Upon A Pale Horse (12 page)

Jeffrey swallowed, trying to remain calm at the mention of his future and undreamt-of levels of wealth in the same breath. “It sounds like a great opportunity.”

“That’s the understatement of the year. Look, Jeffrey, I know your firm. It’s a good, solid outfit, but it’s a mill, like going to work at a factory. Tell me you don’t clock sixty to eighty billable hours per week. I know the drill. You’ve got no chance of making serious money there until you’re older than I am.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. Of course it is. And this is your ticket out. Look, you seem like a decent chap, so I’ll lay this on the line. Whether Garfield takes you or one of the others is immaterial to me – I still get paid no matter who they hire. But you’ve impressed me the most, and if I recommend you, you’ll get the job. So I need to know that you’re onboard, and will give notice as soon as possible, and do whatever is required to move here within a matter of days. If you won’t, any of the others will, so this is your moment of truth. Figure out what you want, and if you have any reservations about this, tell me now, in this room. Because once you’re sitting across from Joseph Garfield, you’re a shoe-in, and I don’t want to waste my ammo bringing a non-starter to that table.”

“I…frankly, this is extremely attractive. What you’ve described, running my own team, working with high-profile clients, being more than adequately rewarded…if I seem uncertain, it’s because I’m just taken aback by how fast all this is happening. I mean, we only first talked a day or so ago, and now you’re telling me I’m at the head of the line for a career-changer.”

“Welcome to the game, Jeffrey. Don’t you think you’ve spent enough time in the bullpen? You can’t warm up for the rest of your life. Fate’s smiled on you. I’d grab this with both hands and never let go.”

Jeffrey nodded. It was everything any young attorney could hope for. But in spite of all of that, something was making him uneasy. Probably the pace – they were moving at Mach ten, and Jeffrey was used to driving in the slow lane. “You make a compelling argument.”

Roger smiled wolfishly. “That’s part of the gig, Jeffrey. Let’s not beat around the bush. You want this, or not?”

Jeffrey paused, the conflicting emotions within him battling for supremacy, and then logic took over.

“Of course I do. When do I meet my new boss?”

THIRTEEN

Dinner and a Date

The driver took Jeffrey to the hotel Roger had booked for him – the Four Seasons in Georgetown. When he disembarked at the lobby entrance his sense of disbelief intensified at the sheer opulence. They were sparing no expense, and that feeling was underscored when the bellman opened his room door for him and gave him an orientation tour. Jeffrey tipped him ten dollars, reconsidering the five he was going to hand him, and when the man left Jeffrey shrugged his jacket off and plopped down on the bed, groping for the TV remote as he breathed the hotel’s rarified atmosphere, a hint of something exotic, perhaps jasmine, in the air.

Dinner would be at the hotel’s premier restaurant at seven, with Roger and Joseph Garfield. If there was going to be anyone else there, Roger hadn’t told him, and he presumed if there were they wouldn’t matter for the purposes of his evaluation. The television news was filled with the latest atrocity in the Middle East, angry mobs chanting unintelligibly for the cameras as an American flag smoldered in the background, a professionally concerned newscaster trying to flog the slim details of a bombing into a half hour of interest.

Jeffrey considered the whirlwind of unusual activity that had become his life over the last week, and wondered where this latest chapter would lead. Maybe it was time for a change. When he took all the emotion out of the decision, getting the position with Garfield would be the best thing that could ever happen to him, even if it meant suffering through some unpleasant Washington winters. As the minutes ticked away and his dinner grew near, he became more convinced that he’d made the right choice in telling Roger he wanted the job.

Downstairs, he approached the restaurant maître d’ at exactly seven and was shown to a table in a secluded corner. Roger was already there, chatting with an older man dressed much like Jeffrey in a blazer and semi-casual slacks.

“Jeffrey Rutherford, meet Joseph Garfield,” Roger said as they stood, and Garfield reached to shake Jeffrey’s hand with an iron grip. Jeffrey did a quick scan of Garfield’s face, the skin taut and smooth, a network of fine wrinkles in all the right places, his complexion glowing with prosperity, his gaze clear and hawk-like, his steel-gray eyes those of a predator at the top of the food chain.

