Mistress of Justice

  That touched Taylor. "You don't see that much anymore. Today, everybody's spread all over the world."

  "You shouldn't let that happen," Clayton said sincerely. "Your family history is all you have. You should keep your ancestry and be proud of it. This year I'm steward of the French Society...."

  Carrie, of the front row in law school, blinked. "Oh, I've heard of that. Sure."

  Clayton said to Taylor, "After the Holland Society it's the most prestigious of the hereditary societies in New York."

  The chubby paralegal was impressed but another need intruded. "Say, Mr. Clayton, where's the little girls' room?"

  Oh, honey, don't fail me now.... Taylor wanted Carrie to keep Clayton busy, giving her a chance to take a look in the office.

  But he said, "We've been having problems with the one up here. Why don't you go downstairs. We'll meet you there in a bit."

  Carrie trotted off, and it was then that Taylor realized they had ended the tour at Clayton's bedroom. The room was dramatic, filled with Ralph Lauren rust and red florals, English-hunt green, brass. This was the room of a nobleman.

  Beware the Jabberwock, my son....

  Clayton closed the door. "You're very attractive."

  Taylor sighed. Doesn't go much for subtlety, does he? She said, "I should be getting downstairs."

  He took her hand. To her astonishment she let him and the next thing she knew some undefinable pressure overwhelmed her. She found herself sitting on the bed next to him.

  "Wendall ..."

  "Look at me."

  Taylor did, feeling a growing power from the partner, a magnet tugging at her soul--and at everything around her. It seemed to Taylor that her hair actually stirred in this invisible wind.

  She thought of the playing-card soldiers swirling around Alice. Beware the ...

  "Wendall--"

  "I want to tell you one thing," he said calmly. "This has to be completely clear. Whatever happens--or doesn't happen--has no affect on your career at Hubbard, White. Is that understood?"

  She pulled her arm away. "I don't even know you. I've never even spoken to you before." But she was shocked to hear that her words seemed weak, as if she were wavering.

  He shrugged. "Spoken to me? I don't want to have a discussion. I want to make love to you."

  There was no physical impediment to her leaving. He wasn't even standing in her way. One foot, then the other, and she could troop right out the door. Yet she didn't.

  Clayton crossed his legs. He brushed the tassel of his hair off his forehead.

  "I have commitments," she explained.

  No, no, no ... Don't say that. You're meeting his argument. It's like making excuses to your father. Tell him to fuck off. Forget who he is. Forget the case. Just say it now: Fuck off. Fuck. Off.

  Say it!

  "Well, Taylor, we all have commitments. That's not really the issue."

  She felt her throat thicken.

  Don't swallow. It's a weakness.

  She swallowed. "We don't even know each other."

  Clayton smiled, shaking his head. "Hey, look, I don't want to marry you. I want to make love to you. That's all. Two adults. I'm telling you that you're an attractive woman."

  "I have to go."

  "It's not a compliment," he continued. "It's an observation. I know how to make love to women. I'm good at it. Don't you find me attractive?"

  "That's not the point--"

  "So you do?" he said quickly. He stroked the bed and repeated, "I want to make love with you. Harmless and simple."

  Taylor smiled. "You don't want to make love at all. You want to fuck me."

  "No!" he whispered harshly. Then he smiled. "I want us to fuck together."

  Mistake, girl. He likes dirty talk.

  "Look." He waved his hand in front of his crotch like a magician. He was erect. "You did this. Not everybody does."

  She found herself leaning back, first her palms on the rich bedspread, then her elbows.

  "Do you know the first thing I noticed about you?" Clayton whispered, touching a renegade strand of her hair. "Your eyes. Even from across the room."

  She rolled onto her side. She glanced down between his legs and said, "You're a pretty gifted man, Wendall. I would have thought that with all the excitement at the firm you'd be more distracted."

  He hesitated then asked, " 'Excitement'?"

  "The merger."

  He didn't move for a moment. She'd thrown him off stride. He laughed seductively. "I've got a pretty big appetite."

  Taylor scanned his face, which was no more than twelve inches from hers. "I read somewhere that hunters make love before the hunt," she said. "Sex is supposed to steady the hand." She shook her head. "Me, I think it's dissipating."

