with the guys before heading home to the ol’ ball and chain. He was schoolgirl giddy.
Dillon, vodka tonic in hand, smirked maliciously. “You know what I think?” he asked. “I think you’re in love with the guy.”
Andy’s face reddened with embarrassment as he surveyed the immediate vicinity for recognizable faces. Not that anyone would’ve heard the jab over the din of the five o’clock euphoria and the bar’s army of flat screens.
“Whatever, man.” He finished his beer with a manly swig. Then he pointed at the sexy blonde tending bar with his first two fingers. The effect was that of a nerd trying to look cool. Andy turned to Hunter. “You agree with me, right? This is their year.” It was ice hockey banter, one of the threesome’s enduring topics of interest.
“Sure,” Hunter replied, half paying attention. He was too preoccupied with the Herculean task that lay ahead. One screen showed the five o’clock news, with the closed-captioning transcription forming a steady stream of black and white letters and the occasional spelling error. A fifty-something female anchor moved into the next story, now that the homicides were out of the way. Her eyes conveyed disgust, yet her facial expression remained diplomatic—the newscaster’s version of an opinion.
Footage rolled with images of South Philadelphia, the Italian market, and then Vito’s Pizza. Vito’s controversial sign filled the screen. Then the camera cut to the field reporter, a twenty-something brunette showing as much leg and cleavage as she could get away with. She stood in front of Vito’s Pizza in high heels, the blaring neon sign behind her. The text described the controversy, while a clique of pimply teenagers in the background exploited the chance to get on the boob tube. The reporter, soaking up the notoriety like a beauty pageant contestant, kept a straight face despite the goofy expressions and vulgar sexual gestures by the hooligans. Next came a one-on-one with Vito. A rap-star-worthy gold chain and cross went bling as he smiled confidently, half flirting with the reporter. The camera panned across the street, where protesters shouted and waved anti-hate signs.
“You okay?” asked Dillon as the story ended. The text read, “And back to you…Thanks, Michelle. Coming up, we’ve got Frank Chambers with sports…”
“Yeah. Yeah. I’m fine.”
Dillon ordered another round.
Andy, looking genuinely concerned, chimed in. “What’s up, dude? You want to talk about it?”
“Guys, I said I’m fine,” he said, defensively.
Dillon and Andy shared a look. Andy handed over a frothy pint like medicine to a patient.
“That Vito things is nuts,” Andy commented. “Is that what you were spacing out to? Remember how many late nights we had there back in the day?” he added nostalgically.
Hunter and Andy had been best friends since Temple Law School. They finished in the same graduating class and started together at Whitman.
“I know.”
Dillon, who had gone Ivy, to Penn Law, perked up. “You know, I think we’re involved in that case.”
“No way, dude,” Andy rifled back. “How do you know that?”
Andy was a die-hard Whitman associate. He’d probably lay down his life for the goddamn place. The stature of the firm and its media-worthy cases never ceased to amaze him. Dillon and Hunter, on the other hand, couldn’t give a shit. That was probably one of their connections.
“No, he’s right.” Hunter knew he had to come clean, especially because they were all vying for the same partnership slot. He was never particularly fond of playing the sly fox. And frankly, his friendships meant more than that.
Dillon and Andy whipped around at the same time, staring him down with a look of surprise.
Dillon went first. “And you know this because?”
“I actually just found out about it this afternoon. During my meeting with Mancini,” he said as he glanced at Dillon.
“Dillon told me. We just figured it had to do
Dillon, vodka tonic in hand, smirked maliciously. “You know what I think?” he asked. “I think you’re in love with the guy.”
Andy’s face reddened with embarrassment as he surveyed the immediate vicinity for recognizable faces. Not that anyone would’ve heard the jab over the din of the five o’clock euphoria and the bar’s army of flat screens.
“Whatever, man.” He finished his beer with a manly swig. Then he pointed at the sexy blonde tending bar with his first two fingers. The effect was that of a nerd trying to look cool. Andy turned to Hunter. “You agree with me, right? This is their year.” It was ice hockey banter, one of the threesome’s enduring topics of interest.
“Sure,” Hunter replied, half paying attention. He was too preoccupied with the Herculean task that lay ahead. One screen showed the five o’clock news, with the closed-captioning transcription forming a steady stream of black and white letters and the occasional spelling error. A fifty-something female anchor moved into the next story, now that the homicides were out of the way. Her eyes conveyed disgust, yet her facial expression remained diplomatic—the newscaster’s version of an opinion.
Footage rolled with images of South Philadelphia, the Italian market, and then Vito’s Pizza. Vito’s controversial sign filled the screen. Then the camera cut to the field reporter, a twenty-something brunette showing as much leg and cleavage as she could get away with. She stood in front of Vito’s Pizza in high heels, the blaring neon sign behind her. The text described the controversy, while a clique of pimply teenagers in the background exploited the chance to get on the boob tube. The reporter, soaking up the notoriety like a beauty pageant contestant, kept a straight face despite the goofy expressions and vulgar sexual gestures by the hooligans. Next came a one-on-one with Vito. A rap-star-worthy gold chain and cross went bling as he smiled confidently, half flirting with the reporter. The camera panned across the street, where protesters shouted and waved anti-hate signs.
“You okay?” asked Dillon as the story ended. The text read, “And back to you…Thanks, Michelle. Coming up, we’ve got Frank Chambers with sports…”
“Yeah. Yeah. I’m fine.”
Dillon ordered another round.
Andy, looking genuinely concerned, chimed in. “What’s up, dude? You want to talk about it?”
“Guys, I said I’m fine,” he said, defensively.
Dillon and Andy shared a look. Andy handed over a frothy pint like medicine to a patient.
“That Vito things is nuts,” Andy commented. “Is that what you were spacing out to? Remember how many late nights we had there back in the day?” he added nostalgically.
Hunter and Andy had been best friends since Temple Law School. They finished in the same graduating class and started together at Whitman.
“I know.”
Dillon, who had gone Ivy, to Penn Law, perked up. “You know, I think we’re involved in that case.”
“No way, dude,” Andy rifled back. “How do you know that?”
Andy was a die-hard Whitman associate. He’d probably lay down his life for the goddamn place. The stature of the firm and its media-worthy cases never ceased to amaze him. Dillon and Hunter, on the other hand, couldn’t give a shit. That was probably one of their connections.
“No, he’s right.” Hunter knew he had to come clean, especially because they were all vying for the same partnership slot. He was never particularly fond of playing the sly fox. And frankly, his friendships meant more than that.
Dillon and Andy whipped around at the same time, staring him down with a look of surprise.
Dillon went first. “And you know this because?”
“I actually just found out about it this afternoon. During my meeting with Mancini,” he said as he glanced at Dillon.
“Dillon told me. We just figured it had to do
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