The Portero Method Page 2

He slid it toward Romy who released the catches and lifted the top. She repressed a gasp at sight of the stacks of currency.

  “How much is in here?”

  “Two hundred and fifty thousand.”

  “What’s wrong with a check?”

  “I feel a man like Mr. Sullivan—I am not blind to his failings—will require more concrete proof of the seriousness of our interest.”

  Here was concrete, all right—a whole sidewalk. “How do I approach him?”

  “Directly, I would think. I’ll leave the details up to you.”

  Zero rose. A sign the meeting was over.

  “But where do I say the money’s from?”

  “Again, I leave that to your inventive mind. But since I know how lying bothers you, I’m going to make things easier. I’m giving the money to you, no strings attached.”

  “You’re what ?”

  “That’s right. To do with as you wish. Buy a house or a fleet of sports cars if you want. It’s all yours.”

  As the shock wore off, she began to understand. “I see what you’re up to.”

  Zero said, “But should you decide to approach Mr. Sullivan with it, I suggest being nice to him. You might find yourself spending a good deal of time with Mr. Patrick Sullivan.”

  “I can hardly wait.” She snapped the lid shut on the money. “That’s it? You’re letting me walk out of here with a quarter of a million in cash?”

  “Your quarter of a million. Remember?”

  Romy smiled. This was turning out to be not such a bad day after all.

  2

  THE BRONX

  Needle Lady and Needle Man take Meerm upstair. Show room. Nice room.

  “This is your new home, Meerm,” Needle Lady say.

  “Why Meerm new room?”

  “Because you’re a special sim.” Needle Lady smile Needle Man. “Very special.”

  Meerm say, “All for self? Not share other sim?”

  “All yours,” Needle Man say. “The rest of the sims will stay downstairs in the dorm room, just like always. But you’ll be here.”

  Meerm walk and look. Nice bed, own bathroom, all for Meerm. Not need share. But Meerm little room still have metal bar window like sim big room downstair.

  Meerm sit bed, hold out arm.

  “What are you doing, Meerm?” Needle Lady say.

  “Stick?”

  Needle Lady smile. “No, Meerm, we won’t be taking any blood from you. Except for a tiny little bit now and then, you get to keep your globulins.”

  No stick? This ver strange. Always Needle Lady and Needle Man stick-stick-stick. Take Meerm blood ev few day. Take-take-take. Now no stick?

  “Meerm blood bad?”

  Needle Man laugh, say, “Not at all! In fact, we’re very happy with what we found in it.Very happy.”

  Own room. No stick. Meerm happy sim.

  3

  WESTCHESTER COUNTY, NY

  OCTOBER 22

  “Mr. Kraft wants to see you in his office,” Maggie said as Patrick passed her desk. The strained look on his secretary’s face told him the managing senior partner wasn’t requesting a social visit.

  Patrick’s stomach roiled. Great. He was living out of a suitcase, Pamela wouldn’t return his calls, his clients were either bailing out—like Ben Armstrong who’d taken Jarman’s business to another firm with no explanation—or giving him ultimatums: Say good-bye to the sims or say good-bye to us. And now Alton Kraft was waiting for him. Just what he needed.

  Well, at least things couldn’t get much worse. Or could they?

  Patrick laid his briefcase on his desk and glanced around. His office was small, as was his window with its limited view of downtown White Plains. But that left extra wall space for his law books. He liked his office. Cozy. He wondered how long he’d be rating a window if his clients kept heading for the hills.

  He walked down the hall to Alton’s office, took a deep breath, then stepped inside. A bigger office than Patrick’s. Much bigger. Thicker carpet, bigger desk. Lots of window glass, and still plenty of space for books.

  “Hi, Alton.”

  “Patrick,” Kraft replied.

  No “good morning” or even a “hello.” Just his name, spoken in a flat tone from the man seated behind the mahogany desk. And no handshake. Kraft was something of a compulsive hand shaker, but apparently not today. His blue eyes were ice, glinting within a cave of wrinkles.

