was thinking Miami this year. Boca Raton was so . . .”
He draws back his lips, trying to find the right word, and slips his tongue over his tiny teeth. He crosses his legs, letting an English leather shoe sole hang lazily above the table top.
“So...”
Mike Sayon, eating walnuts with his plump fingers, and Charlie Dorian, the high-strung head of the litigation department, lean forward, ready to laugh at anything the founding partner’s son might say.
“So ...” Todd’s long, manicured hands stroke the air. “So . . . I don’t know . . . suntan oil and Judith Krantz. So Five Towns ...”
Mike Sayon and Charlie Dorian chuckle appreciatively.
“So parvenu,” Mike adds helpfully, struggling with a silver nutcracker.
Spoken like a true self-hating Jew, thinks Jake.
“Exactly,” says Todd with a bonded smile. “Exactly.”
“I was thinking we should talk about making Kelly Lager a partner,” Jake interrupts.
A silence falls over the room. It’s as if he’s just belched loudly.
Charlie Dorian, gray haired, red faced, and constantly plucking at his left eyebrow, picks up the ball.
“I thought we weren’t going to be discussing candidates for another three weeks.”
“I wanted to put him on the morning line now,” Jake insists. “The guy’s probably the best technical lawyer we have at the firm. He’s forgotten more case law than any of us will ever know. And he writes a brief so sharp you could cut your hands on it.”
Todd Bracken gets up and walks over to the window, watching the midtown Manhattan buildings glisten like glazed fingers reaching for the sun. As everyone in the room knows, Kelly Lager, a thirty-seven-year-old diabetic with psoriasis and four lovely children, has been doing most of Todd’s paperwork since Todd’s father died and left him in charge in the eighties.
“He’s been turned down three years in a row and I think he belongs in the winner’s circle,” Jake goes on. “Besides, the guy’s got a name like a beer company. What else do you want from him?”
Mike breaks open a nut, and bits of shell fall down the front of his jacket. “It’s just a matter of simple economics, Jake,” he says. “We can’t justify making more partners at our current level of growth. We’re down twenty-three percent from this quarter last year.”
Jake casts a skeptical eye at the Milton Avery painting on the wall. “That twenty-three percent was from the Wyatt-Campbell litigation last year,” he says. “That was my case. So let’s not kid ourselves. Your associates make partner every other year. Why not Kelly?”
Charlie starts tearing more furiously at his eyebrow. Mike goesto work on breaking open another walnut and the cracking shell makes a sound like tiny firecrackers going off. And Todd Bracken remains over by the window, arms crossed like a petulant tennis star disputing a line judge’s call.
“I think,” says Todd, “what we’re talking about is a matter of style.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Jake asks.
Todd shoots a look that goes from Mike to Charlie before ending in a smirk. “I don’t think Kelly has ever been what we’d consider a Bracken, Williams lawyer.”
Of course, that never stopped Todd from signing his name on Kelly’s briefs.
“So what’s your problem with him, Todd?”
“Well, frankly. . . ” Todd glances over his shoulder, as if a window washer might be listening. “The man smells.”
“What?”
“I mean, he actually has a foul odor. Haven’t you ever noticed that?”
For a moment, Jake is so stunned that he can’t think of anything to say.
“My secretary and I call him the Stench.” Todd lifts his chin slightly, offering a glimpse of the arrogant little boy who probably once staked a claim on other children’s toys in the sandbox.
“You’re telling me you’re going to deny him partner because you don’t like the way he smells?” Jake puts his hands on top of his head. “Put a fragrance tree around
He draws back his lips, trying to find the right word, and slips his tongue over his tiny teeth. He crosses his legs, letting an English leather shoe sole hang lazily above the table top.
“So...”
Mike Sayon, eating walnuts with his plump fingers, and Charlie Dorian, the high-strung head of the litigation department, lean forward, ready to laugh at anything the founding partner’s son might say.
“So ...” Todd’s long, manicured hands stroke the air. “So . . . I don’t know . . . suntan oil and Judith Krantz. So Five Towns ...”
Mike Sayon and Charlie Dorian chuckle appreciatively.
“So parvenu,” Mike adds helpfully, struggling with a silver nutcracker.
Spoken like a true self-hating Jew, thinks Jake.
“Exactly,” says Todd with a bonded smile. “Exactly.”
“I was thinking we should talk about making Kelly Lager a partner,” Jake interrupts.
A silence falls over the room. It’s as if he’s just belched loudly.
Charlie Dorian, gray haired, red faced, and constantly plucking at his left eyebrow, picks up the ball.
“I thought we weren’t going to be discussing candidates for another three weeks.”
“I wanted to put him on the morning line now,” Jake insists. “The guy’s probably the best technical lawyer we have at the firm. He’s forgotten more case law than any of us will ever know. And he writes a brief so sharp you could cut your hands on it.”
Todd Bracken gets up and walks over to the window, watching the midtown Manhattan buildings glisten like glazed fingers reaching for the sun. As everyone in the room knows, Kelly Lager, a thirty-seven-year-old diabetic with psoriasis and four lovely children, has been doing most of Todd’s paperwork since Todd’s father died and left him in charge in the eighties.
“He’s been turned down three years in a row and I think he belongs in the winner’s circle,” Jake goes on. “Besides, the guy’s got a name like a beer company. What else do you want from him?”
Mike breaks open a nut, and bits of shell fall down the front of his jacket. “It’s just a matter of simple economics, Jake,” he says. “We can’t justify making more partners at our current level of growth. We’re down twenty-three percent from this quarter last year.”
Jake casts a skeptical eye at the Milton Avery painting on the wall. “That twenty-three percent was from the Wyatt-Campbell litigation last year,” he says. “That was my case. So let’s not kid ourselves. Your associates make partner every other year. Why not Kelly?”
Charlie starts tearing more furiously at his eyebrow. Mike goesto work on breaking open another walnut and the cracking shell makes a sound like tiny firecrackers going off. And Todd Bracken remains over by the window, arms crossed like a petulant tennis star disputing a line judge’s call.
“I think,” says Todd, “what we’re talking about is a matter of style.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Jake asks.
Todd shoots a look that goes from Mike to Charlie before ending in a smirk. “I don’t think Kelly has ever been what we’d consider a Bracken, Williams lawyer.”
Of course, that never stopped Todd from signing his name on Kelly’s briefs.
“So what’s your problem with him, Todd?”
“Well, frankly. . . ” Todd glances over his shoulder, as if a window washer might be listening. “The man smells.”
“What?”
“I mean, he actually has a foul odor. Haven’t you ever noticed that?”
For a moment, Jake is so stunned that he can’t think of anything to say.
“My secretary and I call him the Stench.” Todd lifts his chin slightly, offering a glimpse of the arrogant little boy who probably once staked a claim on other children’s toys in the sandbox.
“You’re telling me you’re going to deny him partner because you don’t like the way he smells?” Jake puts his hands on top of his head. “Put a fragrance tree around
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