Garfield returned the scrutiny, and after an uncomfortable few seconds he offered a professional grin, the expression as practiced and genuine as a politician’s. He released Jeffrey’s hand, as though he’d taken Jeffrey’s measure through some sort of osmosis, and then motioned with his head at the table, where a bottle of Rioja waited on the white linen tablecloth, two Riedel goblets filled with several ruby inches, the third still empty, awaiting Jeffrey’s arrival.

Jeffrey sat, taking in Garfield’s lean jaw line, not an ounce of the soft-living flab that many attorneys sported as they approached the ends of their careers. Quite the opposite; Garfield seemed to project vitality and a glow almost like an aura, as if his presence had altered the physics of the atmosphere around him, imbuing it with confident energy by virtue of his moving effortlessly through it.

“A pleasure,” Garfield said easily, his voice modulated, the slightest trace of a southern accent playing at the edges of the syllables. “Thank you for agreeing to fly out to meet with us. Roger here assures me it was time well spent.”

“I hope so, Mr. Garfield.”

“I grilled him most of the afternoon, and he still showed up for dinner, so you have to give him that,” Roger said, picking up the bottle and pouring Jeffrey a generous measure. “This is excellent. I hope you like reds. One of Spain’s best,” he explained.

Jeffrey raised the glass to his nose, savoring the bouquet before holding it out in a toast. “Again, thanks for the hospitality.”

Roger and Garfield clinked their glasses against his and took appreciative swallows, and then returned their attention to Jeffrey, who suddenly felt like something on a laboratory slide. Garfield began speaking quietly, the voice of a man accustomed to his audience paying attention to what he was saying, and described the opening Jeffrey was interviewing for, stressing the attributes he prized the most, which mirrored what Roger had already told him. The entire speech took five minutes and was as well-crafted as a Shakespearian sonnet, building at the end to the point where Jeffrey almost felt as though he should applaud.

The questioning followed. Roger sat quietly, contributing as much as a stuffed boar head while Garfield expertly raked Jeffrey over the coals, probing every aspect of his professional and private life. The interrogation was civilized but laser-focused, and after a half hour of it, interrupted only by ordering their meals, Jeffrey felt like he’d been cross-examined by an A-team prosecutor, and was clearly guilty as charged – only of what, he had no idea. Then, as abruptly and intensely as it had begun, it stopped, and Garfield returned to making small talk with Roger, seemingly having made a decision, and now focused on extracting maximum enjoyment from his filet, which he attacked with the gusto of a shipwrecked sailor.

Over coffee, Garfield reclined against his seat back and checked his cell phone for messages, then set the little device on the table and leaned forward.

“I like you, young man. Roger assured me I would, but you never know until you’re in the clinch. He also indicated to me that you want the position, so it seems as though we’ve got a match. Welcome aboard. He’ll draw up the particulars of the offer and get them to you within twenty-four hours. I’ve got a good feeling about this, and frankly, one of my larger clients could use your expertise sooner rather than later, which is why there’s a rush. If you could start on Monday it wouldn’t be soon enough, but I understand that’s not feasible. As it is, I’d like you to commit to getting back here as soon as humanly possible – within a week would be best. Are you okay with picking up and leaving everything behind in San Francisco? I realize this is abrupt,” Garfield asked, not really in doubt about what the answer would be, Jeffrey could tell.

“One city’s pretty much like the other when you’re spending most of your time in the office, sir, so I don’t have any misgivings. As I told Roger, if the opportunity is substantial enough, I’ll move mountains.”

That was the right answer, because both men nodded, another successful deal concluded. Garfield rose, extending his hand again.

