room. Peter could not help comparing this iquated dump to the elegant offices from which he had so recently been evicted. The memory of the plush carpets, brass fixtures and polished woods made his stomach seize up in rage and frustration. It just was not fair.
The woman looked up when the door opened and stared at Peter through glasses with thick, black plastic rims.
"I'm Peter Hale. I have an appointment with Mr. Geary for nine."
The woman eyed him suspiciously.
"You're the young man who's going to work here, aren't you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Well, take a seat. Mr. Geary's not in just yet. But I expect he'll be along any minute. He has court at ten."
The secretary-receptionist went back to her work without another word. Peter was shocked by her abrupt dismissal, but decided against reprimanding the woman.
She'd probably be typing his work and did not pay to alienate what appeared to be the only support staff in the office.
Peter sat on the couch. After a while, he looked around the reception room. Except for some cracks in the ceiling plaster, he did not see anything he had not seen the first time he looked. Peter glanced at his watch.
It was nine-fifteen. He decided to check out the Sports Illustrated. It was nine months old but Peter thumbed through it anyway. He was finished skimming it by nine-thirty and was deciding whether to read an article on a Peruvian boxer or start on Field and Stream when the door to the law office opened.
Amos Geary's face was a beet-red matrix of busted blood vessels. What Was left of his unkempt hair was a dingy gray and he had compensated for its loss by growing a shaggy, walrus mustache. His bloodshot eyes were lost in folds of puffy flesh. Geary was as tall as Peter's father and looked twice as heavy. His stomach sagged over his belt and the buttons on his shirt looked as if they were about to pop. Peter was wearing a tailored gray pinstripe suit and a tasteful maroon tie. Geary was wearing an awful aquamarine tie spotted with stains that matched those on his rumpled brown suit. Peter's facial muscles twitched with the effort it took to hide his distaste.
Geary studied the young man from the open doorway, mentally reconstructing his face with his mother's features deleted and his father's expanded.
"Peter Hale, I presume?"
"Mr. Geary?" Peter asked hesitantly while he studied Geary's sagging jowls and bulbous, red-veined nose.
Geary shifted his battered briefcase and extended his right hand. It was sweaty and Peter withdrew his own after a light touch as if he feared he could contract alcoholism from the brief contact.
"How was the drive?" Geary asked, ignoring the light and Peter's discomfort.
"Fine," Peter responded, flinching slightly as Geary's alcohol- and mouthwash-drenched breath hit him full in the face.
"Glad to hear it."
"Don't forget you have court at ten," the secretary reminded Geary.
"What case, Clara?"
"Judd."
"Oh, lord. Not Judd," Geary answered, turning his back on Peter and trudging down a dark and dingy hall.
"Follow me," Geary called over his shoulder. Peter trailed his new boss to a poorly lit office that stank of stale smoke. Geary tossed his briefcase on top of a mess of files and papers stacked atop a battle-scarred, wooden desk.
Peter sat on a straight-backed chair in front of the desk. While Geary rummaged through a gray metal filing cabinet for the Judd file, Peter looked around the office. On one wall, among diplomas and certificates attesting to Geary's admission to various state and federal bars, was a black-and-white team photo of the 1956 Oregon State football team. Geary caught Peter looking at it.
"I'm in the front, kneeling down. Your father's behind me on the right. I opened holes for him for four years and I've got cleat marks on my back to prove Geary said with a brusque laugh.
Peter forced a smile. He was not in the mood to listen to an old drunk wax nostalgic about the man who had exiled him to this big zero. Then, he noticed a
The woman looked up when the door opened and stared at Peter through glasses with thick, black plastic rims.
"I'm Peter Hale. I have an appointment with Mr. Geary for nine."
The woman eyed him suspiciously.
"You're the young man who's going to work here, aren't you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Well, take a seat. Mr. Geary's not in just yet. But I expect he'll be along any minute. He has court at ten."
The secretary-receptionist went back to her work without another word. Peter was shocked by her abrupt dismissal, but decided against reprimanding the woman.
She'd probably be typing his work and did not pay to alienate what appeared to be the only support staff in the office.
Peter sat on the couch. After a while, he looked around the reception room. Except for some cracks in the ceiling plaster, he did not see anything he had not seen the first time he looked. Peter glanced at his watch.
It was nine-fifteen. He decided to check out the Sports Illustrated. It was nine months old but Peter thumbed through it anyway. He was finished skimming it by nine-thirty and was deciding whether to read an article on a Peruvian boxer or start on Field and Stream when the door to the law office opened.
Amos Geary's face was a beet-red matrix of busted blood vessels. What Was left of his unkempt hair was a dingy gray and he had compensated for its loss by growing a shaggy, walrus mustache. His bloodshot eyes were lost in folds of puffy flesh. Geary was as tall as Peter's father and looked twice as heavy. His stomach sagged over his belt and the buttons on his shirt looked as if they were about to pop. Peter was wearing a tailored gray pinstripe suit and a tasteful maroon tie. Geary was wearing an awful aquamarine tie spotted with stains that matched those on his rumpled brown suit. Peter's facial muscles twitched with the effort it took to hide his distaste.
Geary studied the young man from the open doorway, mentally reconstructing his face with his mother's features deleted and his father's expanded.
"Peter Hale, I presume?"
"Mr. Geary?" Peter asked hesitantly while he studied Geary's sagging jowls and bulbous, red-veined nose.
Geary shifted his battered briefcase and extended his right hand. It was sweaty and Peter withdrew his own after a light touch as if he feared he could contract alcoholism from the brief contact.
"How was the drive?" Geary asked, ignoring the light and Peter's discomfort.
"Fine," Peter responded, flinching slightly as Geary's alcohol- and mouthwash-drenched breath hit him full in the face.
"Glad to hear it."
"Don't forget you have court at ten," the secretary reminded Geary.
"What case, Clara?"
"Judd."
"Oh, lord. Not Judd," Geary answered, turning his back on Peter and trudging down a dark and dingy hall.
"Follow me," Geary called over his shoulder. Peter trailed his new boss to a poorly lit office that stank of stale smoke. Geary tossed his briefcase on top of a mess of files and papers stacked atop a battle-scarred, wooden desk.
Peter sat on a straight-backed chair in front of the desk. While Geary rummaged through a gray metal filing cabinet for the Judd file, Peter looked around the office. On one wall, among diplomas and certificates attesting to Geary's admission to various state and federal bars, was a black-and-white team photo of the 1956 Oregon State football team. Geary caught Peter looking at it.
"I'm in the front, kneeling down. Your father's behind me on the right. I opened holes for him for four years and I've got cleat marks on my back to prove Geary said with a brusque laugh.
Peter forced a smile. He was not in the mood to listen to an old drunk wax nostalgic about the man who had exiled him to this big zero. Then, he noticed a
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