bush. You want this, or not?”
Jeffrey paused, the conflicting emotions within him battling for supremacy, and then logic took over.
“Of course I do. When do I meet my new boss?”
THIRTEEN
Dinner and a Date
The driver took Jeffrey to the hotel Roger had booked for him – the Four Seasons in Georgetown. When he disembarked at the lobby entrance his sense of disbelief intensified at the sheer opulence. They were sparing no expense, and that feeling was underscored when the bellman opened his room door for him and gave him an orientation tour. Jeffrey tipped him ten dollars, reconsidering the five he was going to hand him, and when the man left Jeffrey shrugged his jacket off and plopped down on the bed, groping for the TV remote as he breathed the hotel’s rarified atmosphere, a hint of something exotic, perhaps jasmine, in the air.
Dinner would be at the hotel’s premier restaurant at seven, with Roger and Joseph Garfield. If there was going to be anyone else there, Roger hadn’t told him, and he presumed if there were they wouldn’t matter for the purposes of his evaluation. The television news was filled with the latest atrocity in the Middle East, angry mobs chanting unintelligibly for the cameras as an American flag smoldered in the background, a professionally concerned newscaster trying to flog the slim details of a bombing into a half hour of interest.
Jeffrey considered the whirlwind of unusual activity that had become his life over the last week, and wondered where this latest chapter would lead. Maybe it was time for a change. When he took all the emotion out of the decision, getting the position with Garfield would be the best thing that could ever happen to him, even if it meant suffering through some unpleasant Washington winters. As the minutes ticked away and his dinner grew near, he became more convinced that he’d made the right choice in telling Roger he wanted the job.
Downstairs, he approached the restaurant maître d’ at exactly seven and was shown to a table in a secluded corner. Roger was already there, chatting with an older man dressed much like Jeffrey in a blazer and semi-casual slacks.
“Jeffrey Rutherford, meet Joseph Garfield,” Roger said as they stood, and Garfield reached to shake Jeffrey’s hand with an iron grip. Jeffrey did a quick scan of Garfield’s face, the skin taut and smooth, a network of fine wrinkles in all the right places, his complexion glowing with prosperity, his gaze clear and hawk-like, his steel-gray eyes those of a predator at the top of the food chain.
Garfield returned the scrutiny, and after an uncomfortable few seconds he offered a professional grin, the expression as practiced and genuine as a politician’s. He released Jeffrey’s hand, as though he’d taken Jeffrey’s measure through some sort of osmosis, and then motioned with his head at the table, where a bottle of Rioja waited on the white linen tablecloth, two Riedel goblets filled with several ruby inches, the third still empty, awaiting Jeffrey’s arrival.
Jeffrey sat, taking in Garfield’s lean jaw line, not an ounce of the soft-living flab that many attorneys sported as they approached the ends of their careers. Quite the opposite; Garfield seemed to project vitality and a glow almost like an aura, as if his presence had altered the physics of the atmosphere around him, imbuing it with confident energy by virtue of his moving effortlessly through it.
“A pleasure,” Garfield said easily, his voice modulated, the slightest trace of a southern accent playing at the edges of the syllables. “Thank you for agreeing to fly out to meet with us. Roger here assures me it was time well spent.”
“I hope so, Mr. Garfield.”
“I grilled him most of the afternoon, and he still showed up for dinner, so you have to give him that,” Roger said, picking up the bottle and pouring Jeffrey a generous measure. “This is excellent. I hope you like reds. One of Spain’s best,” he
Jeffrey paused, the conflicting emotions within him battling for supremacy, and then logic took over.
“Of course I do. When do I meet my new boss?”
THIRTEEN
Dinner and a Date
The driver took Jeffrey to the hotel Roger had booked for him – the Four Seasons in Georgetown. When he disembarked at the lobby entrance his sense of disbelief intensified at the sheer opulence. They were sparing no expense, and that feeling was underscored when the bellman opened his room door for him and gave him an orientation tour. Jeffrey tipped him ten dollars, reconsidering the five he was going to hand him, and when the man left Jeffrey shrugged his jacket off and plopped down on the bed, groping for the TV remote as he breathed the hotel’s rarified atmosphere, a hint of something exotic, perhaps jasmine, in the air.
Dinner would be at the hotel’s premier restaurant at seven, with Roger and Joseph Garfield. If there was going to be anyone else there, Roger hadn’t told him, and he presumed if there were they wouldn’t matter for the purposes of his evaluation. The television news was filled with the latest atrocity in the Middle East, angry mobs chanting unintelligibly for the cameras as an American flag smoldered in the background, a professionally concerned newscaster trying to flog the slim details of a bombing into a half hour of interest.
Jeffrey considered the whirlwind of unusual activity that had become his life over the last week, and wondered where this latest chapter would lead. Maybe it was time for a change. When he took all the emotion out of the decision, getting the position with Garfield would be the best thing that could ever happen to him, even if it meant suffering through some unpleasant Washington winters. As the minutes ticked away and his dinner grew near, he became more convinced that he’d made the right choice in telling Roger he wanted the job.
Downstairs, he approached the restaurant maître d’ at exactly seven and was shown to a table in a secluded corner. Roger was already there, chatting with an older man dressed much like Jeffrey in a blazer and semi-casual slacks.
“Jeffrey Rutherford, meet Joseph Garfield,” Roger said as they stood, and Garfield reached to shake Jeffrey’s hand with an iron grip. Jeffrey did a quick scan of Garfield’s face, the skin taut and smooth, a network of fine wrinkles in all the right places, his complexion glowing with prosperity, his gaze clear and hawk-like, his steel-gray eyes those of a predator at the top of the food chain.
Garfield returned the scrutiny, and after an uncomfortable few seconds he offered a professional grin, the expression as practiced and genuine as a politician’s. He released Jeffrey’s hand, as though he’d taken Jeffrey’s measure through some sort of osmosis, and then motioned with his head at the table, where a bottle of Rioja waited on the white linen tablecloth, two Riedel goblets filled with several ruby inches, the third still empty, awaiting Jeffrey’s arrival.
Jeffrey sat, taking in Garfield’s lean jaw line, not an ounce of the soft-living flab that many attorneys sported as they approached the ends of their careers. Quite the opposite; Garfield seemed to project vitality and a glow almost like an aura, as if his presence had altered the physics of the atmosphere around him, imbuing it with confident energy by virtue of his moving effortlessly through it.
“A pleasure,” Garfield said easily, his voice modulated, the slightest trace of a southern accent playing at the edges of the syllables. “Thank you for agreeing to fly out to meet with us. Roger here assures me it was time well spent.”
“I hope so, Mr. Garfield.”
“I grilled him most of the afternoon, and he still showed up for dinner, so you have to give him that,” Roger said, picking up the bottle and pouring Jeffrey a generous measure. “This is excellent. I hope you like reds. One of Spain’s best,” he
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