The Rainmaker by John Grisham

the world. “And litigation,” he adds, even more smugly. He’s little more than an office practitioner, a paper shuffler, probably very good at what he does and able to make a nice living at it. But he wants me to think he’s also an accomplished-courtroom brawler, a litigating fool. He says this because it’s simply what lawyers do, part of the routine. I haven’t met many, but I’ve yet to meet one who didn’t want me to think he could kick some ass in the courtroom.
    My time is running out. “I’ve worked my way through school. All seven years. Not a penny from family.”
    “What type of work?”
    “Anything. Right now I work at Yogi’s, waiting tables, tending bar.”
    “You’re a bartender?”
    “Yes sir. Among other things.”
    He’s holding my résumé. “You’re single,” he says slowly. It says so right there in black and white.
    “Yes sir.”
    “Any serious romance?”
    It’s really none of his business, but I’m in no position. “No sir.”
    “Not a queer, are you?”
    “No, of course not,” and we share a quick, heterosexual moment of humor. Just a couple of very straight white guys.
    He leans back and his face is suddenly serious, as if important business is now at hand. “We haven’t hired a new associate in several years. Just curious, what are the big boys downtown paying now for fresh recruits?”
    There’s a reason for this question. Regardless of my answer, he will profess shock and disbelief at such exorbitant salaries in the tall buildings. That, of course, will lay the groundwork for any discussion we have about money.
    Lying will do no good. He probably has a good idea of the salary range. Lawyers love gossip.
    “Tinley Britt insists on paying the most, as you know. I’ve heard it’s up to fifty thousand.”
    His head is shaking before I finish. “No kiddin’,” he says, floored. “No kiddin’.”
    “I’m not that expensive,” I announce quickly. I’ve decided to sell myself cheaply to anyone willing to offer. My overhead is low, and if I can get my foot in the door, work hard for a couple of years, then maybe something else will come along.
    “What did you have in mind?” he asks, as if his mighty little firm could run with the big boys and anything less might be degrading.
    “I’ll work for half. Twenty-five thousand. I’ll put in eighty-hour weeks, handle all the fish files, do all the grunt work. You and Mr. Ross and Mr. Perry can give me all the files you wish you’d never taken, and I’ll have them closed in six months. Promise. I’ll earn my salary the first twelve months, and if I don’t, then I’ll leave.”
    Rod’s lips actually part and I can see his teeth. His eyes are dancing at the thought of shoveling the manure from his office and dumping it on someone else. A loud buzzer discharges from his phone, followed by her voice. “Mr. Nunley, they’re waiting on you in the deposition.”
    I glance at my watch. Eight minutes.
    He glances at his. A frown, then to me he says, “Interestingproposal. Lemme think about it. I’ll have to get with my partners. We meet every Thursday morning for review.” He’s on his feet. “I’ll bring it up then. We haven’t thought about this, actually.” He’s around the desk, ready to escort me out.
    “It’ll work, Mr. Nunley. Twenty-five thousand is a bargain.” I’m backpedaling toward the door.
    He appears to be stunned for a second. “Oh, it’s not the money,” he says, as if he and his partners wouldn’t dare consider paying less than Tinley Britt. “It’s just that we’re running along pretty smoothly right now. Making lots of money, you know. Everybody’s happy. Haven’t thought of expanding.” He opens the door, waits for me to leave. “We’ll be in touch.”
    He follows me closely to the front, then instructs the secretary to make sure she has my phone number. He gives me a tight handshake, wishes me the best, promises to call soon and seconds later I’m on the street.
    It