PLUMMET: A Novel

by MICHAEL ZAROCOSTAS

  The body rolled over the bumper's edge and thudded on the tarp in the trunk. He shoved its stiffening legs all the way inside. Beads of sweat poured down his forehead as he gently closed the trunk and locked it.

  He threw away The Times, the sunflowers, and the ice cream he'd bought for Rachel. In the empty grocery bag he stuffed a can of lighter fluid, his own bloody clothes, and those that once belonged to the body. He slipped into the big safe sedan he bought his daughter for her sixteenth birthday, over her complaints that she wanted a BMW SUV. He hid the bag under the passenger seat. There was little air in the car, but he didn't move.

  He sat behind the steering wheel and wiped the brine of tears and sweat from his face.

  8 (11 months ago)

  * * *

  Outside in the hallway, telephones rang, page boys pushed mail carts across the carpet, paralegals rushed to the copier, secretaries jabbered, and the intercom paged names to call four-digit extensions. He was inside his office, unaffected by the muffled chaos.

  The office phone was cradled between Micah Grayson's shoulder and ear. He was listening to Ashley's voice, looking at the photos on his shelf. Pictures of her were displayed in front of a Black's Law Dictionary, a King James Bible, his red time diary, a New York Civil Practice handbook, and a Bartlett's Familiar Quotations. His favorite quote from Francis Bacon was trailing across his computer screen. The desire of power in excess caused the angels to fall.

  He reached up to the shelf for the time diary and scribbled in the diary, billing his six-minute conversation with her to a non-billable Firm accounting code. He wrote, 0.1 hour for Professional Development, 88881/001. Shut the diary.

  "Sorry, what? I was writing down my time. They make us account for eight hours every day, even if I'm just shooting the bull on the phone."

  "I said I can't wait to get this master's program over with," Ashley said. "Is there gonna be room for me when I move there?"

  "Of course."

  "Well, I wish I could have chosen the apartment with you. Whenever you talk about it, you make it sound like it's smaller than a shoebox."

  "It is. But I think that's what everything is like here, Ash."

  "So what's it like? Did you ever meet with your mentor? The one you said looked like he was in The Sopranos?"

  "Not yet. I'm sure he's just busy. Everyone seems to know each other around here, and I feel like the odd man out. I've been picking up lunch and eating by myself at my desk."

  "Aw, you sound lonely. I wish I was there already."

  "Speak of the devil," Micah said, reading an email. "I gotta run. That Italian guy, my mentor, just asked me to stop by his office for a working lunch."

  "Have a good time. I miss you." Ashley blew him a kiss good-bye.

  Micah put on his suit jacket and headed down the hall to the opposite side of the Sullivan & Adler office tower.

  $ $ $

  At the far end of the hallway, there was a beanpole of a man shadowing Raphael Bianco's doorway. The beanpole was holding a piece of paper, standing stiff with perfect posture. Must have a tie-rod lodged up in there, Micah thought. He was trying to figure out if it was Bianco when he heard someone's voice inside the office imitating the music from Dueling Banjos. Then the beanpole was saying something about "squeal like a pig" when Micah walked up with a legal pad in hand. The conversation stopped.

  "Looks like you have a visitor, Raphael," the tall guy said, looking through horn-rimmed glasses and playing with a silk handkerchief flowing out of a breast pocket.

  "Hey, I'm Micah." Micah tried to steal a look at the sheet of paper in the beanpole's hand. It looked like a resumé. "I don't think we've met."

  "Douglas Dombrowski. Love the accent."

  Dombrowski shook hands and moved backward, letting Micah breach the doorway. Micah caught a glimpse of Raphael Bianco sitting behind a pile of paper that must have been a desk once. Bianco looked older than his Firm photo, his face and suit wrinkled.

  Raphael said loudly, "Ignore Dougie. He was abused as a little girl." Raphael nodded at Dombrowski. "Be nice to Mike, he's my new associate mentee."

  "Ah, you're that guy. Raphael mentioned you. You clerked for the U.S. Court of Appeals?From Kentucky, right?"

  "Uh-huh." Micah braced for a joke.

  "You must be brilliant then." Dombrowski held a cute smile. "I don't know anyone from Kentucky. What's it known for anyway?"

  Micah leaned in the doorway, wanting to close the door and sit down in a chair across from Bianco. "Basketball and horses. Maybe a little bourbon if that's your poison."

