The Firm

'I don't believe that, DeVasher. A lawyer here would be a fool to risk his life and his family for a few promises from the feds. I just don't believe it will happen. These boys are too smart and they're making too much money.'

'I hope you're right.'

Chapter 22

T he leasing agent leaned against the rear of the elevator and admired the black leather miniskirt from behind. He followed it down almost to the knees, where it ended and the seams in the black silk stockings began and snaked downward to black heels. Kinky heels, with little red bows across the toes. He slowly worked his way back up the seams, past the leather, pausing to admire the roundness of her rear, then upward to the red cashmere sweater, which from his vantage point revealed little but from the other side was quite impressive, as he had noticed in the lobby. The hair landed just below the shoulder blades and contrasted nicely with the red. He knew it was bleached, but add the bleach to the leather mini and the seams and the kinky heels and the tight sweater hugging those things around the front, add all that together and he knew this was a woman he could have. He would like to have her in the building. She just wanted a small office. The rent was negotiable.

The elevator stopped. The door opened, and he followed her into the narrow hall. 'This way'—he pointed, flipping on a light switch. In the corner, he moved in front of her and stuck a key in a badly aged wooden door.

'It's just two rooms,' he said, nipping on another switch. 'About two hundred square feet.'

She walked straight to the window. 'The view is okay,' Tammy said, staring into the distance.

'Yes, a nice view. The carpet is new. Painted last fall. Rest room's down the hall. It's a nice place. The entire building's been renovated within the past eight years.' He stared at the black seams as he spoke.

'It's not bad,' Tammy said, not in response to anything he had mentioned. She continued to stare out the window. 'What's the name of this place?'

'The Cotton Exchange Building. One of the oldest in Memphis. It's really a prestigious address.'

'How prestigious is the rent?'

He cleared his throat and held a file before him. He did not look at the file. He was gaping at the heels now. 'Well, it's such a small office. What did you say you needed it for?'

'Secretarial work. Free-lance secretarial.' She moved to the other window, ignoring him. He followed every move.

'I see. How long will you need it?'

'Six months, with an option for a year.'

'Okay, for six months we can lease it for three-fifty a month.'

She did not flinch or look from the window. She slid her right foot out of the shoe and rubbed the left calf with it. The seam continued, he observed, under the heel and along the bottom of the foot. The toenails were… red! She cocked her rear to the left and leaned on the windowsill. His file was shaking.

'I'll pay two-fifty a month,' she said with authority.

He cleared his throat. There was no sense being greedy. The tiny rooms were dead space, useless to anyone else, and had not been occupied in years. The building could use a free-lance secretary. Hell, he might even need a free-lance secretary.

'Three hundred, but no less. This building is in demand.

Ninety percent occupied right now. Three hundred a month, and that's too low. We're barely covering costs at that.'

She turned suddenly, and there they were. Staring at him. The cashmere was stretched tightly around them. 'The ad said there were furnished offices available,' she said.

'We can furnish this one,' he said, eager to cooperate. 'What do you need?'

She looked around the office. 'I would like a secretarial desk with credenza in here. Several file cabinets. A couple of chairs for clients. Nothing fancy. The other room does not have to be furnished. I'll put a copier in there,'

'No problem,' he said with a smile.

'And I'll pay three hundred a month, furnished.'

'Good,' he said as he opened a file and withdrew a blank lease. He laid it on a folding table and began writing.

'Your name?'

'Doris Greenwood.' Her mother was Doris Greenwood, and she had been Tammy Inez Greenwood before she ran up on Buster Hemphill, who later became (legally) Elvis Aaron Hemphill, and life had pretty much been downhill since. Her mother lived in Effingham, Illinois.

'Okay, Doris,' he said with an effort at suaveness, as if they were now on a first-name basis and growing closer by the moment. 'Home address?'

'Why do you need that?' she asked with irritation.

'Well, uh, we just need that information.'

'It's none of your business.'

'Okay, okay. No problem.' He dramatically scratched out that portion of the lease. He hovered above it. 'Let's see. We'll run it from today, March 2, for six months until September 2. Is that okay?'

She nodded and lit a cigarette.

He read the next paragraph. 'Okay, we require a three-hundred-dollar deposit and the first month's rent in advance.'

From a pocket in the tight black leather skirt, she produced a roll of cash. She counted six one-hundred- dollar bills and laid them on the table. 'Receipt, please,' she demanded.

'Certainly.' He continued writing.

'What floor are we on?' she asked, returning to the windows.

'Ninth. There's a ten percent late charge past the fifteenth of the month. We have the right to enter at any reasonable time to inspect. Premises cannot be used for any illegal purpose. You pay all utilities and insurance on contents. You get one parking space in the lot across the street, and here are two keys. Any questions?'

'Yeah. What if I work odd hours? I mean, real late at night.'

'No big deal. You can come and go as you please. After dark the security guard at the Front Street door will let you pass.'

Tammy stuck the cigarette between her sticky lips and walked to the table. She glanced at the lease, hesitated, then signed the name of Doris Greenwood.

They locked up, and he followed her carefully down the hall to the elevator.

By noon the next day, the odd assortment of furniture had been delivered and Doris Greenwood of Greenwood Services arranged the rented typewriter and the rented phone next to each other on the secretarial desk. Sitting and facing the typewriter, she could look slightly to her left out the window and watch the traffic on Front Street. She filled the desk drawers with typing paper, notepads, pencils, odds and ends. She placed magazines on the filing cabinets and the small table between the two chairs where her clients would sit.

There was a knock at the door. 'Who is it?' she asked.

'It's your copier,' a voice answered.

She unlocked the door and opened it. A short, hyperactive little man named Gordy rushed in, looked around the room and said rudely, 'Okay, where do you want it?'

'In there,' Tammy said, pointing to the eight-by-ten empty room with no door on the hinges. Two young men in blue uniforms pushed and pulled the cart holding the copier.

Gordy laid the paperwork on her desk. 'It's a mighty big copier for this place. We're taking ninety copies a