Dead Ringer

Bennie smiled. “I was only kidding, Ray. Drinks on me.”

“No, I mean, I can’t pay you.” Ray squared his narrow shoulders. “What I owe you. Your fee.”

Bennie blinked. “Sure you can.”

“No, I can’t. I feel terrible about this, but I can’t pay you. I don’t have the money.”

“Of course you do.” Bennie set down her briefcase and purse in bewilderment. “You’re a good client. You paid me last quarter and the ones before that. Your business is healthy.”

“Not really. I borrowed the money to pay you last quarter, and I thought I could pay you this quarter because my two biggest clients were going to pay me. But last month they told me they can’t, since their customers didn’t pay them.” Ray ran a tongue tip over dry lips. “They’re both filing for Chapter Eleven. In fact, I’m about to file myself.”

“You’re filing for bankruptcy?”

“Yes.”

Bennie’s mouth dropped open. “This can’t be!”

“It is.”

“But you’re an accountant, for God’s sake! I mean, how could this happen?”

“I’m a good accountant, a good businessman. But with this recession, it’s like a domino effect.”

“Ray, I’m counting on this fee!” Bennie had put in almost 250 hours on this case this quarter, with trial preparation and trial. Even if she billed him fifty bucks an hour for her time, she was still cheaper than a plumber. “You owe me almost fifteen thousand dollars. I can’t absorb that kind of loss. I have a payroll to meet.”

“I can’t pay you, Bennie.”

“You can pay some, can’t you?”

“Not a penny. I’m sorry.”

“How about you pay in installments?” Bennie felt desperate. No wonder he’d been getting more nervous as the trial went on; he was facing bankruptcy. And now, so was she. “Listen, Ray, I can work with you. I’ll work with you. You’re my client.”

“No. My company is your client, not me. This is a corporate debt, and I can’t make side deals.” Ray shook his head. “When I put it into bankruptcy, you’ll have to get in line.”

“Am I first, at least?”

“Frankly, you’re not even the first lawyer. My business lawyers take before you, and my tax guys.”

“But what about the experts we hired, for the trial? You have to pay them. I promised you’d pay them. I’m not allowed to, even if I had the money.”

“Sorry.”

Bennie reeled. She couldn’t process it fast enough. She was still feeling residually happy about the victory. She had won and lost in the same moment. She didn’t know what to say or do. There was no trial wisdom about this. Nobody wise ever let this happen. And Ray looked so stricken, she didn’t have the heart to kill him.

On autopilot, Bennie picked up her briefcase and bag. “I gotta get back to work,” she said.

But she was talking more to herself than to him.

2

Friday morning, Bennie squirmed in her desk chair and crossed one strong leg over the other. No matter what she did, she couldn’t get comfortable. Her calves itched, her thighs hurt, and her underwear felt vacuum-sealed. She hated pantyhose, and she had more important things than lingerie to think about, like the new client coming in. She needed a new case desperately after yesterday’s debacle with Ray Finalil. But at the moment, the fashion police were at the door. And they had a warrant.

“Open up!” Anne Murphy called through the door, and in the next second burst into the office. Anne had long red hair, the gorgeous features of a runway model, and a law degree from Stanford. Naturally everybody had hated her instantly when she joined Rosato amp; Associates, and they were only now starting to forgive her her DNA. Anne clapped her hands together like a drill sergeant with a French manicure. “Stand up! Let’s see ’em!”

“No, I have to get ready for the meeting,” Bennie said, but she wasn’t sure she could stand anyway. The control-top waistband bisected her ovaries like a do-it-yourself hysterectomy.

“Lemme see.” Anne strode around the side of Bennie’s desk in heels high enough to cause nosebleeds and a black knit dress that outlined her curves. At twenty-something, she had yet to learn that knit dresses were the enemy. She appraised Bennie’s legs with a delighted eye. “Awesome! They totally finish your look.”

“What, the sausage-in-natural-casing look?” Bennie struggled to her feet to discourage the formation of blood clots and caught sight of her pained expression in her office window. Otherwise, she had on the same khaki suit as yesterday, with her hair a little neater. “These stockings are too tight, Murphy.”

“Thank God I had them. The ones you had were way thick.” Anne waved at the wastebasket beside Bennie’s desk, which contained pantyhose molted like snakeskin. “I can’t believe you put that crap on your body. Note to Bennie: Don’t wear anything they sell in the grocery store.”

“But the tube socks are a deal.”

“I hope you’re kidding. Those pantyhose you have on, they’re from Nordstrom’s.” Anne handed Bennie a shiny package. “If you insist on wearing pantyhose, which I told you are so over, these are the only ones that don’t suck.”

“Don’t say ‘suck’ in the office,” Bennie corrected.

“You say ‘suck.’”

“Not anymore. I’m on a curse diet.”

“’Suck’ is not a curse.”

“Shh.” Bennie was scanning the empty package, which pictured a completely naked woman lounging beneath the price tag. She didn’t know which surprised her more, the full frontal or the price. “Murphy, you buy pantyhose that cost seventeen dollars?”

“Of course. Wear them. You want the new client to think you’re a loser?”

“I’m not a loser,” Bennie shot back, unaccountably defensive. She was one of the best trial lawyers in Philadelphia, practically undefeated in both civil and criminal cases. It was beside the point that she was almost broke, had failed at two serious relationships, and bought her pantyhose at Acme. “Damn it, it’s okay to buy pantyhose at Acme.”

“But look at the ones I gave you. The color is perfect.”

Bennie looked down and double-checked. Her legs were strong and muscular from years of rowing, and a thick vein snaked down the side of one calf, with a valve like a tiny knot. But she couldn’t see any color in her legs, undoubtedly owing to the lack of circulation to her extremities. “These stockings don’t have a color.”

“Of course they do. They’re ‘nude.’”

“Nude isn’t a color, it’s a misdemeanor.”

“Nude is the new nude.”

“Oh, please.” Sometimes Bennie doubted whether Anne Murphy had ever seen Stanford Law. “Who buys pantyhose to look like they’re not wearing pantyhose?”

“Everybody but you.” Anne folded arms skinny as licorice sticks, but Bennie couldn’t stop thinking about the seventeen dollars. She hadn’t paid herself a salary in two months and was rapidly losing her sense of humor. And Ray Finalil wasn’t the only one of her clients in deep financial trouble; the recession had already bankrupted two of her bread-and-butter corporate clients, Caveson, Inc., and Maytel. As a result, Bennie had been up most of last night, going over the books. Her firm couldn’t survive on her personal savings for more than two months. She’d already cut their expenses to the bone, and at the moment she was looking into the guileless green eyes of her newest associate, who would be the first lawyer to be laid off.

Just then laughter came from the open door, where the other young associates, Mary DiNunzio and Judy Carrier, had materialized. At least Bennie thought it was Judy Carrier, but she had to do a double take. The associate was wearing Judy’s artsy corduroy smock and white T-shirt, and a familiar grin warmed her round, pretty face. But her formerly lemony hair had been hacked off around her ears and the entire moplet had been colored a hot pink. Bennie was horrified.