  Dombrowski gave Bianco a little look. "Ah, nice. Don't they grow tobacky in your neck of the woods, too?"

  "Doug, don't be a dick." Raphael came around his desk. He put his hand on the door knob. "Go pull some wings off a fly or something." Raphael waved Micah in, shut the door on Dombrowski who was saying, "Was it something I said?"

  Micah sat down in the guest chair, rested the legal pad on his lap. He noticed a black pennant with an orange tiger and a couple of framed certificates from Fordham University on the wall. Raphael plopped back down behind the pile of paper. It was the first time Micah got a good look at his mentor. He figured Raphael would be about thirty-one or thirty-two now, but he looked older. Raphael wasn't Christopher Moltisanti anymore. His jowls were loose, his hair retreating back on his head, his face taut with a painful constipated look. He was becoming Tony Soprano. The thought tickled Micah, and he kept himself from smiling too much.

  "What?" Raphael smiled back.

  "It's nothing."

  "I'm not used to seeing associates smile." Wrinkles seemed to travel up Raphael's untucked shirt, into his face, and branch out in red vessels in his eyeballs.

  "I was just wondering why I hadn't run into you before. Since we're on the same floor and all. But I'm facing east on the other side there." Micah didn't want to tell Raphael that he looked very little like the picture on the Firm's website.

  "Yeah, I've actually been in our Delaware office a lot doing depo prep and then defending some depositions. And when I'm here, I'm on a weird schedule. It's hard to come in at the ass-crack of dawn when you're working until midnight."

  "Well, I'm just glad to finally meet you." Micah toed away a box of stinking, take-out food on the floor, realized he was sitting on a plastic dry-cleaning bag.

  "So welcome to the Death Star." Raphael kicked his Gucci shoes onto his desk, nodded at the plastic bag. "Just throw that shit on the floor, dude. Mi casa, su casa."

  Micah draped the shrink-wrapped suit on a sunken futon sofa and tried to think of something to say. He looked out Bianco's window, noticed a rusted water tower from another building and a hoard of pewter pigeons shitting on a ledge. "I tried calling you on the phone a couple times, but you were burning the midnight oil I guess."

  "Yeah, I've been cranking out a lot of shit for Lord Vader. So what are you working on? Who're you working for? Did you meet Hannah Smythe yet? Princess Lay-ya?"

  "Do what?"

  "As in 'lay you.'"

  "Oh, yeah." Micah hesitated. He filed that one away to mull over later. "Just did a document review and I've been doing some spot research assignments for Hannah. She's been pretty nice actually."

  Raphael's eyes narrowed. "Dude, I don't want to spread any gossip, but you should watch your back with her." He whispered, "Backstabber and major slut, too."

  "Okay, not sure I need to know that. So who's Lord Vader? You said you were working for him?"

  "I have to initiate you. Vader is Gabe Weiss." Raphael grinned. "He turned me to The Dark Side of the Force."

  "Mr. Weiss, really? He seemed like a great guy when I interviewed. I was hoping to work for him when I accepted the firm's offer."

  "Careful what you wish for, Mikey. You think Vader's nice now? You'll see." Raphael sat up at his desk with a dumb look, pricked up his ears as the operator's monotone voice came over the Firm's intercom, "Ravi Bondada, four-five-zero. Paging Ravi Bondada, four-five-zero."


  "Thought she said 'Raphie.'" Raphael looked relaxed again and pointed at the ceiling. "Little Ravi's fucked. That's Stu Greenbaum's number."

  "There something wrong with him, too?" Micah felt agitated for some reason. "He's my partner mentor."

  "I know, I'm your mentor, too. Stu's also the assignment partner in litigation, dude. You better start memorizing partner's extensions."

  "What for?"

  "Their extensions end in zero so you know when they're calling. You can avoid them that way, but you didn't hear that from me." Raphael winked. "So listen, dude, I just got another six emails and can't do lunch, but let's chat real quick about our new case. This is gonna be a lot better than the shit Hannah gives you. You ever hear of Carlos Mavros?"

  "I don't think so." Micah whipped out a pen, started scribbling down the name.

  "That's our client. The billing number is 6-1-5-6-6, matter number 1. It's actually a pro bono matter because Carlos has a non-profit charity. You better write that billing number down. You got the lecture from The Emperor, right?"

