I went back to my office.
I called Dorita.
You won’t believe this, I said.
Oh, shut up, Ricky. You already said that. I’ve got a client meeting in ten minutes.
Put it off. FitzGibbon’s son’s in trouble. Something serious. Warwick wants me to handle it. Oh, and I’m being fired.
Jesus, she whispered. I’ll be right there.
In less than a minute she was at my office door.
Come in, I mumbled.
She flounced onto the couch. Lit a cigarette with her blowtorch.
You know, there’s a rule about smoking in the office, I said.
Right, she said, tapping some ashes on the carpet. So what’s this all about?
I told her about my audience with His Portliness. At the mention of probation, a moment’s shock passed across her face. She quickly brushed it off.
Did they issue you an ankle bracelet? she asked breezily.
Listen, I said, I appreciate the effort, but this is too big for a joke or two. Let me digest it for a while. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.
My, my, Ricky. You’re getting soft in your old age.
Tomorrow, I repeated, with unusual resolve.
Okay, have it your way. So, what’s this FitzGibbon thing?
I don’t know anything more than I’ve told you. FitzGibbon’s son, what’s-his-name. He’s in some kind of trouble. Not a speeding ticket. Something serious. I don’t know what.
Jules. His name is Jules.
Right. But the thing is, why me? It’s not like I’m a top-flight criminal lawyer. I’m a civil litigator, for Christ’s sake. I just do the stuff on the side. Do my bit for the social fabric, all that.
My poor little paranoid bunny. Warwick just wants to keep it in the house. You get the boy off, we get more business from Daddy.
Yeah, well. That might make sense. But I can’t help thinking Warwick’s setting me up to fail. Rehabilitation. Jesus.
Well, I can’t say that’s utterly beyond the realm of possibility. But what are you going to do about it?
Do my best, darling. Just like always. Sad but true. Can’t help myself.
That’s the ticket, Ricky. Anyway, you know the old man hates his guts.
Who?
Jules. FitzGibbon can’t stand him.
I’ll ignore the fact that the ‘old man’ is in my age bracket. And I know. Or at least, so I’ve been told. But blood runs thick, darling.
If blood it is, in that shit’s veins.
Well, yes. To tell you the truth, I don’t know the guy very well. Met him at a cocktail party or two. Big red Irishman as I recall. Full of noise and spit.
That’s the one. You’re not going to have an easy time with him.
Meaning?
Meaning he’s a major-league prick. He fired a guy for having a Snickers in the elevator.
Was he just holding it, or eating it?
What?
The guy with the Snickers. Was it unwrapped? Was he eating it in the elevator?
I don’t know. What kind of question is that?
Well, if he was eating it, I could understand.
Sure, and maybe he was wearing sneakers, too.
Snickers and sneakers? Jesus.
You’re right. I’d have fired him too.