"I believe that is GM."
"Not here, it ain't. "
As Walter Weld Hill hung up, he pinched the bridge of his nose once more. This was such a comedown for the man who introduced the Palladian Arch to Boston.
Walter Weld Hill's white Lincoln arrived a fashionable seven minutes after the assorted vehicles of Greenglass, Korngold, and Bluestone had pulled into the parking area of the Manet Building, situated in the crook of a tentacular tributary of the Neponset River.
Sol Greenglass, senior partner, bustled up, his hand-tooled leather briefcase passing from hand to hand excitedly.
"We're ready, Mr. Hill," said Sol Greenglass, who, because he was not a Brahmin, was not allowed to invoke Walter Weld Hill's Christian name.
"Very well," said Walter Weld Hill, shading his eyes as he looked up at the gleaming silvery-blue mirrored-glass face of the Manet Building. He frowned. "Does this remind you of sunglasses?"
Sol Greenglass looked up. "A little. So what?"
Walter Weld Hill frowned like an undertaker. "Nothing. We had best get about this."
The other lawyers formed a train behind Walter Weld Hill as he strode toward the aluminum-framed foyer entrance.
Two paces behind, Sol Greenglass was almost literally rubbing his hands together with anticipation.
"When they see us sail in like this, en masse, they're going to positively plotz," he chortled. "I love it when they plotz."
"Yes," said Walter Weld Hill vaguely. He had no idea what "plotz" meant. It was one of those vulgar Jewish words. He took pains to remain unacquainted with them, just as he scrupulously excluded the forces of Greenglass, Korngold, and Bluestone from his social circle.
They passed into a rather garish lobby. At a curved desk a male security guard had his face buried in a racing paper. He pointedly ignored them.
The directory looked like the menu in a seedy diner, white plastic letters mounted on a tacky aquamarine board. Some of the letters were actually askew.
Walter Weld Hill read down the department listings.
There were no names. But between "Consiglieri" and "Debt Collection"-odd listings, those-was an odder listing: "Boss."
"How droll," said Walter Weld Hill, noting that the "Boss" held sway on the fifth floor.
They crowded into the spacious elevator together. It was filled with Muzak of a kind Walter Weld Hill, for all his varied social experience, had never encountered.
"My word. It sounds like opera."
"I think it's The Barber of Seville," said Sid Korngold.
"Eh?"
"Rossini," supplied Abe Bluestone.
"At least their taste is not entirely bankrupt," muttered Walter Weld Hill, wincing at his own use of a particularly painful word.
The elevator stopped, dinged, and let them off on the fifth floor.
Briefcases swinging, jaws jutting forward, the law office of Greenglass, Korngold, and Bluestone marched in lockstep behind their client as they negotiated the stainless-steel maze of corridors.
"What is that odd odor?" asked Hill, his long nose wrinkling and sniffing.
The collective noses of Greenglass, Korngold, and Bluestone began sniffing the air too. Finally a junior lawyer ventured an opinion.
"Pot," he said.
"What is that in English?" Hill asked Sol Greenglass.
"Marijuana."
"My Lord! Isn't that illegal?"
"Last I heard."
They discovered that the odor was coming from behind a section marked "PHARMACEUTICALS."
"How odd," murmured Walter Weld Hill. "One would think that physicians would not indulge in such distasteful medications. Remind me to report LCN to the AMA."
"Yes, Mr. Hill."
They passed to the end of a long white corridor from which emanated an even more disagreeable odor.
"What is that pungent smell?" asked Hill.
"Garlic. "
"Ugh," said Hill, holding his nostrils closed with finger and thumb. "Detestable."
Walter Weld Hill was still holding his nostrils against the offending ethnic odor when they came to a black door at the end of along corridor, before which two large men stood guard.
At first Walter Weld Hill mistook them for LCN lawyers because they wore pinstripes. On second glance he noticed that the stripes were rather broad even for the lax standards of the day.
And the men jammed into the suits looked rather on the order of dockworkers, Hill thought.
Sol Greenglass stepped up to one of the sentries.
"I am Mr. Greenglass of Greenglass, Korngold, and Bluestone, representing Mr. Walter Weld Hill," he announced.
One of the men stepped aside to reveal the block letters "CRIME MINISTER" on the blank white door. The other opened the door and stuck his head inside.
"Boss. Company. I think it's the lawyers."
"Great," boomed a gruff voice. "Wonderful. I love lawyers. Show 'em in. Show 'em right in."
The brute at the door signaled with the point of his jaw for them to enter.