firm of two.
Fortunately their rent was modest. The newly graduated lawyers had set up headquarters downtown in an old bank building which now housed a florist shop, a travel agency, and a number of small apartments on the two upper floors, one of which had also been rented by Bill MacPherson, because it was the cheapest accommodation he could find. A.P., who preferred to see criminals in court rather than in the stairwell of her building, had moved into a more secure and luxurious high rise on the outskirts of town.
The law office consisted of three small rooms partitioned with wallboard out of one large one-on the landlord’s theory that three rabbit hutches ought to rent for more than one decent-sized room. The frosted glass door opened into a reception area, containing as yet no secretary. On either side of this waiting room, doors led to the tiny offices of Bill MacPherson and A. P. Hill, each furnished with a secondhand desk and bookcase, law books, a typewriter, and very little else. The new attorneys had their independence, an optimism that might pass for recklessness in more conservative circles, and less than a thousand dollars to get on with. Business had better become brisk very soon.
“So, partner, how was your morning?” Bill asked.
“All right, I guess,” said A. P. Hill. “I went down to the courthouse and introduced myself around. I put my name on the list of attorneys who can be assigned to court-appointed cases. How did things go here?”
“Crowd control wasn’t a problem. I called the business college to see if we could get a part-time secretary that we could afford. They’re sending over an applicant this afternoon.”
“Good,” said A.P. “I’ll interview her. You’d fall for the first hard-luck story you heard, without bothering to find out if she could type.”
“Well, ask her if she suffers from claustrophobia.” He looked at the walls, little more than an arm’s length away. “It could be a liability in this office.”
“This is what we can afford,” said A.P. “If we don’t get some business soon, we may be operating out of a packing crate on the sidewalk.”
“Probably against city ordinances,” said Bill. “I would offer to go and chase an ambulance, but unless I get my car tuned up, I probably couldn’t catch one.”
A.P. glanced again at Elizabeth’s letter. “At least we got some more money. I hope you remember to thank your sister for this.”
“It’s high on my list of things to do this afternoon,” Bill promised. He held up a cardboard box. “Speaking of that check, I also got a little something to brighten up the office. I went out to deposit the check from my sister, and as I was coming back, I happened to look into that flea-market place… I’ll just put it on the table in the corner.” He took his newly purchased prize out of its wrappings of newspaper and set it on the white plastic table scrounged from Goodwill. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s dead,” said A. P. Hill. “Did you actually pay money for that monstrosity?”
“Yes. Elizabeth suggested that I spend the money on office furniture, but when I saw this fellow here at the flea market, I just had to have him.”
“What flea market?”
“That store down on the corner. I think it used to be a grocery store, but now some antique dealers have set up stalls inside. So, anyhow, I went in, just out of curiosity-”
“Do they have any old weapons in there? Swords, things like that?”
“I didn’t notice,” said Bill. “Probably. The place is full of junk. Why?”
“Oh, no reason. So you found this dead animal in drag-”
“The taxidermist says that he’s an authentic Virginia groundhog. And he wasn’t killed for display. He’s a road kill,” Bill added happily. “And his little black robe is handmade by the taxidermist’s wife. Isn’t he marvelous?”
A. P. Hill frowned into the leering face of a large marmot, who was stuffed and mounted in a standing position. Moreover, it was dressed in a black satin gown that might have been judge’s robes or graduation attire. “Hmm. I don’t suppose it occurred to you to buy a filing cabinet or two instead? Maybe some office supplies?”
“Oh, there’s enough money left over for that,” Bill assured her. “Especially if we buy secondhand stuff. But this fellow was too wonderful to pass up. He’s one of a kind. I thought we’d call him Flea Bailey. Get it? Like F. Lee-”
“Yes, well. Keep him in your office, okay, Bill?”
Bill remained cheerful and unoffended at this dismissal of his prize. “I thought I would,” he agreed. “After all, you’ve got a mascot of your own, haven’t you?” He pointed to a Lucite paperweight on the otherwise empty desk. Embedded in the clear plastic was a round bit of bone, like the center shank in a slice of country ham.
“It’s a present from my folks,” said A.P. “Family tradition. When the original A. P. Hill went off to join the Confederacy, his mother gave him a ham bone as a good-luck piece. He kept it with him all through the war.”
“And that’s why he made it through safely, you think?”
“Well, no,” said the general’s namesake. “Actually, he was shot by Union soldiers in 1865 and didn’t survive the war. My great-grandmother was born a couple of months after he died. But he was a hell of a general, so I guess my folks figured it might inspire me to greatness in the law.”
“If they’d throw a little business our way, that wouldn’t hurt either,” Bill pointed out.
His partner shrugged. “Cousin Stinky takes care of most of the family’s legal stuff. But maybe our newspaper ad will bring us clients.”
There was a knock at the door, and a well-dressed woman came in, carrying a beribboned potted plant.
“There!” said A. P. Hill triumphantly. “A client already! Unless you’re here to interview for the secretary’s job?”
“Neither, I’m afraid,” said Bill MacPherson. “Hello, Mom.”
As she set the housewarming gift on the secretary’s desk, Margaret MacPherson managed a tight smile. “Hello, sweetheart,” she said, hugging her son. “Actually, I
A. P. Hill spent the next couple of minutes profusely apologizing to her partner’s mother, whom she had met briefly at graduation, but had not recognized in the present instance. Their exchange of pleasantries was cordial but strained. Margaret Chandler MacPherson looked anxious, as if she could hardly keep her mind on the conversation. Inventing urgent tasks to attend to, A.P. retired to her office, leaving Bill to confer with his distracted relative. In her clean but spartan office, A.P. sat in her swivel chair for all of one minute before restlessness overtook her. Then she dusted a spotless desk, adjusted books that were perfectly straight, and resharpened all her pencils. Pride did not come cheap, she thought, looking around the shabby office with its threadbare green carpet and its battered old desk.
With her grades and family connections, she could have taken a job at any number of prestigious law firms in Richmond or northern Virginia. There the offices would have been considerably grander, but that would have meant working for the Silverbacks, as she liked to call them. She’d found
Her new partner, Bill MacPherson, although large and male, was definitely not a Silverback. He would be hard put to dominate anything more assertive than goldfish, but he was reasonably competent, rather good-looking once you got used to him, and unfailingly even-tempered and amiable. For someone who considered coffee one of the four major food groups, the contrast of Bill’s placid temperament was invaluable; it counteracted her own tendencies toward anxiety and overwork. The legal world might see William D. MacPherson as the crucial member of the team, the presentable young male eligible for membership in the old-boy network, but A. P. Hill knew for a fact it was her talent and ambition that would make the firm succeed; Bill was along for decoration and emotional ballast, and because her one weakness was a genuine affection for hopeless innocents. Somebody had to see that he didn’t starve, she told herself.
Besides, A.P. had a hobby that was more or less a secret, and she didn’t want the pressure and visibility of a high-profile law firm. There’s no telling who might see you there. Sleepy little Danville was both convenient and private for her extracurricular activities.
When the telephone rang, A.P. considered posing as the secretary they didn’t have, but she couldn’t figure out how then to take the call as her real self, so she abandoned pretense and said into the receiver: “MacPherson and Hill. A. P. Hill speaking.”
