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the squalid liquor stores of
    "T' Street and meals at the rescue mission a dozen blocks to the north..1 burrow into the standing crowd stalled at the signalized intersection on Tenth Street. A panhandler works the captive audience at the light with the fluidity of a maestro, his quarry driven by an uneasy embarrassment to a state of feigned inattention. The light changes, The crowd moves, and the beggar drifts off under the shadowed awning to the littered doorway of the five‐and‐dime to await the OCXT, inevitable cycle of traffic. The University Club is housed in a majestic white Victorian. Built as a residence for a railroad magnate during the last century, the structure has served over the years as a private home for wayward girls, a restaurant, and more recently, a funeral parlor. U was rescued from the wrecker's ball two years ago by the University Club and its board of directors, and now 1 4 , regular meetings of a raft of civic organizations )ITOT4 I Capitol City Bar Association. Attendance at the bar's is practically mandatory, an opportunity to rub shoulders vinf'@ judges and glean referrals from other attorneys. It's a packed house, standing room only in the @.‐i'mPMMT parlor that now serves as the bar. I wedge my way 17r%17 crowd, a half‐dozen drink tickets in hand. ‐N, There's a little elbowing and jockeying for position. I "'?
    and retreat from the bar, a drink in each hand, to settle I,' cushioned club chair in the lounge. "Missed ya at the funeral."

    It's a gravelly voice. I look up. Skarpellos was Ben's partner, and for all purposes now im‐, inherit Potter's influence, the balance of sway in the firm. 1 :"Tony, how are you?"

    "Didn't see you there, the funeral,"
    he says. :"How could you miss me in that sea of humanity?" I *.V@, "Ah."

    He nods. "How you holding up?" I ask. Peachy," he says. "Just peachy. My partner blows his out, reporters and cops crawling' all over the office for a and this morning I get a call from this asshole in New He's with the news, one of the networks. They're Oltf@' the deep scoop, you know, the novel approach.‐ The ‐st angle. Sure‐shot nominee to the Supreme Court kills What an asshole." Skarpellos repeats the charge, this mr, added conviction. "First question out of the box: "How feel about it all?' I tell him, "Well, hell, except for the 7' little bits of gray shit all over the ceiling in the office, 11@ bad at all.' Sonofabitch,"

    he says. In the images of this crude narrative, my mind im‐ I milli, thought that with Ben's death the firm of Potter, I 1i lost more than its driving force. It is without question vast measure of style.
    Skarpellos comes around to the front of my chair his hands in typical southern European fashion. His M.,_f head is etched with deep furrows lost in a perpetual wears an expensive worsted pinstripe suit, artfully W give the illusion of a trim torso. Skarpellos's wardrobe meticulous, proportioned to maximize every inch Of .77 a half feet of stature. Lifts in the heels of his 4767R, 1 wonder where he's left his entourage, for Tony is seldor'n seen alone. Invariably he trails a wake of indentured subordinates, young lawyers on the move, whose sole mission with the firm, it seems, is the palpitation of the Greek's ego. Fate shined on me, for Ben spared me this duty during my time with the firm. Without asking, Skarpellos drops his body into the chair across from mine. Tony played Eliza to Potter's ffiggins through most of his career. The son of immigrants, he's a proud man, and in his eyes at least, he has clawed his way to the top‐on his own. He's a natural glad‐hander, more adept in the political arena than in a courtroom. It was, in fact his abilities and influence with parochial governing boards, planning departments, and the myriad city councils in the area that from the beginning secured his place with the firm. Tony has the Nfidas touch when it comes to real estate. For the right fee he can produce zoning variances like the