  "Ah, dissipate me, dissipate me...." But the words fell short of their intended playfulness and he sounded like a college boy making an inappropriate joke. And suddenly the balance of this contest shifted--barely--to her.

  He whispered, "Lie down, put your head on the pillow." He spoke in a mesmerizing voice and Taylor was suddenly aware of his penis pressing through layers of cloth against her leg. Clayton said, "I have some toys."

  "Do you?"

  "I can make you feel very, very good. Like you've never felt before."

  She laughed and more power slipped to her side of the board. When the spell wasn't working, his lines began to sound silly. She asked, "Why do you hate Donald Burdick?"

  "I'm not interested in talking about him. Or about the merger."

  "Why not?"

  "I'd rather make love to you."

  "The merger is all everybody's talking about."

  "Are you worried about your job? You won't have to be. I promise you that," he said.

  "I haven't worried about a job for years. I'm mostly just curious why you dislike Donald Burdick so much."

  She sat up. Clayton seemed befuddled. The evidence of his passion hadn't diminished but he seemed uncertain--as if he had met and overcome all types of reluctance in seducing women over the years yet had suddenly run into a new defense: a barrage of questions.

  "Go on," she said. "Tell me why."

  "Well," Clayton finally offered, "I don't dislike Donald personally. He's one of the most charming men I know. Socially, I admire him. He's a fine representative of old money."

  "The rumor is that you want to destroy him."

  Clayton considered his answer. "I hear lots of rumors at the firm. I suspect those that I hear aren't any more accurate than the ones you hear. The merger is solely business. Destroying people is far too time-consuming...."

  Finally the partner's spell broke completely.

  Taylor Lockwood rolled off the bed and ran her fingers through her hair. "You should go downstairs, I think. You are the host, after all."

  Clayton tried one last time. "But ..." His hand strayed across the bulging front of his slacks.

  "You know, Wendall," Taylor said, smiling, "that's the best compliment I've had in months. Does a girl's heart good. But if you'll excuse me."

  After leaving the bedroom Taylor walked into the upstairs bathroom (which, she noticed, seemed to be in perfect working order). There she waited until Clayton was out of sight. Then she slipped into his office.

  Inside, in addition to the desk, were an armchair, a Victorian tea serving table, several floor lamps, two large armoires; there were no closets. She turned on a lamp and pushed the door partially closed.

  The desk was unlocked. Its cubbyholes were filled with hundreds of slips of paper. Bank statements, canceled checks, memos, notes, personal bills, receipts. Taylor sighed at the volume of material she'd have to look through then sat in the red-leather chair and started going through the items one by one.

  She'd been doing this for fifteen minutes when she heard a voice in the doorway say, "Ah, here you are...."

  The man speaking was Wendall Clayton.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Taylor spun around and stood up, knocking a stack of papers to the
floor. The sheets spread like spilled water.

  Wendall Clayton was outside the door, talking to someone else. Just out of his line of sight, she reached toward the papers then heard Clayton say, "Let's go inside here for a minute, shall we?"

  Desperately she kicked the papers under the desk; they disappeared--except for the corner of one letter. She reached down for it but the door was swinging open. Taylor leapt behind the largest armoire. She pressed herself flat against the wall, her head pressing painfully into the hard, cold plaster. Another voice spoke. A man's voice, one she recognized. Ralph Dudley asked, "What is it exactly you wanted to see me about, Wendall?"

  The door closed. Clayton said, "Have a seat."

  "Is something wrong?"

  Clayton's voice was curious. "I don't remember this light being on."

  Taylor eased back harder against the wall.

  Silence. What were they doing? Could they see the tips of her shoes, the corner of the paper under the desk? Was the chair she'd sat in still warm?

  Clayton said, "Ralph, you're part of, I guess I'd call it, the old guard, the old-boy network at the firm."

  "I go back a ways, that's true."

  "You and Donald started at about the same time, didn't you?"

  "Bill Stanley, too. And Lamar Fredericks."

  "I see you at the DAC with Joe Wilkins and Porter quite a bit, don't I?"

