The morning was ugly. In eighteen different ways. Not counting the blotched and pallid face that met me in the mirror.
I slapped myself. Enough goddamn self-pity.
Or was it self-loathing?
What was the difference?
I made a mental note. To explore that with Sheila.
I called Dorita.
Meet me at my office, I said.
Dorita floated into Starbucks on a ridiculous velvet skirt. Red. Splayed about her like a tutu.
You’re going to love this, she said, in a tone that said I wasn’t.
Great, I said. More bad news. That’s what I crave.
Remember the Gang of Eight?
My fellow probationists? The ones whose meetings I keep forgetting to get myself invited to?
That’s the one. Well apparently they actually did something.
And what, dear girl, did they actually do?
They brought in some business.
All of them? Together?
Sort of. They drew up a plan. They called everyone they knew. Set up lunches with all their contacts. Invited in some outfit to give them lessons in how to pitch business.
Jesus. They got serious.
They did. And the funny thing is, it worked.
Really?
They already got six new matters in the door.
You’re kidding.
I’m not. And Warwick is crowing about it.
What the hell does he have to do with it?
He’s taking all the credit, of course.
For threatening to fire us all?
The probation thing. A masterful stroke of management, he says. Lit a fire under them.
Shit, I said. It wasn’t really Harwood, was it? All Warwick needed was an excuse. To get rid of me.
You were the only one who didn’t participate, Rick.
They never invited me, goddamn it.
You never asked, Ricky. Doesn’t exactly show initiative, does it?
Yeah, yeah. Shit. I’m doomed.
There’s always hope.
I’m close to concluding that there is not.
Is not?
Always hope.
Oh dear.
I sat and thought about my fate.
I resigned myself to it.
It was time to get down to business.
Time’s running out, I said. The preliminary hearing’s in less than two weeks.
Let’s get to work, then.
What next?
Sounded like you had something in mind.
I don’t. Sue me.
Jesus. Okay. Let’s go talk to the twins.
Sure. We can appeal to their sympathy. Tell them I’m in danger of being fired. They’ll confess.
Just talk to them. Get to know them. God knows what information they may have. Maybe without even knowing it.
I suppose.
All right, then. Pick one.
I’ll take Raul. I’m not sure I’ve exactly ingratiated myself with Ramon.
All right. I’ll take Ramon.
But there’s just one thing.
What?
I don’t have any idea where he is.
Oh ye of little faith, she said.
She fished into her purse. Pulled out a pack of matches. Handed it to me. Inside, a telephone number.
Cell phone?
Little faith, but quick off the mark.
She strode out of Starbucks. She looked good from the rear. Hell, she looked good from every angle.