Synopsis: Peter is fired from his job as a junior partner in a Seattle law firm because a gay newspaper linked him and his social ideas with the gay agenda.
Chapter 9
Peter felt numb as he stumbled blindly out of Mr. Robbin's office. He didn't see the secretaries in the outer office exchange glances and sadly shake their heads as he passed by. Miss Perkins had other concerns. She gazed reproachfully at him as he passed her desk, and shook her head. "Now I suppose I'll have to go back to the typing pool," she said despondently.
Whether it was her voice or her attitude, Peter was suddenly made aware of his surroundings. He even found her reaction mildly amusing. He had hardly expected her to rend her clothes or go into mourning, but it would have been nice to hear at least one "`I'm sorry'," or "`it's been wonderful working with you,'" or something of that sort. But no. It was obvious that in her eyes, he was dead meat; mere road kill on the path to corporate success.
Despite himself, Peter smiled grimly at the imagery, but that temporary lift quickly dissipated, and he slumped in his chair, staring despondently out the window, while desperately repeating to himself that there were worse fates than getting fired. He wasn't sure, at first, whether it was the simple impact of getting fired -- the psychological assault on his self respect, his worth as a human being, and his perception of himself as a man -- or the loss of income that was at stake. When he considered that aspect of his situation, little darts of terror thrilled up and down his spine.
When he had gone blithely into the office that morning, he had been a partner, albeit a junior one, in one of Seattle's most prestigious law firms. Now he was merely another sordid statistic.
The word of his dismissal spread like a tidal wave through the office. His former colleagues acted as though he had a dread, incurable and highly contagious disease. They paraded past his door with averted eyes, hastily conveyed their condolences, and hurried on. All, that is, except Connie Marco.
She apparently had been watching. When the parade ended, she slipped into his room and closed the door. "Are you ready now to talk business?"
"Jesus Christ, Connie, rigor mortis hasn't set in yet. The body's still warm!"
"That's the time to strike," she said, "before someone else sees you as a ticket out of here. Let's start at the top. Shall we call ourselves `Baylis and Marco'? This isn't a deal breaker, but personally, I think `Marco and Baylis' has a better ring to it."
Peter smiled. "How about `Baylis and Associates'?"
"No, I'll go with `Baylis and Marco'. You're older than I, and possibly better known."
Peter smiled crookedly, "In some quarters, at least, but I'm not sure that's the client list we want. That is, if you're really serious about this."
"I was never more serious in my life," Connie replied. "Let's get out of here and go some place to have a drink."
That was the best idea Peter had heard all day. "Lead the way," he said. "I'll meet you in the hall." He locked the door to his office. He felt a strange sensation of liberation as he told Miss Perkins he was leaving for the day. This was the first time he could remember leaving the office early on a Friday without a stuffed briefcase in his hand.
Connie soon followed him into the hall, and led the way to an elevator. "Where are we going?" Peter asked.
"First, I want to show you something," she said mysteriously. "We're to meet someone in the Dexter Horton building."
Peter was still in shock. She could have said `Portland,' and his only question would have been `whose car shall we take?'
They went down to the parking garage. Connie drove a conservative little white Saturn. In less than ten minutes, they pulled into another parking garage almost identical to the one they had just left. Peter couldn't help but notice how Connie's skirt pulled up on her shapely thigh as he opened her door for her. That, combined with the inviting swell of her bosom, and his physical reaction to her obvious sexuality made him suddenly doubt the wisdom of their potential partnership. He was still pondering this issue when the elevator deposited them in the Third Avenue lobby. They paused and looked around.
A smartly dressed woman approached. "Pardon me," she said, "but are you Baylis and Marco?"
Peter blinked and wondered if somehow it was written on his forehead that he was one of that leprous breed, an unemployment statistic.
Connie, however, recognized her, and after mumbled introductions, their guide, whose name Peter still didn't know, led them to an elevator, and punched number 11. The elevator glided to a smooth stop and the doors opened. "This way," the lady said cheerfully.
She unlocked an office door that bore a legend, Randall & McNaughton, Attorneys at Law, and they stepped into a threadbare furnished office. Three doors opened from the small rectangular reception area. The one on the right bore a small brass plate that read "Jerome B. Randall." Their mysterious guide pushed that door open to reveal a small office with a stunning view of Elliot Bay.
An old mahogany desk was placed in the exact center of the room. A worn leather chair was behind it. A table stood against one wall which held three framed certificates. A large book case filled with an obsolete set of Revised Statutes of Washington, law review journals and an ancient set of American Jurisprudence was on the other. A worn Bokhara rug surrounded by a couch and two club chairs filled the space in front of the desk. The wall behind the couch bore a large framed watercolor of an unknown harbor in the early morning light.
Peter felt some comment was required. "Very nice," he murmured.
Their guide led them back into the reception area, and through the middle door behind the receptionist's desk. The plate it bore said, "Harry McNaughton."
Peter and Connie peered into a room containing almost identical furnishings except that the floor was covered with a beige wall to wall carpet, and the furniture was pushed against the wall. A large table heaped with disorderly piles of paper occupied the center of the room, which obviously been used for a clerical purpose.
The lady then led them to the end of the reception area where she opened the third door, revealing a short hall that ended at still another door. A small windowless room containing an old fashioned mimeograph machine, two supply cabinets and a double row of filing cabinets opened to the left off the hall. "'m sorry I don't have a key to the library," their guide said, "but I understand it's quite good. Three firms share it on a per capita basis. There are four lawyers in one firm and three in another, so if you take this sublease, your share of the library would be 2/9ths or 22% of the inclusive costs."
Connie asked, "This sublease is a three year deal?" The real estate agent nodded. "Your space would be roughly 1800 feet at $12 a foot. This would cover everything except the library and utilities."
Peter suddenly felt in serious need of the drink Connie had promised.
". . . and that includes the practice and the furnishings?" Connie asked.
My God, the woman was relentless, Peter thought.
