Worst Fears Realized

40

BRUCE GOLDSMITH STARTED PACKING HIS briefcase. “Millie, get in here!” he shouted. His secretary came in with a pad. “Where was Moyle staying?”

“At the Ritz-Carlton; he’s got a club-level room reserved.”

“Change it to a suite, a big one; the client can afford it, and have a car meet me at the airport – a Mercedes, not a Lincoln.”

“Right,” she said, making notes rapidly.

Goldsmith’s partner, Lester Moyle, walked into the office. “What the hell is going on?” he asked.

“I’m taking the San Francisco deposition,” Goldsmith said.

“The hell you are; that’s my client.”

“And who gave her to you?”

“Listen, Bruce, I don’t know what’s going on, here, but this is very high-handed, and I’m not going to put up with it.”

“Les, shut up and give Millie your notes; I don’t give a shit whether you like it or not; I’m doing the deposition.”

“That tears it for me, Bruce,” Moyle said. “I’m sick of your prima donna act. You want to buy me out of the firm?”

“That’s fine by me, you little prick,” Goldsmith rejoined. “You know the formula by heart, I expect; figure out what your share is worth and draw up the agreement. Fax it to me in San Francisco, and I’ll sign.”

“I’m taking my clients,” Moyle said.

“The hell you are; read our contract. You walk out of here, you do it alone. If you try to take a single client with you, I’ll lock you up in a lawsuit that’ll set you back years, and you know I can do it. Now get out of my office.”

Moyle stalked out of the room, swearing.

“Anything else?” Millie asked.

“Yeah, what was that woman’s name – I did her divorce from the winery owner a couple of years ago? She took her maiden name back.”

“Madeleine Cochran.”

“Right. Get her on the phone for me.”

Millie went back to her desk; a moment later the phone in Goldsmith’s office buzzed. “She’s on the line,” Millie said.

Goldsmith picked up the phone. “Maddy? How the hell are you?”

“I’m all right, Bruce; what a surprise to hear from you.”

“Well, I haven’t been west for a while, but I’ve suddenly gotten yanked into a deposition in San Francisco, and I’ll be there tonight. Why don’t you and I have dinner, and we’ll catch up.”

“Uh, Bruce, you’re still married, aren’t you?”

“Barely; I’m filing for divorce as soon as I get back. It’s been hell; I’ll tell you about it tonight.”

“I don’t want to poach another woman’s game, Bruce. I still feel guilty about that one time during my divorce.”

“I’m telling you, Maddy, it’s over, and I really, really need to see you.”

“Oh, all right; where and what time?”

“Seven-thirty at the Ritz-Carlton?”

“Which restaurant?”

“I’ll have a suite; we’ll order in.”

“You’re very naughty, Bruce.”

“Just ask at the desk; see you then, babe.” Goldsmith hung up, chuckling. “Millie, get me my wife.” A moment later, his phone buzzed. “Ellen? It’s me. Listen, we’ve just had a big blowup here; Les Moyle has just walked out of the firm, leaving me with a critical deposition to do.”

“Oh, Bruce, you’re not going to fink out on this dinner party tonight,” his wife said, horrified. “I arranged this for your benefit, not mine.”

“Sweetie, I know, and I’m really sorry, but Les has left me up the creek, with nobody else to handle this but me.”

“Surely, you can spare a couple of hours for your guests.”

“Sweetheart, by dinnertime, I’ll be in San Francisco.”

“Oh, Jesus; for how long?”

“At least a week, maybe more; this is a big one, major money.”

“Bruce, we’ve got the Willards coming to East-hampton this weekend! You’re supposed to be entertaining them.”

“Call them and explain, will you? I’ll be working straight through the weekend with the client; I’ve got a lot of catching up to do on this case. Damn Moyle for doing this to us!”

“Oh, God, how am I going to face these people tonight?”

“You’ll manage, sweetie; you’re the greatest hostess in New York, you know.”

“You will be back for the school play, won’t you? Helen is starring, and she’s so counting on you.”

“I’ll move heaven and earth, if I can. Listen, pack me a bag, will you? The works, dinner jacket, too.”

“Dinner jacket? I thought this was a deposition!”

“The client wants me to meet some important people next week. Could be great for business.”

“I hate you for this,” she said.

“Baby, I know how you feel, and I promise, I’ll make it up to you. How about Tuscany this summer? And listen, will you just leave my suitcases with the doorman? I’m rushing to the airport, and I don’t even have time to come upstairs.”

“Oh, all right!” She slammed down the phone.

Goldsmith buzzed his secretary. “Millie, call Pebble Beach and get me a two o’clock tee time tomorrow, and book me into the Inn, a nice suite, ocean view. Talk to the manager, if you have to; tell him it’s for me. And call the car and tell Mike to be sure my clubs are in the trunk; if they’re not, tell Pebble Beach to keep a set of Callaways for me – the tungsten-titanium irons, nothing else.”

“I’ve got your deposition case packed. Anything else?”

“I think that’ll do it.” Goldsmith hung up and dialed his urologist’s number, then got his secretary on the line. “Hey, sweetheart, how are you?”

“Fine, Mr. Goldsmith.”

“Listen, big favor; my wife and I are off to San Francisco this afternoon, kind of a second honeymoon. Will you call the Ritz-Carlton out there, get the name of a drugstore, and phone in a Viagra prescription for me?”

“Sure, how many?”

“Oh, a couple of dozen ought to do it – ho, ho, ho! Ask them to deliver them to my suite.”

“I’ll take care of it; you and Mrs. Goldsmith have a wonderful time.”

“Don’t you worry, with your help we will. See ya.” Goldsmith closed his briefcase, grabbed his jacket, and headed for the door. “Is Mike downstairs with the car?”

“Yes, and your golf clubs are in the trunk.”

“Okay, I’m going to be gone a week, maybe two; cancel anything that can wait or that I can’t handle with a phone and a fax machine, and get Craven to take care of the rest. Tell him about Moyle’s leaving, and by the way, as soon as Les goes to lunch, clean out any files in his desk and briefcase, padlock his filing cabinets, and put his Rolodex in my safe, got it?” Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed his deposition case and left the office.

“Got it, you complete and total shit,” Millie muttered under her breath.

Goldsmith rode down in the elevator, feeling nothing but elation. In one fell swoop, he had rid himself of a law partner who had always put too much emphasis on ethics, gotten out of a boring dinner party and an awful weekend, built a two-week vacation for himself in his favorite city and at Pebble Beach, and lined up a spectacular piece of ass that he had never had enough of. He felt very pleased with himself.

Mike was waiting at the curb with the rear door of the BMW 750i already open. Goldsmith handed him the two briefcases to be put into the trunk and slid into the rear seat. Mike closed the door after him and walked to the rear of the car.

Goldsmith looked to his right and saw a black Lincoln Town Car standing shockingly close – no more than an inch from his new BMW. He punched the window button and screamed at the driver of the Lincoln, whose face was only inches from his. “God-damnit! You put one fucking scratch on this car, and I’ll have your ass in court!”

The driver turned calmly toward him and raised something that looked, from Goldsmith’s perspective, like a short length of black pipe. He didn’t even have time to flinch; the pfffft! noise was the last thing he heard.