  "Who?"

  "Sorry. Jerry Sullivan in New Attorney Orientation? Says the same fucking thing every year? You know, he probably told you to bill your time while you masturbate."

  Micah grinned. "Yeah, sort of."

  "Anyway, you ever hear of Nikos or Nick Mavros?" Raphael gave him a second to shake his head. "No? How can you not know him? It must be a New York thing. He's like the Sultan of Brunei meets Warren Buffett except richer and without the harem. Our client, Carlos, is Nick's younger brother. All you need to know right now is that the Mavros family has shitloads of money. They wipe with hundies. You might hear some bull shit about how they made their money from Turkish tobacco. Opium. Completely untrue, not that there's anything wrong with it. Our guy, Carlos, is the angel of the family, but I heard some shit about him, too. I'll tell you that over a drink."

  "Okay. So what's our case about again?"

  "Carlos was falsely accused of sexual assault. It got in the papers and became a local scandal for a few weeks. All you have to know right now is that the charges were dropped. In fact, Carlos recently passed a lie detector with flying colors, and the NYPD nearly pissed themselves with apologies. Vader's handling the civil case now."

  "Gabe Weiss?" Micah sat up excitedly. "This is his case?"

  "Yeah. We're gonna sue a tabloid and one of the douchebag lawyers who represented the women. I'm gonna draft a complaint, and I want you to do some research for me. Do a little memo laying out the elements of a cause of action for defamation."

  "Under New York law?"

  "Where else, dude?"

  "Okay. Is this in state court or federal court?"

  "Focus on the state cases. Gabe hasn't made up his mind yet, but I don't think we have diversity. And we can get away with loose allegations better in state court. You got it, Mikey? You're a player now. Might end up on CNN, dude. Maybe even bang Nancy Grace, huh?"

  "I didn't hear that." Micah was writing as he spoke. "When do you want this?"

  "A couple of days. All right?"

  "Sounds great." Micah stood up, tucked his legal pad under his arm. He shook Raphael's hand again, then remembered something he wanted to ask. "When you're not busy, what client code do you bill time to? I've been using 'Attorney Development.'"

  "Dude, I'm always busy." Raphael's phone started ringing. He stared at the caller I.D. screen, shook his head. "Gotta take this call, Mikey. Be in the lobby tonight at seven, and I'll buy you a drink. You're my mentee after all. My young apprentice."

  "'Young apprentice.' I get it. Like a Jedi."

  "No, dude. Like a Sith." Raphael answered the phone, shot an air pistol at Micah.

  9 (11 months ago)

  * * *

  Raphael was standing at a window in the Firm's fitness center on the third floor. Looking down at the street, drinking a bottle of juice, still sweating even though he'd taken an ice-cold shower. He'd gotten on the bicycle for twenty minutes, Level 1 of 20, not to work out, just to watch the female associates run on the treadmills. The stationary bikes were positioned directly behind the treadmills. He'd been working for two days straight, but succumbed to the lure of bouncing female asses, then a cold shower, and a hot shave. The work-out had gotten his juices flowing again, ready for a night of binge drinking before he nosedived into his futon. He did a bump of Bolivian Marching Powder in the gym bathroom to perk himself up.

  It was Thursday, party night in Manhattan, and his brief for a motion to dismiss was done. On the partner's desk at least. He was supposed to meet his mentee, the new kid from Kentucky. He looked out the window, onto 40th Street below, and saw the kid's head looking around, waiting for him outside the lobby of the Sullivan & Adler office tower. Raphael sipped his OJ, watched Micah Grayson holding his jacket over his forearm and loosening his tie. An outdated suit and some knock-off tie Grayson probably bought for ten bucks from a Chinatown peddler. Another new associate he would have to train in the ways of big firm life.

  It was near dusk, but still humid in September, and tourists were hopping out of cabs, running to dinner before a Broadway show. Raphael felt bad that Grayson was waiting, probably hot in his cheap suit, but he didn't want to meet up with him alone. He was waiting for Elliott to walk outside and meet the kid first. On cue, a short nondescript associate spun out of the revolving doors from the office tower. Raphael could tell it was Elliott Needleman from how he hiked his pants up to his armpits and self-consciously patted down his curly Jew-beau afro. Elliott shook hands with Grayson, pointed back up to the office tower. Raphael leaned away from the window, as if they could see him. He headed for the elevator.

