Chapter 5 #2
The Manhattan Club occupied the top floor of a ten-story office building which had last been fully occupied in the early fifties.
Avery referred to the structure as a dump, but was quick to point out that the club was the most exclusive lunch and dinner refuge in the city.
It offered excellent food in an all-white, rich-male, plush environment.
Powerful lunches for powerful people. Bankers, lawyers, executives, entrepreneurs, a few politicians and a few aristocrats.
A gold-plated elevator ran nonstop past the deserted offices and stopped on the elegant tenth floor.
The maitre d’ called Mr. Tolar by name and asked about his good friends Oliver Lambert and Nathan Locke.
He expressed sympathies for the loss of Mr. Kozinski and Mr. Hodge.
Avery thanked him and introduced the newest member of the firm.
The favorite table was waiting in the corner.
A courtly black man named Ellis delivered the menus.
“The firm does not allow drinking at lunch,” Avery said as he opened his menu.
“I don’t drink during lunch.”
“That’s good. What’ll you have?”
“Tea, with ice.”
“Iced tea, for him,” Avery said to the waiter. “Bring me a Bombay martini on the rocks with three olives.”
Mitch bit his tongue and grinned behind the menu.
“We have too many rules,” Avery mumbled.
The first martini led to a second, but he quit after two.
He ordered for both of them. Broiled fish of some sort.
The special of the day. He watched his weight carefully, he said.
He also worked out daily at a health club, his own health club.
He invited Mitch to come sweat with him.
Maybe after the bar exam. There were the usual questions about football in college and the standard denials of any greatness.
Mitch asked about the children. He said they lived with their mother.
The fish was raw and the baked potato was hard.
Mitch picked at his plate, ate his salad slowly and listened as his partner talked about most of the other people present for lunch.
The mayor was seated at a large table with some Japanese.
One of the firm’s bankers was at the next table.
There were some other big-shot lawyers and corporate types, all eating furiously and importantly, powerfully.
The atmosphere was stuffy. According to Avery, every member of the club was a compelling figure, a potent force both in his field and in the city. Avery was at home.
They both declined dessert and ordered coffee.
He would be expected to be in the office by nine each morning, Avery explained as he lit a Montesino.
The secretaries would be there at eight-thirty.
Nine to five, but no one worked eight hours a day.
Personally, he was in the office by eight, and seldom left before six.
He could bill twelve hours each day, every day, regardless of how many hours he actually worked.
Twelve a day, five days a week, at three hundred an hour, for fifty weeks.
Nine hundred thousand dollars! In billable time!
That was his goal. Last year he had billed seven hundred thousand, but there had been some personal problems. The firm didn’t care if Mitch came in at 6 A.M. or 9 A.M., as long as the work was done.
“What time are the doors unlocked?” Mitch asked.
Everyone has a key, he explained, so he could come and go as he pleased.
Security was tight, but the guards were accustomed to workaholics.
Some of the work habits were legendary. Victor Milligan, in his younger days, worked sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, until he made partner.
Then he quit working on Sundays. He had a heart attack and gave up Saturdays.
His doctor put him on ten-hour days, five days a week, and he hasn’t been happy since.
Marty Kozinski knew all the janitors by first name.
He was a 9 A.M. man who wanted to have breakfast with the kids.
He would come in at nine and leave at midnight.
Nathan Locke claims he can’t work well after the secretaries arrive, so he comes in at six.
It would be a disgrace to start later. Here’s a man sixty-one years old, worth ten million, and works from six in the morning until eight at night five days a week and then a half day on Saturday. If he retired, he’d die.
Nobody punched a clock, the partner explained. Come and go as you please. Just get the work done.
Mitch said he got the message. Sixteen hours a day would be nothing new.
Avery complimented him on the new suit. There was an unwritten dress code, and it was apparent Mitch had caught on. He had a tailor, an old Korean in South Memphis, he would recommend when Mitch could afford it. Fifteen hundred a suit. Mitch said he would wait a year or two.
An attorney from one of the bigger firms interrupted and spoke to Avery.
He offered his sympathies and asked about the families.
He and Joe Hodge had worked together on a case last year, and he couldn’t believe it.
Avery introduced him to Mitch. He was at the funeral, he said.
They waited for him to leave, but he rambled on and on about how sorry he was.
It was obvious he wanted details. Avery offered none, and he finally left.
By two, the power lunches were losing steam, and the crowd thinned.
Avery signed the check, and the maitre d’ led them to the door.
The chauffeur stood patiently by the rear of the limo.
Mitch crawled into the back and sank into the heavy leather seat.
He watched the buildings and the traffic.
He looked at the pedestrians scurrying along the hot sidewalks and wondered how many of them had seen the inside of a limo or the inside of the Manhattan Club.
How many of them would be rich in ten years?
He smiled, and felt good. Harvard was a million miles away.
Harvard with no student loans. Kentucky was in another world. His past was forgotten. He had arrived.
The decorator was waiting in his office.
Avery excused himself and asked Mitch to be in his office in an hour to begin work.
She had books full of office furniture and samples of everything.
He asked for suggestions, listened with as much interest as he could muster, then told her he trusted her judgment and she could pick out whatever she felt was appropriate.
She liked the solid-cherry work desk, no drawers, burgundy leather wing chairs and a very expensive oriental rug. Mitch said it was marvelous.
She left and he sat behind the old desk, one that looked fine and would have suited him except that it was considered used and therefore not good enough for a new lawyer at Bendini, Lambert a defender of the Constitution; a guardian of the oppressed; an advocate for your client’s principles.
Then after you practice for six months you realize we’re nothing but hired guns.
Mouthpieces for sale to the highest bidder, available to anybody, any crook, any sleazebag with enough money to pay our outrageous fees.
Nothing shocks you. It’s supposed to be an honorable profession, but you’ll meet so many crooked lawyers you’ll want to quit and find an honest job.
Yeah, Mitch, you’ll get cynical. And it’s sad, really. ”
“You shouldn’t be telling me this at this stage of my career.”
“The money makes up for it. It’s amazing how much drudgery you can endure at two hundred thousand a year.”
“Drudgery? You make it sound terrible.”
“I’m sorry. It’s not that bad. My perspective on life changed radically last Thursday.”
“You want to look at the house? It’s marvelous.”
“Maybe some other time. Let’s just talk.”