  Patrick’s gut tightened. This did not look good.

  He dropped into a chair, trying to look relaxed. “Maggie said you wanted to see me.”

  “A serious matter has come up,” Kraft said, bridging his hands. “One that needs to be addressed immediately. We all know about the recent exodus of your clients—”

  “Just a temporary thing, Alton. I—”

  Kraft held up his hand. When the senior managing partner held up his hand, you stopped talking and listened.

  “We’ve been aware of the losses you’ve been suffering and we’ve sympathized. We were confident you’d recover. But now things have taken an ugly turn. It was bad enough when it was just your client base that was eroding, but now the dissatisfaction is spreading to the partners’ clients.”

  “Oh, hell,” Patrick said. He could barely hear his own voice.

  “‘Oh, hell’ doesn’t even begin to say it, Patrick. Two of the firm’s oldest and biggest clients called yesterday to say they’re having second thoughts about staying with us. They said they’d always thought of Payes & Hecht as a firm that represented people, a firm above such stunts —their word, not mine, Patrick—as representing animals. Who do we prefer as clients, they want to know: people or animals? Because it’s time to choose.”

  “The sons of bitches,” Patrick muttered.

  “They may well be, but they’re sons of bitches who pay a major part of the freight around here.”

  And account for a lot of the senior partners’ billable hours, Patrick thought.

  The partners had sat back and watched with clucks of the tongue and sympathetic shakes of the head as his client base headed south. No need for immediate concern: The firm adjusted salaries and bonuses according to each member’s billing, so Patrick’s bottom line would take the hit, not theirs. But when they saw their own paychecks threatened…ah, now that was a different story.

  Not that Patrick blamed them. He’d do exactly the same.

  “I don’t think I have to tell you what needs to be done,” Kraft said.

  Patrick knew. Shit, yes, he knew.

  “And if I don’t?”

  “I’m already taking heat because of this, Patrick. Don’t make it more difficult than it already is.”

  Patrick understood. Alton Kraft had been his biggest supporter for partnership. If Patrick looked bad, he looked bad. The partners had probably told him to give Sullivan a choice: Stick with the sims or stay with the firm. Mutually exclusive options.

  The decision should have been a no-brainer except for the inconvenient fact that he’d become attached to the Beacon Ridge sims. He enjoyed visiting them, liked the feelings that rolled off them—probably the nearest thing to worship he’d ever experience.

  But all that was going to end. Because on his next visit he’d have to tell them he was dropping their case. He’d make up something good, and they’d believe him, and they wouldn’t hold it against him, because Mist Sulliman the best, Mist Sulliman never lie to sim, Mist Sulliman never let sim down.

  Yeah, right.

  Mist Sulliman feel like slime mold.

  He fought the urge to grab Kraft by his worsted lapels and shout, Fuck you, fuck the firm, and fuck all its candy-assed clients!

  Instead, he sighed and nodded. “All right.”

  He’d lost his house, his girlfriend, and a shitload of clients. He couldn’t afford to lose his job too.

  “Good man,” Kraft said. He rose and thrust out his hand. “I’ll tell the others.”

  Now the handshake. Patrick made it as perfunctory as possible and beat it the h
ell out of there. Or maybe crawled was more like it. Or slithered. He felt like he’d just ratted out a friend to the police. If the carpet had been shag he would have needed a machete to reach the door.

  As he passed Maggie again she cocked her head toward the waiting room farther down the hall.

  “New client. No appointment. Wants to know if you can squeeze her in.”

  “Anew client? No kidding? What’s my morning look like?”

  “Empty.”

  Figured. “Then by all means, ‘squeeze her in.’”

  A few minutes later Maggie showed a statuesque brunette into his office and introduced her as Romy Cadman. Short dark hair, dark eyes, full lips, and long legs. Dressed on the casual side in a sweater and flared slacks under a long leather coat, all black.

  Patrick’s spirits lifted. Nothing like a new client, and a beautiful one to boot.

  Maggie placed the woman’s card on his desk: Romy Cadman—Consultant.

