First of all, requests for investigations flowed into my office from the three senior partners, seven junior partners (including Tabatchnick II and Orsini II and III), twelve associates, law clerks, paralegal assistants, and the despicable office manager, Hamish Hooter. It took me awhile to get a system of priorities organized and to learn to deal with all these strong-willed and redoubtable individuals. (The legal profession seems to have the effect of first enlarging egos and then setting them permanently in concrete.)
Everyone wanted his request for information dealt with instanter, and initially I was overwhelmed; but, after observing the snail's speed unravelling of most of the litigation handled by TORT, I came to realize that there are two kinds of time. One has sixty minutes to an hour, twenty-four hours to a day, moving along at a brisk clip. And then there is legal time, oozing so sluggishly that movement can scarcely be noted.
When a business executive says, 'I'll get that letter off to you tomorrow,' he usually means tomorrow, or in a few days, or a week at the most. When a lawyer says, 'I'll get that letter off to you tomorrow,' he usually means in six weeks, next November, or never. Always, in the practice of law, is the unspoken admonition: 'What's the rush?'
Shakespeare wrote of 'the law's delay', everyone is aware of the lethargy of the courts, and even the youngest, brightest, most vigorous attorney, fresh from law school, soon adjusts to tardiness as a way of life. The law, sir, is a glacier. Attempting to hurry it usually proves counterproductive.
Once I had recognized that central truth, I was able to relax, realize that very few requests involved a crisis, and devote all my energy and wit to mastering the techniques of my new profession. In all modesty, I do not believe I 22
functioned too badly. At least, my salary rose to $12,500 at the end of my first year as Chief Investigator, and to $15,000 at the completion of my second. Surely this was proof that TORT was well satisfied with my performance.
The increase enabled me to move from the YMCA into my own apartment, replenish my wardrobe, and invite Miss Yetta Apatoff to a dinner that included a small bottle of French wine. She did not, however, invite me onto her lap in return.
Not everything was cotton candy. I made mistakes, of course. Not mistakes, perhaps, so much as failures to foresee a possible course of events. For instance, I was assigned to pick up a supposedly friendly witness in a personal liability case and insure his presence in the courtroom at the required time. When I showed up at his Bronx apartment, he simply refused to accompany me.
He was a loutish, overbearing individual, wearing a stained undershirt and chomping a soggy cigar.
'But you've got to come,' I said.
' Got to?' he said, snorting. 'I got to do nuttin.'
'But you promised,' I pleaded desperately.
'I changed my mind,' he said casually.
'I insist you come with me,' I said. I'm afraid my voice became slightly shrill.
'You insist? ' he said. He laughed heartily. 'What are you going to do — drag me down there, you little shit?'
I had to report my failure to the TORT attorney handling the case. Fortunately, he accepted my inefficiency philosophically, the witness's testimony was not crucial, a subpoena was not warranted, and he soon forgot the incident. But I did not; it rankled.
The next time I did my homework and learned all I could about the potential witness, even to the extent of following him for a few days and making notes of his activities.
As I anticipated, he also said he had changed his mind and refused to testify.
'Please change it back,' I said. 'I don't wish to inform your wife where you spent three hours yesterday afternoon.'
He put on his coat.
He, too, said, 'You little shit!'
So I learned to cope with those rare instances in which lack of physical bulk made my job more difficult. I was not a licensed private investigator, of course, and I had no desire to attempt to obtain a permit to carry a firearm. I felt I could handle all the demands of my job without resorting to violence.
But generally, those first two years as Chief Investigator of Tabatchnick, Orsini, Reilly, and Teitelbaum went swimmingly. I learned the truth of many of those things Roscoe Dollworth had shouted at me just before his retirement.
People did lie, frequently for no reason other than they felt the truth was valuable and should not be revealed to a stranger without recompense. People did try to con me, and I soon learned to recognize the signs: a frank, open unblinking stare and a glib, too-rapid way of speaking.
I also learned not to get personally involved with the people with whom I dealt, while maintaining a polite, sympathetic, low-key manner. I also learned an investigator's job requires infinite patience, an almost finicky attention to detail, tenacity, and the ability to endure long periods of boredom.
If I had one regret it was that circumstances never arose requiring an original investigation to uncover the truth in a case of some importance. I felt I had proved my ability to handle routine assignments that were, for the most part, matters requiring only a few phone calls, correspondence, or simple inquiries that needed no particular deductive talent. Now I craved more daring challenges.
My chance to prove my mettle came in February of my seventh year at TORT.
2
Each morning I arrived at my office at about 8.30 a.m., carrying a container of black coffee and a buttered, toasted bagel. I liked to arrive early to organize my work for the day before my phone started ringing. On Tuesday morning. February 6th, I found on my desk blotter a memo from Leopold Tabatchnick: 'I will see you in my office at 10.00 a.m. this morning, Feb. 6. L.T.'
I postponed an outside inquiry I had planned to make that morning, and at 9.50 went into the men's room to make certain my hair was properly combed, the knot in my tie centred, and my fingernails clean. I also buffed my shoes with a paper towel.
The private offices of the senior partners occupied the largest (rear) suites on the second, third, and fourth floors, one over the other. Teitelbaum was on two, Orsini on three, Tabatchnick on four. Mr Tabatchnick's secretary was seated at her desk in the hallway. She was Thelma Potts, a spinster of about sixty years, with a young face and whipped-cream hair. She wore high-necked blouses with a cameo brooch at the collar. She dispensed advice, made small loans, and never forgot birthdays or anniversaries. The bottom drawer of her desk was full of headache remedies, stomach powders, tranquillizers, Band-Aids, cough syrups, cold capsules, etc., available to anyone when needed. She kept a small paper cup among the drugs, and you were supposed to drop in a few coins now and then to help keep the pharmacy going.
'Good morning. Miss Potts,' I said.
'Good morning, Mr Bigg,' she said. She glanced at the watch pinned to her bodice. 'You're three minutes early.'
'I know,' I said. 'I wanted to spend them with you.'
'Oh, you! ' she said.
'I thought you were going to find me a wife, Miss Potts,'
I said sorrowfully.
'When did I ever say that?' she demanded, blushing. 'I am sure you are quite capable of finding a nice girl yourself.'
'No luck so far,' I said. 'May I go in now?'
She consulted her watch again.
'Thirty seconds,' she said firmly.
I sighed. We waited in silence, Miss Potts staring at her watch.
'Now!' she said, like a track official starting a runner.
I knocked once on the heavy door, opened it, stepped inside, closed it behind me.
