The Boys' Club

by Erica Katz

  I made sure to pop in to say hi to Jordan before I headed home that evening, though I wasn’t entirely certain he even knew what day it was when I dropped off a hard copy of the updated agreement for him to review. He barely looked up at me, his fingers disappearing into his hair as he hunched over a large document, dragging a red pen across the page with his free hand. I turned to leave without a word.

  “Hey!” he called after me. I spun back on my heel. “Do you get how it all works together? The Exchange Act and the Securities Laws, because the buyer is public?” I nodded slowly, having no idea what he was talking about. “And why we had to carry out the acquisition through a wholly-owned subsidiary of the bidder?” I nodded even more slowly. Jordan stared at me. “You can only do a good job for so long without knowing the substance. I bet you did everything right in this.” He held up the document I had placed on his desk. “But I bet you don’t know why you did any of it.”

  I held his gaze, hating him for a moment as I started mentally composing a text to Sam, telling him I wouldn’t be home for dinner after all, but I nodded, turned on my heel and headed back to my office. I started with the original documents, getting the Exchange Act off the Klasko library’s database. I pored over it, actually reading a primary legal source for the first time since I’d started this job.

  I entered my apartment after eleven o’clock at night to a note from Sam.

  Hey babe,

  Tried to wait up but I’m exhausted. I got you a wrap if you’re hungry. It’s in the fridge.

  Love you.

  I smiled at the note and left it out on the counter, not wanting to throw it away. I was too tired to eat or to analyze why I was relieved that Sam was asleep. I slithered out of my clothes and slipped in between the sheets beside him. I breathed in deeply in an attempt to relax, and don’t even recall fully exhaling as sleep swiftly overtook me.

  Chapter 7

  From: Lloyd, Kevin

  To: Stockton, Derrick; Vogel, Alexandra; Greyson, Carmen

  Subject: Date help

  Guys, I have a third date tonight with a girl I actually like (new territory!). Stuck on this call so need to change in office. What am I supposed to wear??? Also, haven’t had time to make a reservation anywhere. HELP!

  I sat in the windowsill of Kevin’s office while Carmen sat with her legs crossed atop his desk and Derrick stood leaning against the wall, his head cocked to one side, all of us staring at Kevin.

  Carmen spoke first. “I like this outfit least of all three.”

  “Agreed,” Derrick and I said in unison.

  Kevin rolled his eyes.

  “I think jeans and the sweater. Seriously. She knows you’re a lawyer. You don’t have to dress like one,” I said.

  “So, first outfit?” he huffed as he wiggled his arm out of his blazer and put his tie back on.

  “I think so,” I said.

  “No suit?” Kevin confirmed.

  “No suit,” Carmen corroborated as I nodded.

  “Okay. Sweater and jeans. Check. Derrick, where should we go?”

  Derrick looked up from his phone. “Why are you asking me?”

  “You’re like . . . the playboy. I feel like you’d know how to impress a date. Where do you take girls on a third date?”

  I winced inwardly.

  “Am I?” Derrick looked at me, and I shrugged.

  He stared up at the ceiling. “Umm . . . let me think.”

  “Do I try to take her home with me?” Kevin asked. “She’s, like, wholesome. Like you, Alex.”

  I blushed as I watched Carmen look down at her manicure, seemingly annoyed she wasn’t being asked dating advice. “I’m not that wholesome,” I protested. Kevin and Derrick both groaned playfully. “And I haven’t been on a third date in so long.”

  “Yes! Of course you do,” Carmen instructed Kevin. “It will make her feel wanted. She can always turn you down. She probably should, if she wants to keep your attention. But if you don’t try, she’ll think you don’t like her.”

  Kevin nodded, as though he was getting instructions from a partner about a deal.

  Jesus. I’m so glad I’m not single, I thought. So many ridiculous rules. But beneath that voice in my head, I had the gnawing feeling of envy of those who got to experience dating in a city like New York, and with bank accounts to play with, too.

  “You’ve got a table for two at Il Buco in my name,” Derrick announced, putting his phone back in his pocket.

