Household Gods by Judith Tarr

LeRoy Neiman prints—a redundancy if ever there was one—on the wall, but it fit the flamboyant Gallagher perfectly. The only thing missing was a lava lamp.
    He knocked back the Scotch, then held up a well-manicured forefinger. “Cooperation,” he intoned, giving the word the same mystic emphasis with which the fellow in The Graduate had informed plastic . “That’s what we’ve got to see.”
    Nicole tensed. “Mr. Gallagher,” she said, “I’ve been cooperative in every way I know how. I’ve worked as hard as I can for this firm. The Butler Ranch report is only one example. I’ve also—”
    Gallagher waggled that forefinger. “Not exactly what I meant.” He wasn’t looking at her face as he spoke. He was, she realized, trying to look up her skirt, which was a little above the knee when she stood and a good deal shorter than that when she sat down. She crossed her legs as tight as she could, and hooked one ankle behind the other for good measure.
    Cooperation? Sleep your way to the top, he meant. He couldn’t mean anything else, though he hadn’t been so blatant as to leave himself in trouble if she wanted to make something of it. Nicole damned herself for having been right the first time—and also for having been so stupid as to miss the fact that there was another way than the obvious and actionable.
    Here it was, almost the turn of the millennium, and a woman couldn’t get a damned thing on her own merits. Why not forget about degrees and credentials and qualifications? Why not just demand that every female applicant submit her bra size and her body measurements, and never mind pretending that anything else mattered?

    Her teeth were clenched so tight her jaw ached. Outrageous, unjust, hypocritical— When was any society so unfair? Not in any time I ever heard of. Not in any, ever, I’d bet.
    While she stewed in silence, Gallagher got up and made himself another drink. “More coffee?” he asked. Nicole shook her head stiffly. Gallagher’s Adam’s apple worked as he swallowed half the Scotch he’d poured into the tumbler. He filled it again and set the bottle down on the refrigerator with a sigh of regret. He wobbled a bit as he walked back to his desk. “Where was I?”
    Halfway to Skid Row. Nicole’s thought was as cold as the ice in his glass. More than halfway, if you can’t remember what you’re saying from one minute to the next.
    Well then, she thought, colder yet—the kind of coldness she imagined a soldier must feel in battle, and she knew a lawyer felt in a bitterly fought case: an icy clarity, empty of either compunction or remorse. In that state of mind, one did what one had to do. No more, not a fraction less. Maybe she could take advantage of his alcoholic fog to steer him away from the line he’d been taking and toward one more useful to her. “We were talking,” she said, “about ways to improve my chances for the next partnership that becomes available.”
    â€œOh, yeah. That’s right.” But, even reminded, Tony Gallagher didn’t come back at once to the subject. At least, for the moment, he wasn’t leering at her. He was staring out the window instead; he had a view as splendid as Mr. Rosenthal’s, as emblematic of both eminence and power.
    Nicole began to wonder if he’d forgotten she was there. She pondered slipping quietly away while he sat there in his semistupor, but she couldn’t be sure if he was drunk enough to let her get away with it. She stirred in her chair. As she’d half hoped, half feared, the motion drew his attention back to her. He wagged his forefinger in her direction again, as if it were something else, something not symbolic at all. “Say, I heard a good one the other day.”
    â€œDid you?” Nicole said. Gallagher told jokes constantly, both out of court and in. He insisted he’d