swept in front of Beck Boy into the heart of his lawyer lair.
I took a seat in an armless black leather chair and set the coffee on a glass and teak desk that I judged to be the size of Delaware. My esteemed counsel set down the Sprouts bag and took a seat in the Aeron chair the commercials have been calling “true black” for the last two years, easy. In silence he dug out the sandwiches so slowly you’d think they were evidence in a homicide. “It’s notevidence in a homicide,” I said with a little eye roll as punctuation.
“It will be if you keep it up,” he rejoined (I think that’s the proper word).
For a moment I felt like the very annoying Brigid O’Shaughnessy from The Maltese Falcon . I uncrossed my legs. “Mine is the bagel.”
He grunted and we ate for a while in silence, our eyes on fascinating spots on his glass desk, on which sat an iPad and iPhone and (unbelievably) an old-fashioned desk calendar. All I could read upside down was something as fascinating as “pick up dry cleaning” on June 27th. What a life. I dabbed a Starbucks unchlorinated paper napkin at my lips, after which I wondered if I still had some lipstick going on.
“The problem?” he prompted, halfway through his Michael Pollan. No longing looks were coming my way that had anything to do with either mustard or sex. So be it.
I wound up: “Maria Pia got an invitation from Belfiere.” There. Enough said. Let him do what lawyers do: get restraining orders, file motions, put up billboards.
He waved his sandwich around in a dim but encouraging way. “Who is—?” said Joe Beck slowly.
“Belfiere,” I repeated, licking at the goat cheese schmear. “To quote my nonna,” I said, trying to be impartial, “the oldest all-female totally secret culinary society in the world.”
Joe Beck in the crisp white whatever and summer-weight ya-ha picked up his bold and black Venti. So did I. Together—if that’s what you can call it—we blew across the hot coffee and locked eyes. Was it a promise of things to come? Had I gotten all this on a mere twelve cents?
“And the problem is—?”
“Short story?” I said, trying to keep my mind on the problem.
“Yeah, whatever,” said Joe Beck, ditto.
“Landon and I—”
“Landon?” He looked like this was a first.
“My cousin.”
“Right, right, right.” And then he added, in case I was in any doubt: “Landon!”
“I’m glad this is a business lunch.”
“Totally.”
“We make a good team.”
He studied my lips. “If that’s what you want to call it.”
“Landon.” I blurted, setting aside the rest of my Alice Waters bagel.
“All right, all right. Landon.”
Be professional. This man doesn’t like you, I reminded myself. Have some pride. Use some common sense. For the love of God, you’ve invested a buck. “Landon and I”—I launched into the facts,just for a change of pace—“did some research and discovered a post on a blog for the victims of cults by someone named Anna T. She had been a member of Belfiere.”
“Go on.” Joe Beck steepled his fingers. How could such short hair look so, well, disheveled?
I wiped my lips and fingers on a paper napkin and found myself wondering just how much weight a glass-top desk could withstand. “Anna T. described a poison-guessing ‘game’ they played that led to the collapse and death of one of the members.”
Joe Beck Lawyer kicked in. “Well, the police will have a record—”
I shook my head, smiling what I hoped was a knowing and superior smile. “Ah, no,” I countered. I actually raised my index finger. “The police,” I said, raising my eyebrows at him, “were never called.” I paused for dramatic effect. “Anna T. says nothing about the death ever appeared in the local newspapers.”
Joe Beck glowered at me.
I swirled my coffee and looked steadily at him over the plastic rim. Marine shoulders. Michelangelo hips. Twelve cents, baby, twelve cents. Have I caught his interest? I
I took a seat in an armless black leather chair and set the coffee on a glass and teak desk that I judged to be the size of Delaware. My esteemed counsel set down the Sprouts bag and took a seat in the Aeron chair the commercials have been calling “true black” for the last two years, easy. In silence he dug out the sandwiches so slowly you’d think they were evidence in a homicide. “It’s notevidence in a homicide,” I said with a little eye roll as punctuation.
“It will be if you keep it up,” he rejoined (I think that’s the proper word).
For a moment I felt like the very annoying Brigid O’Shaughnessy from The Maltese Falcon . I uncrossed my legs. “Mine is the bagel.”
He grunted and we ate for a while in silence, our eyes on fascinating spots on his glass desk, on which sat an iPad and iPhone and (unbelievably) an old-fashioned desk calendar. All I could read upside down was something as fascinating as “pick up dry cleaning” on June 27th. What a life. I dabbed a Starbucks unchlorinated paper napkin at my lips, after which I wondered if I still had some lipstick going on.
“The problem?” he prompted, halfway through his Michael Pollan. No longing looks were coming my way that had anything to do with either mustard or sex. So be it.
I wound up: “Maria Pia got an invitation from Belfiere.” There. Enough said. Let him do what lawyers do: get restraining orders, file motions, put up billboards.
He waved his sandwich around in a dim but encouraging way. “Who is—?” said Joe Beck slowly.
“Belfiere,” I repeated, licking at the goat cheese schmear. “To quote my nonna,” I said, trying to be impartial, “the oldest all-female totally secret culinary society in the world.”
Joe Beck in the crisp white whatever and summer-weight ya-ha picked up his bold and black Venti. So did I. Together—if that’s what you can call it—we blew across the hot coffee and locked eyes. Was it a promise of things to come? Had I gotten all this on a mere twelve cents?
“And the problem is—?”
“Short story?” I said, trying to keep my mind on the problem.
“Yeah, whatever,” said Joe Beck, ditto.
“Landon and I—”
“Landon?” He looked like this was a first.
“My cousin.”
“Right, right, right.” And then he added, in case I was in any doubt: “Landon!”
“I’m glad this is a business lunch.”
“Totally.”
“We make a good team.”
He studied my lips. “If that’s what you want to call it.”
“Landon.” I blurted, setting aside the rest of my Alice Waters bagel.
“All right, all right. Landon.”
Be professional. This man doesn’t like you, I reminded myself. Have some pride. Use some common sense. For the love of God, you’ve invested a buck. “Landon and I”—I launched into the facts,just for a change of pace—“did some research and discovered a post on a blog for the victims of cults by someone named Anna T. She had been a member of Belfiere.”
“Go on.” Joe Beck steepled his fingers. How could such short hair look so, well, disheveled?
I wiped my lips and fingers on a paper napkin and found myself wondering just how much weight a glass-top desk could withstand. “Anna T. described a poison-guessing ‘game’ they played that led to the collapse and death of one of the members.”
Joe Beck Lawyer kicked in. “Well, the police will have a record—”
I shook my head, smiling what I hoped was a knowing and superior smile. “Ah, no,” I countered. I actually raised my index finger. “The police,” I said, raising my eyebrows at him, “were never called.” I paused for dramatic effect. “Anna T. says nothing about the death ever appeared in the local newspapers.”
Joe Beck glowered at me.
I swirled my coffee and looked steadily at him over the plastic rim. Marine shoulders. Michelangelo hips. Twelve cents, baby, twelve cents. Have I caught his interest? I
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