath my desk and sat staring at Adam Tiddle's empty chair while I pondered the meaning of life. I'd like to say I arrived at some stirring realizations in those thirty seconds, but I'd be lying. Instead, I noticed the small white envelope propped against my computer monitor and forgot all about Adam Tiddle. It was an invitation to the senior partner's house for the annual firm barbecue. According to Missy, Ken Parker held the affair every August in his private Xanadu, nine rural acres complete with rolling hills, stables, and an in-ground pool with Jacuzzi. Since I'd only worked at the firm eight months, this was my first invitation. I tucked the invitation in my bag and suspended all thoughts of resigning for the moment. I was just shallow enough to want a glimpse of how the other half lived before I slunk back to my downscale apartment and rued my decision not to attend law school.

  Also, I wanted more of that cheesecake.

  I switched on my computer and sat back to admire my surroundings while it booted up. It wasn't an unpleasant place to work, once you got past the lawyers and the staff. The partnership owned the building, a rehabbed Colonial within walking distance of the courthouse and all the downtown power restaurants. Lawyers upstairs, tucked safely out of sight from bill collectors and disgruntled spouses. Secretaries downstairs in the line of fire. Basement reserved for closed files and Dougie's gym equipment. According to Missy, Ken Parker's wife had done the decorating. Lots of navies and burgundies and creamy whites. And for the lawyers, lots of mahogany and leather. Ken Parker and Howard Dennis had wanted to create the impression of understated wealth, dignity, and integrity for their practice. If you overlooked Dougie Digits, they'd succeeded.

  Thing is, Dougie Digits was hard to overlook. Believe me, I've tried.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I hefted an expandable file off the floor beside my desk and settled in for an exhilarating eight hours of typing Answers to Interrogatories. Interrogatories are written questions that have to be answered by both plaintiffs and defendants, things like: What were you looking at two seconds before you tripped over that crack in the sidewalk and fell four years ago? This is the glamorous side of being a legal secretary. Because I was the rookie, the less desirable jobs like typing multi-paged motions and Answers to Interrogatories fell to me, and I let them fall. I like to think it was because of my emotional maturity, but I suspect it was because of my lack of assertiveness. My sister, Sherri, always exhorted me to open my mouth for something other than eating, but when you're five-three and weigh only ninety pounds, you can't afford to waste that much energy. I know what you're thinking: such a problem to weigh only ninety pounds. Let me give you a different perspective on it. I'm thirty-three, and I still wear training bras.

  Before too long, Paige showed up, grunted hello and disappeared into the kitchen for her coffee break, having exhausted herself from the three mile commute. That was all the conversation I could handle from Paige, so I stayed where I was, typing away diligently, until my interoffice phone line buzzed and I was summoned to the conference room.

  The whole staff was there when I arrived, their expressions reflecting varying degrees of pain, the reason for which soon became apparent. Dougie had connected his laptop to the flatscreen and was punching keys with that gleam in his eye that signified the unfurling of a new commercial spot. Usually after one of his commercials appeared, we were overrun for the next week by lunatics with dollar signs in their eyes. I wasn't looking forward to it. Dougie's existing clients were scary enough.

  Ken Parker, the elder statesman and founder of the firm, had been given the seat of dubious honor in front of the flatscreen. Ken was slipping into old age with a grace reserved for the very rich. Tennis and sailing preserved his trimness, daily naps preserved his stamina, and hair like a Samoyed, thick and white, preserved his handsomeness. He had the reputation around the county for being a few degrees short of plumb, but he had more integrity than anyone I'd ever met and the sort of gentlemanly good manners most women have only heard about in rumor.

  The third partner, Howard Dennis, was standing by the window, punching numbers into his cell phone and looking self-important while the firm's associate, Wally Randall, openly adored him. Howard was built like a bathtub with fangs, and he kept them sharp chewing on the secretarial staff. If I had to choose between a night with Howard and a night in hell, I'd start shopping for a fan.

  Wally was Howard's pet lawyer, and he was kept on a choker. Wally didn't use the bathroom if Howard didn't rubber stamp it first. He was tall, dark, and awkward, with wrist bones like radio knobs, and knees that clicked and popped like castanets. You heard Wally coming well before you saw him. He claimed this was due to college football injuries, but I knew better. I knew it was from crawling around behind Howard.

  The bookkeeper, Janice Iannacone, was closest to the door, looking like she might make a run for it. This was her usual post during office meetings. I used to think it was Dougie's commercials that made her so sour, since she knew better than anyone what they cost the firm. I came to learn she was sour because she detested everyone and everything. Including her ex-husband, or maybe because of him.

