There would be an awkward moment, then sayonara, and she’d never see her CIA man again.
A toothy grin and she grabbed her handbag. “In the underground garage across the street.”
“Me too.” He dropped a fifty on the bar to cover their drinks with a hefty tip, hefted up his briefcase, took her elbow and helped her up.
They chatted amiably until they reached her car in the garage. He opened her door, then shuffled his feet and said, somewhat awkwardly, “Julia, I… I’ve really enjoyed this evening. I mean, really.”
“Me too.”
The ball was back in his court, and he appeared suddenly tentative and nervous about what to do or say next. How beguiling. This fearless man who could face the most daunting dangers had melted into a shy puppy. He said, “I’d invite you back to my apartment for a nightcap, but… not tonight.”
“Why’s that?”
“Two other agents are crashing there. Most guys don’t keep apartments here. When they return for a debrief, I let them use my place.” He gave her a sad smile, and added, “In the field, we all live in a state of constant fear and anxiety. Sometimes… well, it’s nice to cook your own meals, be with friends, people you trust.”
Her stomach did another flip-flop. She’d been so obsessed talking about herself, and so selfishly concerned with her own romantic needs, she’d nearly forgotten how hazardous his life was. The man could be killed at the drop of a hat.
She clutched his arm and stared deeply into the contacts that gave his eyes that wonderful sea blue glaze. She said, “My apartment’s not far. I know it’s late for you… but a nightcap?”
She felt exuberantly guilty. So selfish of her.
He smiled. “A quick one. I’ll follow you.”
“Maybe you’d feel more comfortable talking about yourself in my apartment. You’re so mysterious. I’m dying to know the real you.”
He grinned. “It’s a promise.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
I returned to my apartment and found a message on my answering machine from a ceremonies officer of the Army’s Old Guard who wanted to finalize the funeral details; how many guests, the denomination of the chapel ceremony, who’d get her flag, the normal menu items regarding military funerals. The Army was moving with its usual selective efficiency. It’s astonishing how differently the Army treats the living and the dead. Have a problem getting paid correctly and you’ll be retired before it’s fixed; die, and clods of dirt are bouncing off your coffin before the obituary’s dried.
Message two was from Clapper and said, “Cy Berger called about some damned exam you’re supposed to take. Don’t screw with me, Drummond. Fail and I will make you the legal officer on Johnston Island Atoll. The orders are sitting on my-”
Wow! My answering machine suddenly leaped off the side table and crashed into the wall.
I mean, you think you’ve got it all figured out, some smartass reads your mind, and life turns to shit. It was past ten. The manuals in question were gathering dust on my desk at the firm.
Forty minutes later, I was seated behind said desk, studying a thick binder titled “Preparing and Processing Billings,” aka “Keeping the Juices Flowing.” By 4:00 A.M., knowing more than I ever wanted about the ethical and administrative policies of big law firms, I crawled over to the comfy leather couch.
A very irritating hand was soon shaking my shoulder and I looked up into the gloating face of Sally Westin. She said, “It’s about time that you got into the swing of things.”
“You ratted me out.”
“Yes, I did. For your own good.”
We exchanged brief stares of mutual animosity, then I said, “These two guys, Sam and Bill, end up seated side by side on a plane, and Bill can’t help noticing that Sam has a black eye. So Bill says to Sam, ‘Hey what happened to your eye?’ Sam says, ‘Well, I had a slight verbal accident, ’ and Bill curiously asks, ‘How’s that?’Sam says, ‘I was having breakfast with my wife, and I was trying to say, “Hey honey, could you please pour me a bowl of those delicious-looking Frosties.” Only it came out, “You ruined my life you fatassed, evil, self-centered bitch.” ’”
She stared for a moment, then remarked, “That’s not funny.” She crossed her arms and contemplated me. “You don’t like it here, do you?”
“What gave away my secret?”
“What didn’t?” She asked, “Why?”
“You don’t want to hear it.”
“Play your cards right and you could get an offer to join the firm. I hear Morrow got an offer. Most lawyers would love to be in your shoes.”
“You mean, isn’t it the ambition of all public-sector lawyers to join big firms?”
“I didn’t put it like that.” But it was certainly what she meant. The third-year scramble at law schools is all about a certain pecking order, starting with prestigious big firms, then smaller, less prestigious ones, then your mother’s brother with that small real estate titles business.
The lucky few who make it to prestigious big firms assume that we who don’t are envious swine who’d do anything to escape our dreary jobs and Lilliputian paychecks. There is a modicum of truth in that, somewhere; I, however, count myself as an exception. Near-poverty suits me fine. It relieves me of so many burdens, temptations, and difficult choices.
I threw my legs off the couch and the momentum brought me to my feet. But regarding her point, I said, “Law isn’t all about making money or prestigious titles.”
Whoops-I looked around to be sure the walls were still standing. But it appeared the building’s pilings were sunk deep enough in the muck of greed and avarice to keep it upright.
“Why do you practice law?” I asked Sally.
“What does that mean?”
“This firm, twenty-hour days, overbearing partners, the race to bill… why?” Note how cleverly I sidestepped her father and grandfather.
“I love law.”
“ What do you love about law?”
“I… I haven’t really thought about it.”
“Think now, Sally.” She looked away, and I added, “You don’t look like you’re having fun.”
“Really?”
“You look overworked, miserable, and empty.”
Her nostrils flared. “Thank you.” Anytime, Sally.
I stretched and yawned. I had arrived the night before dressed comfortably in jeans and a sweatshirt, so I slipped out of my sweat-shirt and reached for one of my new oxford button-downs. She pointed at three or four round scars on my torso and asked, “How did you get those?”
“Poor timing, bad luck… the usual way.”
“Is Army law that dangerous?”
“Before my life turned to crap, I was an infantryman.”
“You sound like you enjoyed that.”
“Yes… well.” I rubbed my forehead and confessed, “Infantrymen kill people. You know, people piss you off, and… Look, I know this sounds sick… you’d be surprised how gratifying… not that I think about it all the time…”
She edged away from me. “You’re serious?”
“My… well, my counselor… I mean, surely you’ve heard of post-traumatic stress… I’m making swell progress, she says. As long as… you know, nothing exacerbates my condition. Please, don’t mention it to anyone. It’s kind of embarrassing.”
She was staring at a blank wall, and I suggested, “Perhaps you can leave, so I can change.”