  “I won’t take up much of your time, Mr. Sullivan,” she said as he rose to shake her hand.

  Patrick fixed on her eyebrows, so smooth, so dark, tapering to perfect points. Penciled? No, just naturally perfect. But he couldn’t find much warmth in the deep brown eyes below—at least not for him. All business. A woman with a mission. Aconsultant with a mission.

  “Take as much as you need,” he said, thinking, I’ve got aaaaall day. He gestured to a seat. “Please.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Because she remained standing, so did Patrick. “I understand, Mr. Sullivan, that you’ve come under a lot of pressure from SimGen lately.”

  “SimGen?” What was she talking about? “No…I haven’t heard a thing from SimGen.”

  “Indirectly, you have. They’ve been contacting all your clients and either cajoling or coercing them into dropping you.”

  Patrick decided he’d sit now. It sounded so paranoid, but only for a second or two, and then it made terrible sense.

  “How do you know? How can you know?”

  “Not important,” Ms. Cadman said. “What matters is whether they’re succeeding.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She cocked her hip and released an exasperated sigh. “They want you to drop the sims. Are you going to stand up to SimGen, or cave in?”

  Cave in…hell of a way to put it. At least he knew where Ms. Romy Cadman’s sympathies lay. So no way was he going to tell her he’d decided to do just that: cave in. His eyes drifted to those long legs. They looked strong.

  “May I inquire as to your interest in this?”

  “I want to see the sims get a fair shake.”

  He glanced at her card again. Consultant …to whom?

  “Are you with one of those animal rights groups?”

  “My interest is personal. So what’s your decision, Mr. Patrick Sullivan, attorney at law?”

  The subtle little twist she put on those last three words gave Patrick the impression that somehow she’d already guessed the answer.

  “I haven’t come to one yet.”

  She stared at him a moment, her expression dubious. Then she put her briefcase on the table and released the catches.

  “Very well. If you’re sitting on the fence, perhaps this will tip you toward the sims.”

  She gave the briefcase a one-eighty swivel, lifted the top, and Patrick found himself nose to nose with more cash than he’d ever seen in one spot in his life—he’d handled bigger checks, sure, but this was cash .

  Hoping his eyes weren’t bugging, he lifted a packet and fanned it.

  “All twenties, Mr. Sullivan.”

  “How—?” The words seemed to catch in his throat. “How many?”

  “Exactly twelve hundred and fifty. To spare you from doing the math, that’s a quarter of a million dollars. When I have your assurance that you will continue the fight, I will deposit all of it into the sim legal defense fund.”

  Patrick eyed the money. This would take him a long way into that case; and with other contributions he could stir up during the proceedings, probably all the way through, with maybe a good chunk left over at the end.

  Tempting…Jesus, it was tempting. The added prospect of spending time with this woman because of it made the offer even more tempting. Pamela had been gone for weeks and…

  No. Staying with the sims meant being booted from the firm…going solo. He didn’t care for that idea. Payes & Hecht could be a cutthroat place at times, but even on the worst days he found a certain level of comfort in having a firm behind him. Like a security blanket—one trimmed with barbed wire, perhaps, but still…

  And where would he be after the sim case, whatever the outcome? Who’d be his future clients? Sims? Hardly.

  Uh-uh. Tempting as all that cash might be, he wasn’t going to commit professional seppuku for it. But he couldn’t say that to this beautiful woman.

  Painfully he pulled his gaze away from the money and looked at her.

  “I’ll take that into consideration, Ms. Cadman.”

  “Good.” She snapped the cover closed on all that beautiful green. “When do you expect to finalize your decision?”

  “Before the end of the day.”

  “Wonderful.”

  One word…but the acid she managed to lace through it seared him to the core. She was looking right through him, and her eyes, the twist of her lips, everything in her body language radiated contempt.

  “My number is on the card. Call me when you decide.”

  She turned and walked out, leaving him mired in a pool of dismay. A woman like that, you wanted her looking at you with admiration, not like something that had just crawled out from under a rock.

