wait,” she said as he moved to open the Delahaye’s door on to the sidewalk. “Let’s have a proper look at you first.”
She laid a hand on each shoulder, drawing him close. Her eyes traveled over him. Close up, they were as green as he’d imagined. Even greener. Her white teeth bit down over her burgundy lower lip.
She straightened his glasses as if they weren’t straight already, then gently stroked the hair back around his ears. “That’s better.” Her hands traced down his arms. He felt his cock start to thicken as they settled on his thighs. “You look just fine. Ready?”
He swallowed. Nodded. “Yeah.” She slid herself around.
“If you’re leaving the top down…” He gestured to the cardboard briefcase on the backseat. “You’d better put that in the trunk.”
She hesitated for a moment, then nodded. He watched her as she walked around to the back of the car and leaned down into the trunk, which was carpet-lined, and empty apart from a thick length of hose. She smoothed down her skirt.
“Let’s get this done.”
This was nothing like the lawyers’ offices he was used to. No battered files and worn-out linoleum. No note about trying the bar opposite if there was no one around. This was all new wood and old paintings, although the air had that frosty, sterile feel which characterized all air conditioned spaces. So did the receptionist.
She consulted her list with a red-taloned finger. “You’re here to see Mr Amdahl.”
“Yes, that’s correct,” April Lamotte said before he could get in a word. “If you’ll…”
But already the receptionist was dialing her phone. Which, allowing for the length of those nails, was some feat. Her talons tapped a little dance on the desktop as the handset purred into her ear. She was actually rather beautiful, Clark decided, studying the honeyed fall of her hair. Women who worked prestige front-office desk jobs in this city generally were. That, and young. He’d often puzzled about what happened to these specimens after they passed from their twenties. Studying the slight sag of her jawline, he wondered if she didn’t have similar thoughts.
A voice crackled from the phone. There was a conversation, mostly of yeses and nos.
“He’ll be down to see you presently,” the receptionist said as she laid the handset down. “If you’ll just take a seat…” She gestured. But, before Clark and April could get their bearings amid the leather couches, a door swung open.
“Mr and Mrs Lamotte! You’re here about the contract?” Amdahl had an outdoor tan and a fake gray pelt of hair.
“Pleased to see you,” Clark muttered in a timbre which April Lamotte had suggested he make slightly quicker and lighter.
“Yes. Absolutely.” Amdahl nodded. He didn’t look the sort to give anyone much attention just as long as they paid their bill.
They followed him down a corridor set with big sepia blow-ups of some of the lost stars of the silent and talkie eras. Mary Astor. Herbert Marshall. Rudolph Valentino. It was as if York and Bunce were trying to tell their clients something about the industry in which they worked.
Amdahl’s office lay up the first wide flight of stairs, and looked exactly how you’d expect a successful media lawyer’s office to look. Wide windows gave a fine view across Echo Park toward Edendale through the afternoon’s softening haze. He produced a fat folder and proceeded to lay out papers from it across his desk.
“These are the finished versions. Five copies. It’s all been checked. Mrs Lamotte was sent a copy of the drafts last week. But, of course, you’re the signatory, Mr Lamotte. It’s your hard work we’re selling here. I’m happy to explain it all as much as you like.”
“I think I’m okay.” He unclipped the gold Parker pen from his inside pocket. “I mean, if I can’t trust April here, who can I trust?”
They all laughed.
Even allowing for the five copies, a surprising number of signatures was
She laid a hand on each shoulder, drawing him close. Her eyes traveled over him. Close up, they were as green as he’d imagined. Even greener. Her white teeth bit down over her burgundy lower lip.
She straightened his glasses as if they weren’t straight already, then gently stroked the hair back around his ears. “That’s better.” Her hands traced down his arms. He felt his cock start to thicken as they settled on his thighs. “You look just fine. Ready?”
He swallowed. Nodded. “Yeah.” She slid herself around.
“If you’re leaving the top down…” He gestured to the cardboard briefcase on the backseat. “You’d better put that in the trunk.”
She hesitated for a moment, then nodded. He watched her as she walked around to the back of the car and leaned down into the trunk, which was carpet-lined, and empty apart from a thick length of hose. She smoothed down her skirt.
“Let’s get this done.”
This was nothing like the lawyers’ offices he was used to. No battered files and worn-out linoleum. No note about trying the bar opposite if there was no one around. This was all new wood and old paintings, although the air had that frosty, sterile feel which characterized all air conditioned spaces. So did the receptionist.
She consulted her list with a red-taloned finger. “You’re here to see Mr Amdahl.”
“Yes, that’s correct,” April Lamotte said before he could get in a word. “If you’ll…”
But already the receptionist was dialing her phone. Which, allowing for the length of those nails, was some feat. Her talons tapped a little dance on the desktop as the handset purred into her ear. She was actually rather beautiful, Clark decided, studying the honeyed fall of her hair. Women who worked prestige front-office desk jobs in this city generally were. That, and young. He’d often puzzled about what happened to these specimens after they passed from their twenties. Studying the slight sag of her jawline, he wondered if she didn’t have similar thoughts.
A voice crackled from the phone. There was a conversation, mostly of yeses and nos.
“He’ll be down to see you presently,” the receptionist said as she laid the handset down. “If you’ll just take a seat…” She gestured. But, before Clark and April could get their bearings amid the leather couches, a door swung open.
“Mr and Mrs Lamotte! You’re here about the contract?” Amdahl had an outdoor tan and a fake gray pelt of hair.
“Pleased to see you,” Clark muttered in a timbre which April Lamotte had suggested he make slightly quicker and lighter.
“Yes. Absolutely.” Amdahl nodded. He didn’t look the sort to give anyone much attention just as long as they paid their bill.
They followed him down a corridor set with big sepia blow-ups of some of the lost stars of the silent and talkie eras. Mary Astor. Herbert Marshall. Rudolph Valentino. It was as if York and Bunce were trying to tell their clients something about the industry in which they worked.
Amdahl’s office lay up the first wide flight of stairs, and looked exactly how you’d expect a successful media lawyer’s office to look. Wide windows gave a fine view across Echo Park toward Edendale through the afternoon’s softening haze. He produced a fat folder and proceeded to lay out papers from it across his desk.
“These are the finished versions. Five copies. It’s all been checked. Mrs Lamotte was sent a copy of the drafts last week. But, of course, you’re the signatory, Mr Lamotte. It’s your hard work we’re selling here. I’m happy to explain it all as much as you like.”
“I think I’m okay.” He unclipped the gold Parker pen from his inside pocket. “I mean, if I can’t trust April here, who can I trust?”
They all laughed.
Even allowing for the five copies, a surprising number of signatures was
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