“I’m sorry. I committed to spending tonight with my wife at the opera, and it started half an hour ago. For that brief respite, I thank you, but I can’t miss the entire thing or I’ll never hear the end of it. Roger, you know what to do. Jeffrey, safe travels, and see you soon,” he said, and then sauntered out of the restaurant, looking neither left nor right, the room seeming to shrink when he left, as though he’d taken a substantial portion of the oxygen with him.

“You weren’t kidding. He’s impressive,” Jeffrey said to Roger, the last of the second bottle of wine all that remained in their glasses.

“You don’t know the half of it. I’d say you’re one lucky bastard right now. Let me pay the bill and we can get out of here; have a drink at the bar to celebrate. I’ll have everything ready for you by the time you land in S.F. The plane won’t be available for departure until tomorrow at one, so you can afford one nightcap,” Roger said, waving off any objection with a practiced hand.

The check could have bought a timeshare, and once it was settled Roger led Jeffrey to the lounge, a contemporary affair that reeked of prosperity, and ordered two glasses of Glenlivet after taking a seat at the half-f bar. The Scotch tasted like liquid gold, and Roger ran down a checklist of items that would be in the package as they toasted and then nursed the drinks, Roger’s eyes twinkling as the alcohol hit home.

Jeffrey was preparing to call it an early night when Roger nudged him and squinted over Jeffrey’s right shoulder at the other end of the bar. He followed Roger’s stare, and found himself looking into the dark eyes of a striking young woman – a brunette with alabaster skin, high Slavic cheekbones, and luxuriant shoulder-length hair, mid-twenties, who was just getting comfortable as she waited for her drink to arrive. His breath caught in his throat as her gaze shifted briefly to Roger, then returned to Jeffrey, a blink of merriment in it, as though they’d been caught enjoying a joke that only they were privy to.

Roger’s elbow dug into his side and he leaned in, his high-octane whisper practically singeing Jeffrey’s ear.

“Holy shit. What I wouldn’t do to be young again. Here’s some cash for the drinks – I’ll leave you to this. We old dogs need our beauty rest, and if you play your cards right, you may need the flight to catch up on the sleep you miss…” Roger slipped a hundred dollar bill under Jeffrey’s glass, finished his Scotch with a gulp, and dismounted from the bar stool. Jeffrey thanked him and watched him teeter off somewhat unsteadily, the potent cocktail having apparently rushed straight to his head.

The woman’s drink arrived – a Cosmopolitan, one of the lounge’s specialties, per the menu – and she took a grateful sip, downing a third of it before closing her eyes as if offering a silent prayer of thanks. When she opened them again, Jeffrey realized he was gawking. She smiled and the room tilted, and suddenly there was only her, everything else consigned to meaningless background noise, her teeth sparkling as a darting pink tongue flicked an errant drop from the corner of her mouth. She took another sip, this one smaller, and Jeffrey felt the liquid courage flush his face as he stood and moved to the barstool next to her.

“Excuse me. Is this seat taken?” he asked, imagining himself sounding like a modern Cary Grant in the refined environment. At least he hoped so, because the faint whiff of perfume he got was as powerful an aphrodisiac as if she’d offered him a lap dance, and at that moment he wanted to hear her voice more than anything in the universe.

“It is now, I guess,” she said, the words musical, like the tinkling of exotic wind chimes on the steppes of Central Asia.

Jeffrey sat and held up his almost-empty tumbler in a cheer, and she raised her martini glass in kind, the smile returning as her eyes devoured him, a willing sacrifice to the goddess before him.

“You’re almost dry,” she observed, draining another third of her drink with elegant relish.

“I plan to fix that right now. Cosmo?” he asked, and she nodded. He held up two fingers to the bartender and the man nodded before busying himself with their order. Jeffrey turned back to his new friend. “Rough day?”

“You don’t know the half of it,” she agreed with a small shrug.

“I’ll bet mine could top it,” Jeffrey tried, and she gave him a skeptical look.

“I doubt it. I’ve just spent the last nine hours in a closed-door negotiation with some of the most tedious clods in Washington. Toward the end I wanted to stab myself in the eye with my pen just to get out of sitting there one more second.”