  “Yes! I knew you’d have a hookup! You’re the man. Thank you!” Kevin extended a fist to Derrick.

  “I used OpenTable,” he said dryly, meeting his fist.

  Jordan, Matt, and I worked late into the evenings for one week straight. Saturday and Sunday were discernible from other days of the week only in that my subway car was almost empty and the office was slightly quieter. Monday came, and with it, a deep tissue ache in the small of my back and a kink in my neck. When I looked in the mirror, I saw dull and sunken eyes, and leaned in closer to confirm that they were as dreadful as they seemed. Yup. But I had made it through the first round of negotiations on my first merger and emerged relatively unscathed. I was salivating, thinking of how close I was to splitting a pizza with Sam and taking a warm bath all by myself when the ring of my phone snapped my neck straight. Jordan was on the line.

  “Hey.” I rested the receiver between my ear and shoulder while typing.

  “I’m here with Matt. You’re on speaker.”

  “Hi, Matt.” I stopped typing. Multitasking while on the phone with Jordan was acceptable, but a partner demanded my full attention. I inhaled and put my phone on speaker so that I could apply pressure to my temples and hopefully prevent my brain from seeping out of my ears.

  “We have a dinner with Didier and the National Bank guys tonight at Marea. Can you come?” Matt’s tone was casual, but I knew Didier Laurent, the bank’s managing director of M&A, was his best client.

  My exhaustion was quickly replaced by a surge of adrenaline. I should say no, I thought. I should have gone home to Sam. We hadn’t seen each other awake in seven days. I needed sleep. But I knew how rare it was to be invited to a client dinner as a first-year associate, and I needed to take advantage of every opportunity to get on Matt’s good side if I wanted the option of a spot in M&A. Additionally, I’d already figured out that nobody senior ever actually asked anybody junior to do anything. Lara wasn’t really asking me to get started on reviewing leases, and Jordan was never really asking me to draft an asset purchase agreement. Senior attorneys told juniors what to do . . . and just added a question mark to make themselves feel better.

  “Sure. Count me in,” I said.

  “You’re the best, Skippy,” Jordan said. “See you downstairs at six thirty.”

  * * *

  I exited the elevator just as Jordan and Matt were stepping out of the one across the bank. We all turned and looked out the lobby windows to see sheets of water flowing outside.

  “Shit. It’s pouring,” Matt said. “Skip, can you get us umbrellas? We’ll go make sure the car is here.”

  I walked across the lobby to the Klasko security desk. “Hey, Lincoln. Can I grab three umbrellas from you?” The guard didn’t look up, his eyes fixed on the screen in front of him. “Lincoln?” I finally caught his attention. “Can I please have three umbrellas?”

  “Sure, miss, no problem.”

  Curious as to what had distracted him, I craned my neck around the security desk. A large flat-screen monitor was split into forty or so boxes, continually rotating live-feed views of the conference rooms, common rooms, and hallways. I took a step forward, centering it in my view, as I moved toward Lincoln.

  “Wow. Are these images all of Klasko?” I asked. He handed me the umbrellas, and I drifted farther behind the desk and stood behind his chair, fascinated.

  “Yup. I’m always watching.”

  “Creepy,” I joked.

  Lincoln gave a short smile before it faded and his brow furrowed. “I never
tell what I see. I only want to keep you safe.”

  “Come on, Lincoln. What’s good on TV tonight?” I asked.

  Lincoln pointed to the cafeteria screen, where Nancy Duval sat covering her eyes, her shoulders shaking, seemingly crying, though the image was too fuzzy to know for certain, as she spooned a pint of what appeared to be ice cream into her mouth in a banquette surrounded by dozens of completely empty tables.

  “Yikes!” I leaned in closer to see the image more clearly. “I hope you’re well compensated, or we’re just begging you to start blackmailing us!”

  “I am,” he replied, his tone quite serious.

  “Skippy!” Matt yelled, tapping his watch dramatically. “Our Quality is here!”

  I had no idea what Matt was talking about, but I gave Lincoln a short two-finger salute. “Thanks for the umbrellas. We’re outta here!”

