Gray Mountain: A Novel(22)

In the midst of the storm, Samantha sipped a diet soda and waited for her father, who was running late. It occurred to her that no one in Brady had seemed even remotely aware that the world was teetering on the brink of a catastrophic depression. Perhaps the mountains kept the place isolated and secure. Or perhaps life there had been depressed for so long another crash wouldn’t matter. Her phone vibrated and she took it out of her pocket. It was Mattie Wyatt. “Samantha, how was your drive?” she asked.

“Fine, Mattie. I’m in D.C. now.”

“Good. Look, the board just met and voted unanimously to offer you the internship. I interviewed the other applicant this afternoon, a rather nervous young fellow, actually from your law firm, and he doesn’t interest us. I got the impression he was just passing through, probably got in his car and kept driving to some place far away from New York. Not sure how stable he is. Anyway, Donovan and I didn’t see much potential there and we nixed him on the spot. When can you start?”

“Did he meet Romey?”

Mattie cackled on the other end and said, “I don’t think so.”

“I need to go to New York and get some things. I’ll be there Monday.”

“Excellent. Call me in a day or so.”

“Thanks Mattie. I’m looking forward to it.”

She saw her father across the way and left the bar. A hostess led them to a table in a corner and hurriedly whipped out menus. The restaurant was packed and a nervous chatter roared from all directions. A minute later, a manager in a tuxedo appeared and announced gravely, “I’m so sorry, but we need this table.”

Marshall replied rudely, “I beg your pardon.”

“Please sir, we have another table for you.”

At that moment, a caravan of black SUVs wheeled to a stop on N Street outside the restaurant. Doors flew open and an army of agents spilled onto the sidewalk. Samantha and Marshall eased away from the table, watching, with everyone else, the circus outside. Such shows were commonplace in D.C., and at that moment everyone was guessing. Could it be the President? Dick Cheney? Which big shot can we say we had dinner with? The VIP eventually emerged and was escorted inside, where the crowd, suddenly frozen, gawked and waited.

“Who the hell is that?” someone asked.

“Never seen him before.”

“Oh, I think he’s that Israeli guy, the ambassador.”

A noticeable rush of air left the restaurant as the diners realized that the fuss was over some lower-ranking celebrity. Though thoroughly unrecognizable, the VIP was evidently a marked man. His table—the Kofers’ old table—was pushed into a corner and shielded by partitions that materialized from nowhere. Every serious D.C. restaurant keeps lead partitions at the ready, right? The VIP sat with his female partner and tried to look normal, like an average guy out for a quick bite. Meanwhile, his gun thugs patrolled the sidewalk and watched N Street for suicide bombers.

Marshall cursed the manager and said to Samantha, “Let’s get out of here. Sometimes I hate this city.” They walked three blocks along Wisconsin Avenue and found a pub that was being neglected by jihadists. Samantha ordered another diet soda as Marshall went for a double vodka. “What happened down there?” he asked. He had grilled her on the phone but she wanted to save the stories for a real conversation.

She smiled and started with Romey. Halfway through the tale she realized how much she was enjoying the adventure. Marshall was incredulous and wanted to sue someone, but settled down after a few pulls on the vodka. They ordered a pizza and she described the dinner with Mattie and Chester.

“You’re not serious about working down there, are you?” he asked.

“I got the job. I’ll try it for a few months. If I get bored I’ll go back to New York and get a job at Barneys selling shoes.”

“You don’t have to sell shoes and you don’t have to work in legal aid. How much money do you have in the bank?”

“Enough to survive. How much do you have in the bank?”

He frowned and took another drink. She continued, “A lot, right? Mom’s convinced you buried a ton offshore and gave her the shaft in the divorce. Is that true?”

“No, it’s not true, but if it was do you think I’d admit it to you?”

“No, never. Deny, deny, deny—isn’t that the first rule for a criminal defense lawyer?”

“I wouldn’t know. And by the way, I admitted to my crimes and pled guilty. What do you know about criminal law?”

“Nothing, but I’m learning. I have now been arrested, for starters.”

“Well, so have I and I wouldn’t recommend it. At least you avoided the handcuffs. What else does your mother say about me?”

“Nothing good. Somewhere in the back of my overworked brain I’ve had this fantasy of the three of us sitting down to a nice dinner in a lovely restaurant, not as a family, heaven forbid, but as three adults who might just have a few things in common.”

“I’m in.”

“Yeah, but she’s not. Too many issues.”

“How did we get off on this subject?”

“I don’t know. Sorry. Did you ever sue a coal company?”

Marshall rattled his ice cubes and thought for a second. He had sued so many wayward corporations. Sadly, he said, “No, don’t think so. My specialty was plane crashes, but Frank, one of my partners, was once involved in some type of coal case. An environmental mess involving this gunk they keep in lakes. He doesn’t talk about it much, so that probably means he lost the case.”