  But what else was he supposed to do? What else could he do? Sometimes you simply had to be pragmatic.

  Patrick sighed. The perfect cap on the worst weeks of his life.

  He heard a patter behind him and turned toward the window. It had begun to rain. Great.

  With his mood darker than the weather, Patrick stepped out into the hall. Off to his right he spotted the pretty lady with the briefcase full of pretty money waiting for the elevator.

  “I’m going to grab a cup of coffee,” he told Maggie.

  “Want me to get it for you?” she said, looking up from her computer screen.

  “Thanks, but you’re busier than I am at the moment.”

  Down the hall, laughter echoed from the open doorway of the kitchenette that housed the coffee maker and a small refrigerator. He slowed his approach when he heard his name.

  A voice he recognized as belonging to Rick Berger, one of the younger associates, was saying, “…and so when I still won’t give Skipper a steak instead of dog chow, he says, ‘I’ll get you! I’m calling Sim-Sim Sullivan!’”

  More laughter. Patrick felt his face flush. Setting his jaw he turned and glanced back at the waiting area. The elevator doors were sliding open and Romy Cadman was stepping inside. He broke into a run.

  “Ms. Cadman! Hold those doors!”

  She turned and gave him a curious look, but put out a hand to stall the doors. He hopped into the cab beside her.

  “I’ve made up my mind,” he told her.

  She blinked, shock and disbelief playing tag across her features. “You mean—”

  I know I’m going to regret this, he thought, but fuck ’em. Fuck ’em all.

  “Damn right. Want to meet my clients?”

  Her smile lit the elevator. “I’d love to.”

  4

  Romy’s head spun as she followed Sullivan’s BMW through the downpour to the golf club.

  What happened back there? she wondered. There he was, standing in his office, and he’s clearly out of the picture—wouldn’t say so to her face, but she’d seen defeat in his eyes, his posture, I quit written all over him—and a couple of minutes later he’s jumping into the elevator with her and not looking back.

  Had he truly been on the fence and she’d misread him? She’d been so sure …

  Well, no use in beating it
to death. He was still on board. That was what counted. She didn’t know how good Sullivan was, but at least the sims still had a lawyer.

  He stopped next to a high privet hedge and she pulled in behind him. She grabbed her umbrella and stepped out of her car. The umbrella was auto open which was good because she had the briefcase in her other hand. She had no intention of leaving it in the car.

  An umbrellaless Sullivan came splashing over to her.

  “Let me help,” he said, reaching for the briefcase.

  She handed him the umbrella handle. “Help with this.”

  “Aaawww,” he said, grinning.

  Nice smile. Gave him a boyish look. Like a mischievous child.

  Together they sloshed through the soggy grass toward a barrack-like building.

  “Most of the caddies and gardening sims should be in. Not a golf day. You’ll have to come back at night after the kitchen and dining room close to catch all of them.”

  Patrick knocked and they were admitted by a grinning sim he introduced as Tome. Romy was prepared for the barrack, and her tours of the SimGen dorms prepared her for the vague musty odor that attended a crowd of sims. But she was totally unprepared for the reception.

  Like Jesus’ return to Jerusalem: cheering, waving, jumping on furniture, and cries of “Mist Sulliman!” from a dozen sim throats. Everything short of throwing palm fronds at his feet.

  Flushed and looking a little embarrassed, Sullivan turned and gave her a self-conscious shrug. “My clients.”

  “My God,” she said, unable to hide her awe. “They…they love you.”

  A sheepish grin. “Yeah, well…”

  “No. They truly do. How could you have ever even considered…?”

  His blue eyes widened, not in surprise that she’d guessed, more in fear that she’d say it out loud. But she’d never do that—not to his sims. Everyone, even sims, needed someone or something to believe in, even if their god was made of tin.

  And that need in these sims further bolstered her conviction that all sims were too close to human to be treated as they were…as property…as slaves.

  “It’s all very complicated,” he said.

  Romy shook her head. “No, it’s not. It’s all very simple, really: You do the right thing.”