  As we approached the Escalade waiting for us, I noticed a small white printed sign reading “Quality Car Service” displayed in the passenger window. The three of us didn’t say a word the entire way to the restaurant, as we composed and received a flurry of emails about our deal. “Just got an email from Didier,” Jordan announced as we pulled up to the restaurant. “One of his analysts is stuck in the office. Should we invite another Klasko associate to fill the seat? Derrick?”

  I hadn’t known Derrick was doing M&A, since he hadn’t mentioned it, nor had I seen his name on Matt’s whiteboard, but I would have been thrilled to have him to insulate me from any awkward silences with the client, even if it meant I wasn’t the only first-year invited.

  “I just emailed him,” Matt announced as he opened the car door. “He’ll be here in a few.”

  I sighed in relief and slid out of the car.

  We greeted KJ and Taylor, the younger members of the National Bank team, just inside the door of the steakhouse. They were both impeccably dressed in navy suits, distinguished only by the slight pinstripe in Taylor’s and KJ’s choice of a pink tie. Didier, their boss, was notably absent.

  KJ and Taylor extended their arms to fist-bump Matt and Jordan, and I noticed the flash of the silver cuff links fastening their French cuffed shirts. They looked slightly confused as to whether they should fist-bump me as well. Had these guys ever been to a work dinner with a woman before? I forced a wide smile, smoothed my silk button-down blouse into my skirt, and confidently extended my hand. “Alex Vogel.”

  KJ took my hand first, saying nothing but holding it just a bit too long.

  “So nice to put a face to your voice!” Taylor offered as I shook his.

  “I feel like I know you guys already from all the emails!” I laughed. I saw Matt relax almost imperceptibly, knowing I would charm the clients.

  “I didn’t think you’d look like this,” KJ said, looking me up and down. My cheeks warmed immediately, and I momentarily chalked it up to embarrassment. But it was actually annoyance that settled nicely into the base of my skull.

  “Oh? What did you think I’d look like?”

  He was saved by Matt, slapping him on the back and asking where Didier was. Jordan gave me a slight shake of his head, telling me to let the comment go, and I obeyed.

  “Stuck on a call. He said we should start without him,” said KJ.

  “Good, because I’m starving!” I laughed and touched KJ’s arm, diffusing whatever tension lingered in the sterile air.

  I followed the group to the table, taking time to marvel at the steaming white pasta blanketed in shavings of black truffle and the sea scallops perfectly seared to a golden crust on other tables. I was last to the large circular table and took the seat Matt gestured to between him and KJ, who was already mid-rant.

  “. . . and I could barely fucking understand what she was saying half the time. And her acne . . .” He gave a dramatic shudder of disgust, then continued to elaborate on the physical appearance of the private equity analyst they’d worked with on their last deal. He turned to me, and I laughed too loudly, to assure him there was no need to censor himself. I shoved the feeling that I was somehow betraying my own sex out of my mind. It was all too easily replaced by the sweetness of inclusion.

  Matt turned to me. “I got a couple of bottles of red for the table. But I got you a glass of sauvignon blanc, figuring you’ll have fish.”

  “Wow, I didn’t know we’d be time-traveling tonight!”

  He cocked his head to one side, looking puzzled.

  “Straight back to the fifties! Do I get to order my own food, or no?”

  “Funny girl,” he said. “What will you eat?”

  “Sea bass,” I said, looking over the menu.

  We sensed a figure standing over us and looked up to see Derrick, who sported a red-and-blue-striped bow tie and a boyish grin.

  Matt stood to shake his hand. “Hey! Welcome! Glad you could make it!”

  Derrick made a round of the table, greeting everybody, and I saw how his diplomatic upbringing had formed him. He was confident and controlled—polished in a way that put people at ease. When he came to the two empty seats, he took the one closest to Taylor.

  “Are you kidding me?” Taylor’s voice was raised in Jordan’s direction. “This World Series was purchased—”

  “Are YOU kidding ME? The Yankees have the best team money can buy, and they still didn’t make the series. You can’t buy a good team. It helps, but there’s more to it.” Jordan leaned backward, folding his arms over his chest to indicate that he had had the last word. KJ leaned forward, picking his opportunity to display his baseball knowledge, and I just observed this bizarre battle of manliness.

