back?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, back to the table.”
“No. The man, he paid and said he was sorry about the scene. His girlfriend was upset.”
“He called her his girlfriend?” Yamashiro asked.
“Yeah.”
“You’re sure of that?”
Fred Liu looked at Waverly, squinted as though thinking hard, remembering. “Maybe he just said, ‘She was upset.’ And I said something like ‘Girlfriends,’ and he said, ‘Yeah.’ ”
“But,” Yamashiro asked, “you had the impression that they were a couple? A romantic couple?”
Liu shrugged. “Well, they were holding hands, at least before they started fighting.”
“And she never came back after she knocked over the chair?” Waverly asked.
“No.”
“For sure?”
“This time for sure. He paid the check, cash, and then left on his own.”
“Thank you,” Yamashiro said. “You’ve been a big help.” He turned and let Waverly fall in beside him. He held up his tape recorder, which, with Mr. Liu’s permission, had captured the entire interview. “Got him,” he said.
• • •
A T 1:07 BY his desk clock, the intercom buzzed on Dismas Hardy’s desk.
The only person who ever used the intercom was his secretary/receptionist, Phyllis. Hardy always purposefully paused for a second or two before he punched the “reply” button; this afternoon he asked himself for the millionth time why he even had a receptionist. Surely he could pick up his own telephone when it rang, or open his office door when a clientarrived. But the role of Phyllis and her place in the organization’s culture had been set in stone long before by David Freeman, the firm’s progenitor. That crucial role was controlling access to the managing partner, in this case Hardy, either by telephone or in person.
Fully nine times out of ten, perhaps more often, Hardy replied by saying, “Yo.” He could tell from Phyllis’s exasperated tone, every single time , that she hated this—it was not the serious tone one expected from a managing partner. And Hardy was just immature enough to keep on saying “Yo” forever, so long as he got that response.
But this afternoon, he pushed the button and said on a wild hair, “Yes, Phyllis, how can I help you?”
Her flustered pause while she dredged up an answer was its own reward. “Um, it’s— I mean, your daughter would like to see you if you have a moment.”
“My daughter, Rebecca? That one?”
“Yes, sir.”
As if Hardy had two or nine daughters. “Well, as it happens, I do have a moment. But Phyllis?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I believe I’ve mentioned that when The Beck wants to come in and see me, except if I’m with somebody else, she gets to knock directly on my door and come on in.”
“I told her that, sir, and she said she wanted to make sure she wasn’t interrupting you.”
“Some would call the intercom itself an interruption.”
“I’m sure they would. Should I send her in?”
“That would be nice, thank you.”
Even after all that, The Beck knocked twice quickly before she opened the door.
“Come in, for God’s sake,” Hardy all but bellowed. When the door opened, he said, “People have an easier time dropping in on Obama, I bet. Am I that terrifying a personage?”
Rebecca sat herself in one of the nicer chairs at the formal seating area in front of his desk. “People who use the word ‘personage’ instead of ‘person’ when referring to themselves sometimes project an aura of authority that can make them appear frightening.”
Hardy broke a grin. “Well stated. It’s nice to know all that law school money wasn’t wasted. So what’s up?”
“Greg Treadway.”
“Ah, I had a feeling . . .”
The Beck was shaking her head. “Not that.”
“It sure seemed there was some of that.”
Now she shrugged. “The spark kind of went out the night when he learned about Anlya.”
“As well it should have.” But. “He didn’t ask for your number?”
“No. But I
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, back to the table.”
“No. The man, he paid and said he was sorry about the scene. His girlfriend was upset.”
“He called her his girlfriend?” Yamashiro asked.
“Yeah.”
“You’re sure of that?”
Fred Liu looked at Waverly, squinted as though thinking hard, remembering. “Maybe he just said, ‘She was upset.’ And I said something like ‘Girlfriends,’ and he said, ‘Yeah.’ ”
“But,” Yamashiro asked, “you had the impression that they were a couple? A romantic couple?”
Liu shrugged. “Well, they were holding hands, at least before they started fighting.”
“And she never came back after she knocked over the chair?” Waverly asked.
“No.”
“For sure?”
“This time for sure. He paid the check, cash, and then left on his own.”
“Thank you,” Yamashiro said. “You’ve been a big help.” He turned and let Waverly fall in beside him. He held up his tape recorder, which, with Mr. Liu’s permission, had captured the entire interview. “Got him,” he said.
• • •
A T 1:07 BY his desk clock, the intercom buzzed on Dismas Hardy’s desk.
The only person who ever used the intercom was his secretary/receptionist, Phyllis. Hardy always purposefully paused for a second or two before he punched the “reply” button; this afternoon he asked himself for the millionth time why he even had a receptionist. Surely he could pick up his own telephone when it rang, or open his office door when a clientarrived. But the role of Phyllis and her place in the organization’s culture had been set in stone long before by David Freeman, the firm’s progenitor. That crucial role was controlling access to the managing partner, in this case Hardy, either by telephone or in person.
Fully nine times out of ten, perhaps more often, Hardy replied by saying, “Yo.” He could tell from Phyllis’s exasperated tone, every single time , that she hated this—it was not the serious tone one expected from a managing partner. And Hardy was just immature enough to keep on saying “Yo” forever, so long as he got that response.
But this afternoon, he pushed the button and said on a wild hair, “Yes, Phyllis, how can I help you?”
Her flustered pause while she dredged up an answer was its own reward. “Um, it’s— I mean, your daughter would like to see you if you have a moment.”
“My daughter, Rebecca? That one?”
“Yes, sir.”
As if Hardy had two or nine daughters. “Well, as it happens, I do have a moment. But Phyllis?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I believe I’ve mentioned that when The Beck wants to come in and see me, except if I’m with somebody else, she gets to knock directly on my door and come on in.”
“I told her that, sir, and she said she wanted to make sure she wasn’t interrupting you.”
“Some would call the intercom itself an interruption.”
“I’m sure they would. Should I send her in?”
“That would be nice, thank you.”
Even after all that, The Beck knocked twice quickly before she opened the door.
“Come in, for God’s sake,” Hardy all but bellowed. When the door opened, he said, “People have an easier time dropping in on Obama, I bet. Am I that terrifying a personage?”
Rebecca sat herself in one of the nicer chairs at the formal seating area in front of his desk. “People who use the word ‘personage’ instead of ‘person’ when referring to themselves sometimes project an aura of authority that can make them appear frightening.”
Hardy broke a grin. “Well stated. It’s nice to know all that law school money wasn’t wasted. So what’s up?”
“Greg Treadway.”
“Ah, I had a feeling . . .”
The Beck was shaking her head. “Not that.”
“It sure seemed there was some of that.”
Now she shrugged. “The spark kind of went out the night when he learned about Anlya.”
“As well it should have.” But. “He didn’t ask for your number?”
“No. But I
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