  "Yes, we go there often. What do you--"

  "Enjoying yourself tonight, are you?"

  "Quite, Wendall." The old partner's voice was filled with anxiety as Clayton asked these pleasant questions with a slightly sadistic edge.

  Silence. Feet shifting.

  Clayton continued. "Young people here tonight. Lots of young people. It's funny, isn't it, Ralph? When I was their age I was making ... fifty, seventy-five dollars a week. These youngsters make ninety thousand dollars a year. Amazing."

  "Wendall, is there something you want?"

  "Ralph, I want you to vote in favor of the merger on Tuesday. That's what I want."

  A long pause. The old man's voice was trembling when he said, "I can't, Wendall. You know that. If the merger goes through I lose my job. Donald loses his; a lot of people do."

  "You'll be well provided for, Ralph. A good severance."

  "I can't. I can't afford to retire."

  "No, of course not. You've got expenses."

  Dudley sounded very cautious now. "That's right. It costs a lot to live here."

  "Manhattan ... most expensive city on earth."

  "I'm sorry, Wendall. I'll have to say no to the merger."

  Silence again. Taylor imagined Dudley's thoughts racing to catch up with Clayton's. Taylor's, however, had already arrived at their sad destination.

  "You don't mind blunt talk?" Clayton asked.

  "Of course not. I appreciate candor and--"

  "If you don't vote in favor of the merger I'll go public with your affair with a sixteen-year-old girl."

  The choked laugh didn't mask the despair. "What are you talking about?"

  "Ralph, I respect your intelligence; I hope you'll respect mine. The little whore, the one you dress up and parade around as your granddaughter, which makes it all the more disgusting. You--"

  Taylor heard the slap of a blow, a laugh of surprise from Clayton, feet dancing in the awkward shuffle of wrestling. Finally: a sad, desperate groan from Dudley--a sound filled with pain and hate and hopelessness.

  Clayton laughed again. "Really, Ralph ... Are you all right? There, sit down now. Are you hurt?"

  "Don't touch me," Dudley said, his voice cracking. The sounds of the older man's sobbing echoed softly in the room.

  Clayton said patiently, "Let's not be emotional. There's no reason for me to tell anyone. Let's negotiate a little bit. You're the firm's charmer, aren't you? You're suave, debonaire. You're a holdout from the days when a lawyer's manners were as important as his intelligence. So, now, how's this? You and three of your cronies switch your votes in favor of the merger and I won't share your secret."

  "Three others?"

  "Say, Joe, Porter, pick somebody else. But--here's the good part--you bring me any more and I'll kick in fifty thousand each to your severance package. That should keep you in teenage pussy for another year or so."

  "You're vile," Dudley spat out.

  "More vile than you?" Clayton asked. "I wonder. The vote's day after tomorrow, Ralph. Why don't you think about it." Clayton's was the voice of luxurious moderation. "Just think about it. It's your decision. Come on, go downstairs, have a drink. Relax."

  "If you only understood--"

  Clayton's voice cut through the room like a knife. "Oh, but that's the point, Ralph. I can't understand. And no one else will either."

  The door opened. Two pairs of feet receded. Both slowly. One pair in triumph, one in despair, but the sound they made was the same.

  Still in the quiet den Taylor was concentrating on a single noise.

  Rhythmic and soft.

  She had stayed here, hiding behind the armoire, after the partners had left because Clayton had remained upstairs; she'd heard his voice from nearby.

  Then after five minutes or so the sound began. What is that?

  A voice chanting? Primitive music?

  She couldn't place it at first. It seemed very familiar but she associated it with an entirely different place.

  Rhythmic and soft.

  No, couldn't be....

  She walked to the far wall and pressed her head against the plaster again. The sound was coming from the other side--Clayton's bedroom.

  Oh, Taylor realized. That's the sound. Of course. Not one voice, but two.

  The nature of the activity didn't surprise Taylor much, considering what she now knew about Wendall Clayton. What did surprise her, however, was that the other participant was Carrie Mason, who was contributing half of the sound effects.

  "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.... I'm almost there.... Yeah, yeah, yeah...."

