Three Classic Thrillers Read Online Free PDF Page B

a fascinating view of the tugboats, paddle-wheelers, barges, docks and bridges.
    The room was protected turf, a sanctuary for those lawyers talented and ambitious enough to be called partners in the quiet Bendini firm. They gathered each day for lunches prepared by Jessie Frances, a huge, temperamental old black woman, and served by her husband, Roosevelt, who wore white gloves and an odd-fitting, faded, wrinkled hand-me-down tux given to him by Mr. Bendini himself shortly before his death. They also gathered for coffee and doughnuts some mornings to discuss firm business and, occasionally, for a glass of wine in the late afternoon to celebrate a good month or an exceptionally large fee. It was for partners only, and maybe an occasional guest such as a blue-chip client or prospective recruit. The associates could dine there twice a year, only twice—and records were kept—and then only at the invitation of a partner.
    Adjacent to the dining room was a small kitchen where Jessie Frances performed, and where she had cooked the first meal for Mr. Bendini and a few others twenty-six years earlier. For twenty-six years she had cooked Southern food and ignored requests to experiment and try dishes she had trouble pronouncing. “Don’t eat it if you don’t like it,” was her standard reply. Judging from the scraps Roosevelt collected from the tables, the food was eaten and enjoyed immensely. She posted the week’s menu on Monday, asked that reservations be made by ten each day and held grudges for years if someone canceled or didn’t show. She and Roosevelt worked four hours each day and were paid a thousand each month.
    Mitch sat at a table with Lamar Quin, Oliver Lambert and Royce McKnight. The entrée was prime rib, served with fried okra and boiled squash.
    “She laid off the grease today,” Mr. Lambert observed.
    “It’s delicious,” Mitch said.
    “Is your system accustomed to grease?”
    “Yes. They cook this way in Kentucky.”
    “I joined this firm in 1955,” Mr. McKnight said, “and I come from New Jersey, right? Out of suspicion, I avoided most Southern dishes as much as possible. Everything is battered and fried in animal fat, right? Then Mr. Bendini decides to open up this little café. He hires Jessie Frances, and I’ve had heartburn for the past twenty years. Fried ripe tomatoes, fried green tomatoes, fried eggplant, fried okra, fried squash, fried anything and everything. One day Victor Milligan said too much. He’s from Connecticut, right? And Jessie Frances had whipped up a batch of fried dill pickles. Can you imagine? Fried dill pickles! Milligan said something ugly to Roosevelt and he reported it to Jessie Frances. She walked out the back door and quit. Stayed gone for a week. Roosevelt wanted to work, but she kept him at home. Finally, Mr. Bendini smoothed things over and she agreed to return if there were no complaints. But she also cut back on the grease. I think we’ll all live ten years longer.”
    “It’s delicious,” said Lamar as he buttered another roll.
    “It’s always delicious,” added Mr. Lambert as Roosevelt walked by. “Her food is rich and fattening, but we seldom miss lunch.”
    Mitch ate cautiously, engaged in nervous chitchat and tried to appear completely at ease. It was difficult.Surrounded by eminently successful lawyers, all millionaires, in their exclusive, lavishly ornamented dining suite, he felt as if he was on hallowed ground. Lamar’s presence was comforting, as was Roosevelt’s.
    When it was apparent Mitch had finished eating, Oliver Lambert wiped his mouth, rose slowly and tapped his tea glass with his spoon. “Gentlemen, could I have your attention.”
    The room became silent as the twenty or so partners turned to the head table. They laid their napkins down and stared at the guest. Somewhere on each of their desks was a copy of the dossier. Two months earlier they had voted unanimously to make him their number one pick. They knew he ran four miles a