the shopping. Well, the beer cans, anyway.”
“If we’re going to walk all the way down, I need a cigarette. We’ll stop at my place.”
They left the staircase on the third floor and walked along the corridor, past a couple of teenage boys who were leaning with their backs on the outside wall.
“Hey, Rondell,” said one of them. “Ask your uncle if he’s got any more of that shit he sold me yesterday.”
Rondell turned and flicked him the finger. “Ask him yourself.”
“I wouldn’t mess about with them,” Danny said in a low voice.
Rondell curled his lip. “I’m not worried about them. They know who my uncle is.”
When they reached Rondell’s apartment, he thumped on the door. His uncle, a wiry man in his late twenties, answered after a couple of minutes. He wore a baggy pair of dirty jeans and no top. In the middle of his scrawny chest was a large tattoo of a butterfly, and between his yellow stained fingers, he held a spliff. He looked stoned, leaning against the doorframe.
“What the fuck do you want?” he said, blocking the doorway and raising his voice above the music coming out of the apartment behind him. Fern Kinney was singing “Together We Are Beautiful.”
Rondell stood his ground while Danny edged backward. “I need a cigarette.”
His uncle shook his head no. “Your mom would kill me.”
“What would she say if I told her how you got these?” Rondell pointed to his new trainers. “I know it’s incredible, but she actually believes you bought them for me. You don’t want to disappoint her now, do you?”
His uncle swayed a little and then steadied himself against the door before reaching into his jeans and pulling out a packet of Marlboros. He opened the pack and counted the cigarettes. He took out all but two of them and then threw the box at Rondell. “That’s all you’re getting.”
Rondell caught it and then stared at him. “They’re no good without matches.”
His uncle grabbed a box of matches from the shelf behind him and gave them to Rondell. “Now fuck off and don’t come back for at least an hour,” he said before closing the door.
As they walked back toward the staircase, Rondell offered a cigarette to Danny.
“No thanks,” said Danny. “Why do you call him ‘uncle,’ when he’s your mom’s friend?”
Rondell blew out a large puff of smoke and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I always have.”
Danny headed down the stairs. “He gives me the creeps.”
“Me, too.”
A few moments later, they reached the building exit. A strong, icy wind blew into the entrance when Rondell opened the door. He took one look outside and stopped. It was beginning to rain hard. Grimacing, he glanced at his blemish-free designer trainers before shutting the door.
“You know,” he said, throwing his half-finished cigarette butt on the floor. “I have a much better idea than going out.”
Chapter 8
T HE E QUITY P ARTNERS O F D UDEK , C OLLINS , & H AMILTON met at nine a.m. on the first Tuesday of every month in the main boardroom, which was the only space large enough to accommodate all fifty-four of them. After running through the previous month’s financial performance, most of the discussion this morning had focused on the likely financial outturn for this year now that there were only two months left to go. Much of the conversation had been about Michael’s Spar deal for Corton Zander. If he could pull off this high-profile transaction in the next few weeks, then the fat fee would fall into the current year and would guarantee record annual profits for the firm. Art Jenks, the senior partner, estimated that with Michael’s deal in the bag, average profit per equity partner would just exceed three million dollars, putting the firm within the top five most profitable law firms in New York. That would be the first time the firm had made it into the Golden Circle. That fact alone would act as a magnet for future prestigious clients.
“How did
“If we’re going to walk all the way down, I need a cigarette. We’ll stop at my place.”
They left the staircase on the third floor and walked along the corridor, past a couple of teenage boys who were leaning with their backs on the outside wall.
“Hey, Rondell,” said one of them. “Ask your uncle if he’s got any more of that shit he sold me yesterday.”
Rondell turned and flicked him the finger. “Ask him yourself.”
“I wouldn’t mess about with them,” Danny said in a low voice.
Rondell curled his lip. “I’m not worried about them. They know who my uncle is.”
When they reached Rondell’s apartment, he thumped on the door. His uncle, a wiry man in his late twenties, answered after a couple of minutes. He wore a baggy pair of dirty jeans and no top. In the middle of his scrawny chest was a large tattoo of a butterfly, and between his yellow stained fingers, he held a spliff. He looked stoned, leaning against the doorframe.
“What the fuck do you want?” he said, blocking the doorway and raising his voice above the music coming out of the apartment behind him. Fern Kinney was singing “Together We Are Beautiful.”
Rondell stood his ground while Danny edged backward. “I need a cigarette.”
His uncle shook his head no. “Your mom would kill me.”
“What would she say if I told her how you got these?” Rondell pointed to his new trainers. “I know it’s incredible, but she actually believes you bought them for me. You don’t want to disappoint her now, do you?”
His uncle swayed a little and then steadied himself against the door before reaching into his jeans and pulling out a packet of Marlboros. He opened the pack and counted the cigarettes. He took out all but two of them and then threw the box at Rondell. “That’s all you’re getting.”
Rondell caught it and then stared at him. “They’re no good without matches.”
His uncle grabbed a box of matches from the shelf behind him and gave them to Rondell. “Now fuck off and don’t come back for at least an hour,” he said before closing the door.
As they walked back toward the staircase, Rondell offered a cigarette to Danny.
“No thanks,” said Danny. “Why do you call him ‘uncle,’ when he’s your mom’s friend?”
Rondell blew out a large puff of smoke and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I always have.”
Danny headed down the stairs. “He gives me the creeps.”
“Me, too.”
A few moments later, they reached the building exit. A strong, icy wind blew into the entrance when Rondell opened the door. He took one look outside and stopped. It was beginning to rain hard. Grimacing, he glanced at his blemish-free designer trainers before shutting the door.
“You know,” he said, throwing his half-finished cigarette butt on the floor. “I have a much better idea than going out.”
Chapter 8
T HE E QUITY P ARTNERS O F D UDEK , C OLLINS , & H AMILTON met at nine a.m. on the first Tuesday of every month in the main boardroom, which was the only space large enough to accommodate all fifty-four of them. After running through the previous month’s financial performance, most of the discussion this morning had focused on the likely financial outturn for this year now that there were only two months left to go. Much of the conversation had been about Michael’s Spar deal for Corton Zander. If he could pull off this high-profile transaction in the next few weeks, then the fat fee would fall into the current year and would guarantee record annual profits for the firm. Art Jenks, the senior partner, estimated that with Michael’s deal in the bag, average profit per equity partner would just exceed three million dollars, putting the firm within the top five most profitable law firms in New York. That would be the first time the firm had made it into the Golden Circle. That fact alone would act as a magnet for future prestigious clients.
“How did
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