  I panned over to Derrick, who I could tell was attempting to consume himself with the cocktail list until the conversation moved to a new topic. He looked up and locked eyes with mine, then straightened his spine.

  “What are we drinking, boys?” he asked the table.

  Matt barely looked up from the menu. “I ordered wine for the table, but get whatever you like.”

  As Derrick, KJ, and Taylor eagerly announced their cocktail orders to the waiter, I watched Derrick intently. It had only been a week since we’d been together in Kevin’s office giving dating advice, but those days had done him no favors. His face looked puffy, from alcohol consumption, I guessed, and his eyes had the telltale bloodshot look that comes with lack of sleep.

  The waiter presented the bottle Matt had ordered to the table, then poured him a taste. I took note as he stuck his nose in the glass and inhaled and then swished the wine around in his mouth after a sip. He gave a short, powerful nod to the waiter before turning his attention back to the group.

  “Is this for Didier?” Derrick asked, gesturing to the empty seat next to him, and Matt nodded. “Looks like I get the ear of the boss man tonight.” Derrick clucked.

  I felt Matt tense slightly next to me, confirming what I had guessed about my role at dinner. A junior associate in BigLaw was expected to be a positive presence, but not the center of attention. To drink but not be drunk. To have a good sense of humor but not be funny. Being able to be the life of the party came with status—and at the partner level. Apparently, Derrick hadn’t gotten the memo.

  “Hope nobody minds if I kick the night off with a few shots too,” he said to the table. I caught Jordan and Matt making brief eye contact, looking slightly annoyed.

  “A sauvignon blanc for the lady.” The waiter placed the wine in front of me and made his way around the table with the other drinks.

  “And six shots of Patrón!” Derrick called to the waiter from across the table, his voice already a little too loud. I watched him intently, wondering if he was already a couple drinks deep. The waiter looked to Matt, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head to indicate that Derrick’s order was to be ignored, which the waiter acknowledged with only the slightest squint of his eyes as he continued to pour.

  “Cheers,” Matt said, raising his glass, “to our favorite clients.” We all raised ours, but as soon as we set them down, Jordan came up behind Matt and sp
oke in a hushed tone into his ear to alert him to some email he’d received. I looked to KJ and Taylor to see if they were noticing work being done at the table, but they were both staring straight down into their laps, having seized the opportunity to check their own phones.

  We all turned to Derrick as he pounded his fist on the table after a long sip of his cocktail, an unnecessarily histrionic display of masculinity.

  “I’d take Nancy over this d-bag any day,” Jordan whispered into my ear before heading back to his seat. I let out a small snort of laughter, recalling Jordan’s expression as he stared at Nancy eating her Caesar salad at our lunch. I pushed my wineglass slightly toward the center of the table and away from my hand, suddenly very aware that I should abide by the firm’s suggested two-drink maximum, which I’d read in the “Client Entertainment Policy” we’d received on the first day.

  I locked eyes with Derrick and gave him a warning look, but he brushed me off with a quick eye roll and patronizing flick of the wrist in my direction.

  “You’re all a bunch of drunks,” a booming voice declared, stealing my attention from my annoyance with Derrick.

  I recognized Didier’s voice instantly—it was unmistakable, with the slightest guttural trace of an accent clinging to his perfectly idiomatic English. I looked up, expecting a dapper, handsome Frenchman in a slim suit, but Didier was heavy. Fat, actually. And tall. Maybe six-three. He was also red-faced, in a way that made me think it wasn’t just a momentary flush, with big blue bloodshot eyes and blond, almost white, hair. He shook everybody’s hand, even KJ’s and Taylor’s, quickly making a round of the table before stopping at my chair.

  He stared at me intensely. “You must be Alexandra.”

  “I am! Pleasure to finally meet you.” I plastered a smile on my face as I extended my hand, which he took and raised to his lips. I inwardly shuddered at the beads of sweat on his thick upper lip, but I resisted the urge to snatch my hand away with every polite and dutiful fiber of my being.