  I spotted an open seat beside Donna Warren, the overworked paralegal. Donna was sitting at the table with an open law book in front of her, scribbling on a legal pad and trying to disappear. I knew how she felt. I'd rather be typing Answers to Interrogatories myself. You couldn't describe Donna. To describe her would be to describe the air. Such was her ability to vanish into her environment.

  "Okay, we're all here," Dougie said, unnecessarily. "Got the new spot here. Let's take a look, shall we?"

  All the blood drained fr
om Ken's face as the screen flickered to life, and Television Dougie appeared, shellacked and pancaked, looking more like a cadaver than a representative of one of the county's wealthiest law firms.

  "It's a different world today," he intoned with appropriate somberness. "Car accidents. Slip and falls. Medical mistakes. At any moment of any day, you could fall victim to someone else's negligence, and who would pay the price?"

  Ken glanced up. "A little heavy-handed, isn't it?"

  Television Dougie was steamrolling on. "Has someone you love been unjustly arrested for drug possession? Have you suffered the indignity of losing your license for driving under the influence?"

  Ken did something that sounded like a moan.

  "For Christ's sake," Howard said. Only he said it into his cell phone, with his back turned to the television.

  "Keep watching," Dougie said, implying it was about to get better.

  It didn't.

  "Don't suffer one more day. Call the law office of Parker, Dennis, and Heath, and let us help you get every penny you deserve." TV Dougie slammed his fist down on the table, and all of us jumped. All of us except for Howard. He was too busy listening to his voice mail. "We'll get justice for you," TV Dougie vowed. "Someone must pay!" An oily smile, a flash of gum, a lurid wink, and the firm's phone number mercifully appeared over his face before the screen went black.

  Dougie powered off the flatscreen. "Pretty good, huh?"

  "You might want to think about whitening strips," I said.

  He frowned at me.

  Ken shifted in his chair, sighing heavily. "I've told you before, we partners should approve these scripts. I can't say I think much of your lottery approach."

  Dougie's eyebrows drew down, making him look more perplexed than usual. "Melissa? What do you think?"

  Missy swallowed hard. "To tell you the truth, Doug, I agree with Ken. It's not very…classy. It could use a little…"

  "Class," Paige said.

  Missy looked at her. "Right."

  Dougie's lower lip pooched out. "Well, my wife liked it."

  "I hate it," Missy said.

  "I hate it, too," Paige said.

  Dougie blinked in open surprise. "Donna? What about you?"

  Donna pulled her face out of the law book, her cheeks the color of burgundy wine. "I, um, didn't really–"

  "Why're you asking her?" Wally practically yelled. "Who cares what the support staff thinks?"

  Donna glowered at Wally before disappearing back into her legal research. Instantly her expression smoothed out and became placid. I envied her ability to escape with such ease.

  "Well, I like it." Dougie gathered up his laptop. "It'll start running this Friday night, during Springer."

  "Naturally," Ken said. "Are we quite through here? I have a meeting with Dr. Forchet." He pushed himself to his feet and left the room without waiting for an answer. One day I hope to have that much self-confidence. I won't even walk out on the cleaning crew.

  "Did anyone make coffee?" Paige asked the room at large. "We're out of coffee. I need a cup of coffee."

  "Dunkin Donuts made some." Missy tapped my arm. "Let's go, Jamie. We've got work to do."

  She pushed me along with the force of her anger, and when we got back to our desks, I said, "Are you okay? You seem a little irritated. I'm sure Paige can make her own coffee."

  "My wife liked it." Missy shuddered. "That guy should get a clue. I think all those dumbbells have gone from his hands to his head."

  I watched her savage her computer mouse for a few seconds. This was interesting. Missy's usual reaction to the TV spots was more benign "So what do you care if his wife liked it?" I said finally. "Someone has to."

  "I don't," Missy said, jamming a sheaf of paper into her printer tray. "I don't care at all. Those two deserve each other."

  Uh-oh. I was leaving that one alone.

  "Hey, Winters."

  I looked up to find Wally hovering over my monitor, holding something that looked suspiciously like Interrogatories. "You wanna type these up for me real quick?" He did something with his lips that resembled a smile.

  I didn't, but I couldn't think of a polite way to decline, and Missy didn't seem to be volunteering for the job, so I grabbed the pages and tossed them on the desk.

  His lips flatlined. "I need them by two o'clock."

  "You'll get them," Missy said, "when she gets around to them."

