Three-thirty, partners’ meeting. Tomorrow you’re intax court all day, and you’re supposed to prepare all day today.”
“Great. Cancel everything. Check the flights to Houston Saturday afternoon and the return flights Monday, early Monday.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mitch! Where’s the Capps file?”
“On my desk.”
“How much have you done?”
“I’ve read through most of it.”
“We need to get in high gear. That was Sonny Capps on the phone. He wants to meet Saturday morning in Houston, and he wants a rough draft of the limited partnership agreement.”
Mitch felt a nervous pain in his empty stomach. If he recalled correctly, the agreement was a hundred and forty-some pages long.
“Just a rough draft,” Avery said as he pointed to a secretary.
“No problem,” Mitch said with as much confidence as he could muster. “It may not be perfect, but I’ll have a rough draft.”
“I need it by noon Saturday, as perfect as possible. I’ll get one of my secretaries to show Nina where the form agreements are in the memory bank. That will save some dictation and typing. I know this is unfair, but there’s nothing fair about Sonny Capps. He’s very demanding. He told me the deal must close in twenty days or it’s dead. Everything is waiting on us.”
“I’ll get it done.”
“Good. Let’s meet at eight in the morning to see where we are.”
Avery punched one of the blinking lights and began arguing into the receiver. Mitch walked to hisoffice and looked for the Capps file under the fifteen notebooks. Nina stuck her head in the door.
“Oliver Lambert wants to see you.”
“When?” Mitch asked.
“As soon as you can get there.”
Mitch looked at his watch. Three hours at the office and he was ready to call it a day. “Can it wait?”
“I don’t think so. Mr. Lambert doesn’t usually wait for anybody.”
“I see.”
“You’d better go.”
“What does he want?”
“His secretary didn’t say.”
He put on his coat, straightened his tie and raced upstairs to the fourth floor, where Mr. Lambert’s secretary was waiting. She introduced herself and informed him she had been with the firm for thirty-one years. In fact, she was the second secretary hired by Mr. Anthony Bendini after he moved to Memphis. Ida Renfroe was her name, but everyone called her Mrs. Ida. She showed him into the big office and closed the door.
Oliver Lambert stood behind his desk and removed his reading glasses. He smiled warmly and laid his pipe in the brass holder. “Good morning, Mitch,” he said softly, as if time meant nothing. “Let’s sit over there.” He waved to the sofa.
“Would you like coffee?” Mr. Lambert asked.
“No, thanks.”
Mitch sank into the couch and the partner sat in a stiff wing chair, two feet away and three feet higher. Mitch unbuttoned his coat and tried to relax. He crossed his legs and glanced at his new pair of Cole-Haans. Two hundred bucks. That was an hour’s workfor an associate at this money-printing factory. He tried to relax. But he could feel the panic in Avery’s voice and see the desperation in his eyes when he held the phone and listened to this Capps fellow on the other end. This, his second full day on the job, and his head was pounding and his stomach hurting.
Mr. Lambert smiled downward with his best sincere grandfatherly smile. It was time for a lecture of some sort. He wore a brilliant white shirt, button-down, all-cotton, pinpoint, with a small, dark silk bow tie which bestowed upon him a look of extreme intelligence and wisdom. As always, he was tanned beyond the usual midsummer Memphis scorched bronzeness. His teeth sparkled like diamonds. A sixty-year-old model.
“Just a couple of things, Mitch,” he said. “I understand you’ve become quite busy.”
“Yes, sir, quite.”
“Panic is a way of life in a major law firm, and clients like Sonny Capps can cause ulcers. Our clients are our only assets, so we kill ourselves for them.”
Mitch
“Great. Cancel everything. Check the flights to Houston Saturday afternoon and the return flights Monday, early Monday.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mitch! Where’s the Capps file?”
“On my desk.”
“How much have you done?”
“I’ve read through most of it.”
“We need to get in high gear. That was Sonny Capps on the phone. He wants to meet Saturday morning in Houston, and he wants a rough draft of the limited partnership agreement.”
Mitch felt a nervous pain in his empty stomach. If he recalled correctly, the agreement was a hundred and forty-some pages long.
“Just a rough draft,” Avery said as he pointed to a secretary.
“No problem,” Mitch said with as much confidence as he could muster. “It may not be perfect, but I’ll have a rough draft.”
“I need it by noon Saturday, as perfect as possible. I’ll get one of my secretaries to show Nina where the form agreements are in the memory bank. That will save some dictation and typing. I know this is unfair, but there’s nothing fair about Sonny Capps. He’s very demanding. He told me the deal must close in twenty days or it’s dead. Everything is waiting on us.”
“I’ll get it done.”
“Good. Let’s meet at eight in the morning to see where we are.”
Avery punched one of the blinking lights and began arguing into the receiver. Mitch walked to hisoffice and looked for the Capps file under the fifteen notebooks. Nina stuck her head in the door.
“Oliver Lambert wants to see you.”
“When?” Mitch asked.
“As soon as you can get there.”
Mitch looked at his watch. Three hours at the office and he was ready to call it a day. “Can it wait?”
“I don’t think so. Mr. Lambert doesn’t usually wait for anybody.”
“I see.”
“You’d better go.”
“What does he want?”
“His secretary didn’t say.”
He put on his coat, straightened his tie and raced upstairs to the fourth floor, where Mr. Lambert’s secretary was waiting. She introduced herself and informed him she had been with the firm for thirty-one years. In fact, she was the second secretary hired by Mr. Anthony Bendini after he moved to Memphis. Ida Renfroe was her name, but everyone called her Mrs. Ida. She showed him into the big office and closed the door.
Oliver Lambert stood behind his desk and removed his reading glasses. He smiled warmly and laid his pipe in the brass holder. “Good morning, Mitch,” he said softly, as if time meant nothing. “Let’s sit over there.” He waved to the sofa.
“Would you like coffee?” Mr. Lambert asked.
“No, thanks.”
Mitch sank into the couch and the partner sat in a stiff wing chair, two feet away and three feet higher. Mitch unbuttoned his coat and tried to relax. He crossed his legs and glanced at his new pair of Cole-Haans. Two hundred bucks. That was an hour’s workfor an associate at this money-printing factory. He tried to relax. But he could feel the panic in Avery’s voice and see the desperation in his eyes when he held the phone and listened to this Capps fellow on the other end. This, his second full day on the job, and his head was pounding and his stomach hurting.
Mr. Lambert smiled downward with his best sincere grandfatherly smile. It was time for a lecture of some sort. He wore a brilliant white shirt, button-down, all-cotton, pinpoint, with a small, dark silk bow tie which bestowed upon him a look of extreme intelligence and wisdom. As always, he was tanned beyond the usual midsummer Memphis scorched bronzeness. His teeth sparkled like diamonds. A sixty-year-old model.
“Just a couple of things, Mitch,” he said. “I understand you’ve become quite busy.”
“Yes, sir, quite.”
“Panic is a way of life in a major law firm, and clients like Sonny Capps can cause ulcers. Our clients are our only assets, so we kill ourselves for them.”
Mitch
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