  When he got to the street, Raphael took his time, realizing that dozens of attractive young women were pouring out of the building across the street. He saw Elliott waving him over, but he stopped and enjoyed the scenery. The daily departure of girls from the huge conglomerate that published fashion magazines. He watched the Condé Nast girls' hips sway, listened to their pointed heels click on the filthy sidewalk next to him, thought of their thong underwear.

  Some smiled at him as they walked by, headed for the subway. Others held their purses tighter, frowned.

  Fucking prudes, Raphael thought.

  He finally strode over to Elliott and Micah and threw up his palms, waiting for hi-fives.

  "Gentlemen, what's up?"

  "Where have you been? We've been down here forever."

  "Elliott, relax. I had to finish that motion to dismiss." Raphael nodded his head not so subtly at a pair of anemic older counsel trickling out of Sullivan & Adler's revolving doors. He whispered, "Special counsel . . . the short bus must be here." Elliott laughed, but the kid from Kentucky just squinted at him. He obviously didn't get it. "So you guys ready to party?"

  Elliott's cell phone buzzed, and Elliott, all thumbs, fumbled into his belt clip for it. "I got a call from a partner just as I was leaving. It's probably him again."

  "Dude, do not answer that! That's what voice mail's for."

  Raphael started waving at passing cabs when Doug Dombrowski walked out of the building and patted him on the back.

  "Look a nerd herd," Dombrowski said. "Where are you three going? Chelsea?"

  "Grabbing a drink. Wanna come?"

  Doug nodded in Grayson's direction. "Only if you're going to a honky tonk saloon."

  Grayson said, "Yeah, we're gonna see your mama ride the mechanical bull."

  Dombrowski stood there, glaring at the new kid. "I'll take a rain check." He walked off, still looking back at Grayson.

  "You see that, Elliott? My mentee's got big brass balls." Raphael hi-fived Grayson who casually slapped his palm, not too excited.

  Grayson said, "What's that Dombrowski's problem anyhow?"

  "Forget about it, he's a snob. He should've worked at Horvath. You guys wanna get a drink or you wanna stand on the sidewalks and hold each other's cocks?"

  $ $ $

  A line snaked from the velvet rope of Idlewild
Lounge down half a city block. Raphael squeezed past the bridge-and-tunnel guidos, still feeling the energy spike and euphoria from the coke. He led Elliott and Grayson to the front of the line where a human steroid experiment stood guard.

  "Paddy, my man!" Raphael slapped five with the bouncer, slipped him a wad of cash. "You think me and these two homos can get in? What d'ya say?"

  The bouncer lifted the red cord. "Of course, Raphie. Step through."

  Raphael was tree-top high, as if he were swimming through air, the floor became clouds, his body gliding like a gull. He floated while his two friends struggled through the crowded entrance, then a dance floor with music blaring, bodies moving and gyrating. They bellied up to a stainless steel bar counter with red leather stools, and Raphael caught Elliott furtively punching buttons on his Blackberry with jittery fingers.

  "Elliott, you're such a pussy company boy." Raphael shifted his eyes to Grayson, gave him a fist bump. "Come on, do a shot with me, Mike. What's a matter, you don't have the balls?"

  "Thanks, but I'm okay with a beer." Grayson was looking around at everything.

  Elliott said, "So, Micah, how long have you been at the Firm?"

  "A couple weeks."

  Elliott shot Raphael a dirty look. "Raphael should've taken you out already."

  Grayson leaned back against the bar. "You a litigator, too, Elliott?"

  "No, I'm in Corporate Finance. Raphael and I started at about the same time. We're . . . Seventh Years. So Raphael told me you were editor of your law journal. Me, too. You must've done well in law school?"

  "I did all right. Well enough to be here, I guess."

  "How did you end up here all the way from the Bluegrass State?"

  "Have you ever been in Kentucky? I couldn't wait to get the hell out of there."

  "What's your family think about that?"

  "Don't have much of one, to be honest."

  Raphael noticed that the kid seemed uncomfortable. He handed him a beer. "Dude, you're gonna catch shit from people like Dombrowski about Kentucky. Don't let it get to you. I mean, we don't care if you and your pappy grew up in a trailer park."