  I nodded. Wally went white with indignation and stomped off to find Howard. Missy gave me an encouraging smile and bent her head to her own work while I resumed typing the Interrogatory answers. I wasn't sure what Missy's problem was with Doug, but it was between the two of them. The truth is, I would've run shrieking from this job in the first week if it hadn't been for Missy. I'm still holding that out as an option if my paycheck ever bounces. Not that I expected that to happen. All the partners drove Mercedes, and Wally had a baby Beemer. Even Janice had managed to save enough to buy a used Lexus. As much as everyone hated to admit it, this was probably due to Dougie's shameless commercial spots. The spots brought in every hothead within the viewing area with an axe to grind, but they also brought in a seven-figure revenue stream, according to Missy. It made me feel a little sorry for Ken Parker. He'd founded a dignified solo practice and would retire from a three-ring circus with Dougie Digits as the head clown.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The next day, Paige demonstrated remarkable planning skills by showing up with a giant cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee. She settled at her desk, and the three of us did what legal secretaries do, keeping the firm afloat with little or no recognition. Every now and then, Wally showed up to drop files on the floor by my desk before running back to Howard's side. Janice stopped by Paige's desk to rifle through her client ledger sheets and growl at us. Donna floated past with her nose in a law book. I kept an eye on the clock so I wouldn't miss lunch. It was pretty much business as usual until my skin began to prickle, and I looked up to find a gorgeous blonde woman standing in front of my desk. All three of us stopped typing simultaneously. Or maybe the power cut out from her force field.

  "I'd like to see Mr. Heath. My name is Victoria Plackett." She gave me the sort of smile that opened doors and wallets alike. I wondered if she practiced it in front of the mirror. It just wouldn't be fair if that came naturally.

  Across the room, Paige hung onto her desk with bared claws and practically fell off her chair to get a better look.

  "Do you have an appointment?" I flipped through the Law Diary's calendar pages until I got to the right date. At least I think it was the right date. This woman's perfume was smothering my synapses.

  "I'm sure he'll see me," she said, smile still firmly in place. "I have an interesting case for him."

  "I'm afraid he's very busy," Missy began, when Dougie thumped down the steps cradling a Playboy magazine, which pretty much killed that notion.

  "Winters, the toilet upstairs is clogged, and I want you to" He stopped in mid-sentence, his mouth still open. "Well, hello." He oozed up next to the blonde with one hand out and the other tucking the magazine behind his back. "I'm Doug Heath. How can I help you?"

  The blonde let Dougie fondle her hand for a moment before taking it back, while the smile ratcheted from brilliant to dazzling. Any more charm and I'd need sunglasses "I'd like to speak to you about a case, if you have the time. Your girl here says you're busy."

  I thought I heard a hiss coming from Missy's direction.

  Dougie flung the Playboy onto my desk and pretended to consult the calendar while digging banana remnants out of his incisors with his pinky. He bared his teeth at me. I nodded briefly. He nodded back and straightened. At least I think he straightened. She had about six inches on him in bare feet, and her feet were not bare. They were strapped into dangerous-looking spike-heeled sandals.

  Missy cleared her throat. "Doug, aren't you supposed to?"

  "No," Dougie said, not taking his eyes off the blonde.

  "But I'm sure that the luncheon is"
<
br />   "No," Dougie said again. "That's next week."

  "Okay," Missy said, a little frosty. "But the Nobel committee will be very disappointed."

  Dougie did an Elvis thing with his top lip and escorted the blonde to the stairs with one hand at her elbow, probably to keep from tripping over his tongue. Missy watched them with more venom than a cobra. Paige stuck out her tongue at their backs and was touching up her makeup before the blonde's heel hit the first step, since Paige tended to run about as deep as a puddle.

  I had enough of my own neuroses that I didn't need to share theirs, so I went back to work. One of the skills I'd acquired in my time with Parker, Dennis, and Heath was the ability to type kindling-dry legalese without actually reading it. This came in handy whenever Howard Dennis presented me with one of his excruciating product liability Complaints. While Dougie's Complaints used words like "outrageous" and "pomposity," Howard's used lots of "wherefores" and "hereupons." It was the difference between reading Tolstoy and reading Jackie Collins. Jackie was entertaining, but she wasn't going to expand your sphere of knowledge. Anyway, the ability to slog through the legalese while planning your weekend was a skill useful in waiting rooms, where you could pretend you were reading the Wall Street Journal while eavesdropping on the people around you.

  I was almost finished with Wally's emergency desk clutter when I came across something undecipherable. Squinting at it didn't help, so I took it over to Missy and pointed. "Can you tell what this is supposed to be?"

  She looked up from the letter she was working on, said, "No clue," and lowered her head again. Guess she was still miffed at Dougie.

  I glanced over at Paige, who was hard at work trimming her cuticles. "You want to take a stab at it?"

  "Whose is it?" she asked, as if that made a difference.

  "Wally's," I said.

  She shuddered. "No, thanks. That boy should've been a doctor with that handwriting."

  Now I had to track down the boy genius. The best place to start would be Howard's office, since Wally liked to sit quietly in there and soak up the atmosphere.