bully.
"And today it's all over the paper," I tell her. This seems to put a little flush in her cheeks.
I hold up the copy in my hand. I would ask her to autograph it, but Lenore would get pissed.
"My name wasn't in the paper." This seems to bother her.
"Give em time." I can imagine the feeding frenzy when the press gets a gander. They will cut a big piece of cheesecake for the front page.
"Your name's not in there for a reason," says Lenore. "That's the way we want to keep it. I hope you understand," she says.
A sober nod from the woman, though I can tell the thought of anonymity does not rest well.
"We were just finishing up a little debriefing," says Lenore. "Maybe you wouldn't mind waiting in the outer office?" Whether I would or not, she is showing me to the door so that she can vacuum up the dirt for the criminal complaint her staff must draw up on Acosta. I could press an ear to the keyhole, but the secretaries might not like it.
In ten minutes the cheeks of my nether-side are numb from the hard wooden bench where I sit nourishing hopes that Lenore might share something with me when she is finished, some tidbit of sleaze from the Coconut's nighttime foraging. I can hear the undercurrent of buzzing voices in Lenore's office, but nothing distinct. For entertainment I zone in on one half of kline's conversation on the phone through his closed office door. I can tell he is dour, even with a partition between us, something on the order of a pin-striped statesman. His part of the dialogue consists of a few pointed questions. On the single occasion I had to deal with the man he used such an economy of words he bordered on the awkward.
"Yes. As I said, I will look into it and get back to you. Um-hm. Um-hm. What's your client's name?" Silence, as if perhaps he were taking notes.
"Any other offenses? Priors?" he says. There's a longer pause. More notes.
"I'm not going to promise anything, but I will talk to her. No, Ms. Goya works for me. I make the final decisions." Clerical eyes are on me. One of the secretaries senses that I have my antennae up, feeding on what should be classified communications. She starts up the copier and I lose Kline's voice. The woman is probably wasting a little county money, shooting some blank pages in the cause of confidence.
A few seconds later the door that was the object of my interest opens, and out strolls Coleman Kline, trim in a thousand-dollar suit, linen cuffs, and gold links, his face a bit weathered. I am told that he sails on weekends on the bay. Even with a receding hairline he is a handsome man, a picture off the cover of Gentlemen's Quarterly.
He's holding a note in one hand, something scrawled on a yellow Post-it. The secretary is out other chair and around the public counter, a mendicant's pose, waiting for her master's bidding. He hands her the note.
"Get me the file on this." She's off at the speed of light.
He catches a glimpse of me from the corner of one eye, utters hushed whispers over the counter to the receptionist seated at the phone bank, and inquires as to whether I am waiting for him. She assures him that I am not. Then he looks toward Lenore's closed door.
"Is Ms. Goya in with anyone?"
"Ms. Hall." There's an imperious look. "I thought I left precise instructions that Ms. Hall was to be shown into my office as soon as she arrived."
"You were on the phone, and Ms. Goya said ..."
"I don't care what Ms. Goya said. When I give an instruction, I expect it to be followed." Demure looks from the receptionist, something on the order of a whipped dog.
She sits there, eyes cast down, the picture of apology, but takes no initiative to cure this wrong.
"Well, buzz her," he says. "Ms. Goya?"
"Yes, Ms. Goya. And tell her to send Ms. Hall into my office. Right now. "
"Yes, sir." Having been failed once, he now stands over her to ensure that his every word is now law. In the meantime the secretary is back.
"The file you wanted." "Yes. Where
"And today it's all over the paper," I tell her. This seems to put a little flush in her cheeks.
I hold up the copy in my hand. I would ask her to autograph it, but Lenore would get pissed.
"My name wasn't in the paper." This seems to bother her.
"Give em time." I can imagine the feeding frenzy when the press gets a gander. They will cut a big piece of cheesecake for the front page.
"Your name's not in there for a reason," says Lenore. "That's the way we want to keep it. I hope you understand," she says.
A sober nod from the woman, though I can tell the thought of anonymity does not rest well.
"We were just finishing up a little debriefing," says Lenore. "Maybe you wouldn't mind waiting in the outer office?" Whether I would or not, she is showing me to the door so that she can vacuum up the dirt for the criminal complaint her staff must draw up on Acosta. I could press an ear to the keyhole, but the secretaries might not like it.
In ten minutes the cheeks of my nether-side are numb from the hard wooden bench where I sit nourishing hopes that Lenore might share something with me when she is finished, some tidbit of sleaze from the Coconut's nighttime foraging. I can hear the undercurrent of buzzing voices in Lenore's office, but nothing distinct. For entertainment I zone in on one half of kline's conversation on the phone through his closed office door. I can tell he is dour, even with a partition between us, something on the order of a pin-striped statesman. His part of the dialogue consists of a few pointed questions. On the single occasion I had to deal with the man he used such an economy of words he bordered on the awkward.
"Yes. As I said, I will look into it and get back to you. Um-hm. Um-hm. What's your client's name?" Silence, as if perhaps he were taking notes.
"Any other offenses? Priors?" he says. There's a longer pause. More notes.
"I'm not going to promise anything, but I will talk to her. No, Ms. Goya works for me. I make the final decisions." Clerical eyes are on me. One of the secretaries senses that I have my antennae up, feeding on what should be classified communications. She starts up the copier and I lose Kline's voice. The woman is probably wasting a little county money, shooting some blank pages in the cause of confidence.
A few seconds later the door that was the object of my interest opens, and out strolls Coleman Kline, trim in a thousand-dollar suit, linen cuffs, and gold links, his face a bit weathered. I am told that he sails on weekends on the bay. Even with a receding hairline he is a handsome man, a picture off the cover of Gentlemen's Quarterly.
He's holding a note in one hand, something scrawled on a yellow Post-it. The secretary is out other chair and around the public counter, a mendicant's pose, waiting for her master's bidding. He hands her the note.
"Get me the file on this." She's off at the speed of light.
He catches a glimpse of me from the corner of one eye, utters hushed whispers over the counter to the receptionist seated at the phone bank, and inquires as to whether I am waiting for him. She assures him that I am not. Then he looks toward Lenore's closed door.
"Is Ms. Goya in with anyone?"
"Ms. Hall." There's an imperious look. "I thought I left precise instructions that Ms. Hall was to be shown into my office as soon as she arrived."
"You were on the phone, and Ms. Goya said ..."
"I don't care what Ms. Goya said. When I give an instruction, I expect it to be followed." Demure looks from the receptionist, something on the order of a whipped dog.
She sits there, eyes cast down, the picture of apology, but takes no initiative to cure this wrong.
"Well, buzz her," he says. "Ms. Goya?"
"Yes, Ms. Goya. And tell her to send Ms. Hall into my office. Right now. "
"Yes, sir." Having been failed once, he now stands over her to ensure that his every word is now law. In the meantime the secretary is back.
"The file you wanted." "Yes. Where
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