  Carrie may have finished quickly but it took Clayton considerably longer. Long enough, in fact, for Taylor to go through the partner's desk carefully. The sound track conveniently helped her gauge how much time she had.

  She found only one thing that interested her: an invoice for a security firm. The bill was for ongoing services, which had begun last month. The job description was "As directed by client."

  She debated stealing it. What would her detective friend John Silbert Hemming do? He'd use a spy camera, she guessed. But ill-equipped Taylor Lockwood did the next best thing: She carefully copied all the information and put the invoice back.

  Downstairs she noticed the crowd had dwindled considerably, as you'd expect for a Sunday night party. Only the hard-core partyers remained. Thom Sebastian, for instance, who swooped in for another sloppy bear hug. She ducked away from it. He said good-bye and reiterated his dinner invitation for tomorrow. Taylor ambled through the house, aiming toward the buffet and listening to the snatches of muted, often drunken, conversation.

  He's going to do it. For sure. Next month, we're going to be Hubbard, White, Willis, Sullivan & Perelli.

  You're out to lunch, dude. No way'll Burdick let it happen.

  Do you realize the vote is Tuesday? Day after tomorrow.

  You hear about the detective that was going through Burdick's Swiss accounts?

  You hear Burdick had somebody check Clayton's law review article to see if he plagiarized?

  That's bullshit.

  You want to talk bullshit, this merger is bullshit. Nobody's getting any work done.

  Where's Donald?

  He doesn't need to be here. He sent Himmler instead.

  Who?

  His wife. See, Burdick would charm a man out of his balls; Vera'd just cut 'em off. You know the stories about her, don't you? Lady Macbeth ...

  Taylor noticed that Burdick's wife was no longer here.

  She then surveyed the long table where there'd once sat mounds of caviar, roast beef, steak tartare and sesame chic
ken. All that now remained was broccoli.

  Taylor Lockwood hated broccoli.

  On the patio deck of the Fleetwood Hotel's penthouse on the Miami Beach strip Ed Gliddick sent a golf ball near the putting cup embedded in the roof's AstroTurf.

  "Hell," he said of the miss and looked at the trim young man near him, who watched the shot without emotion. Standing ramrod-straight, he offered Gliddick no false compliments and said only, "I play tennis, not golf."

  The man was Randall Simms III, Wendall Clayton's protege. It was he who'd pirated the Hubbard, White & Willis chartered jet to beat Donald Burdick down to Florida to meet with the executives of McMillan Holdings.

  While Burdick himself was cooling his heels with the second-in-command of the company, Steve Nordstrom, Simms had been meeting with Gliddick, the chairman of the board and CEO of McMillan.

  McMillan was a company that did nothing but own other companies, which either manufactured obscure industrial parts or provided necessary though obscure services to other businesses or in turn owned other companies or portions of them. The vagaries of this structure and function, however, were not to suggest that Gliddick didn't know how to satisfy a market need when he saw one. McMillan was consistently in the top twenty of the most profitable companies in the world.

  At sixty-five, Gliddick was stooped and paunchy amidships. His ruddy skin was wrinkled from years of sun on golf courses and tennis courts around the world. Sparse gray hair, a hook of a nose.

  So he said to Simms, "Wendall didn't come down to see me. He sent you instead."

  Simms said nothing.

  Gliddick held up a hand. "Which means only one thing. You're the muscle, right?"

  Unsmiling, Simms folded his arms and watched Gliddick miss another easy putt. "Wendall wanted a little distance between himself and what I'm going to say to you."

  "This's all about that fucking merger, isn't it?"

  "I'd suggest we go inside," Simms said. "Somebody could have an antenna trained on us. They really make those things, you know. They're not just in the movies."

  "I know."

  Gliddick walked into the room, shut the window and drew the curtains. Simms mixed whiskey sours for them both. Gliddick wondered how this man, whom he'd never met, had known that this was his drink.

  The chairman sipped the sweet concoction. "You know Donald Burdick's meeting with Steve Nordstrom right now."

  "We know."

  We.

  "So what is it that you want, I mean, Wendall wants?"