SS 18: Shark Skin Suite: A Novel by Tim Dorsey

cotton-ball clouds slowly drifted over the roof, creating the illusion that the building was moving. Her stomach felt the unbalance of vertigo, but it was also nerves. She took a deep breath and went inside.
    The open space of the lobby echoed the clatter of a marble floor. Brook went through the metal detector, and her briefcase went through the X-ray. The reason for the precaution was that half the people liked what was going on in the building; the other half not so much. Par for the legal biz. Brook grabbed her attaché on the other side. The security guard expressed that he wanted her day to be good, but wasn’t emotionally invested either way.
    The high-speed express elevator opened on the top floor. Brook entered another lobby with a lower ceiling. Ahead sat a long cherry-oak reception desk. Behind the desk was a wall where recessed lighting emphasized the firm’s logo: three interlocking letters, SH&B, forming a flat sculpture of glossy chrome. It was originally going to be brushed metal until someone said they weren’t selling refrigerators. Hidden shims offset the sign two inches out from the wall so that unseen lighting could leave a shadow. About $80,000 had gone into this thinking.
    Brook approached the desk and gave her name.
    The receptionist smiled with on-command friendship. “They’re already waiting for you in the conference room.”
    “Who’s waiting? Where’s the conference room?”
    “Everyone. That way.”
    Brook walked hesitantly past private offices and the copy room and other doors leading to unknown activity. She suddenly stopped, and her tummy knotted again. Ahead, the windows of the conference room. Inside stretched the longest table she had ever seen, surrounded by dozens of people in suits that definitely weren’t off the rack. At the head of the table, a well-tended man stood and made a gregarious waving motion for her to enter.
    “Everyone,” said Ken Shapiro. “This is Brook Campanella, our newest associate.”
    “Hello, Brook . . .” “Welcome . . .” “Have a seat . . .”
    “You’ve already met me,” said Ken, gesturing to his left. “This is Willard Heathcote-Mendacious and Shug Blatt . . .”
    Each smiled and nodded in turn.
    “You won’t remember everyone else’s names right now, but you’ll like them,” said Ken.
    The rest smiled and nodded.
    “We have high hopes for you,” said Ken.
    “Heard great things,” said Willard.
    “The future is later,” said Shug.
    Brook became dizzy. Outside those floor-to-ceiling windows on the east side of the conference room was the reverse of her sidewalk view: a steep drop down to antlike people, taxis and the Las Olas shopping district reaching toward the Atlantic beach along Highway A1A.
    The table chirped to life with chitchat, everyone commenting on Brook’s TV debut outside the foreclosed bank. Laughter. Brook was silent.
    “Now down to business,” said Ken. “We’ve already assigned your first case. Sheffield et al v. Consolidated Financial .”
    Brook’s jaw fell. “That massive class-action mortgage suit against one of the biggest companies in the state?”
    “Then you’re already up to speed,” said Ken.
    “I don’t even know where my desk is.”
    Ken casually flicked his wrist. “It’ll all come naturally. The desk, the case. Relax.”
    “We’re counting on you,” said Willard.
    “No rush, you can start after lunch,” said Shug.
    Her eyes ping-ponged between the partners. It was something weird. They looked very much different, hair color, face shapes. Yet they appeared the same, the way some dogs look like their owners. It was a combination of clothes, carriage and general aura from decades of building one of the most powerful legal firms in Florida, inbreeding their mannerisms and speech. When one reached for a water carafe, so did the others. Their sentences segued seamlessly.
    Ken pressed a button on the intercom. “Nancy, eleven o’clock, take Brook shopping for some