Dead Certain

The trouble was that Joan was a partisan by profession, a well-known and outspoken opponent of the constraints placed on the traditional freedoms enjoyed by physicians. Just like my mother, she had her own agenda.
    When I finally got back to my office, I was surprised to find my door shut and the sound of voices coming from within. Puzzled, I shucked off my raincoat and ventured toward the door. Turning the handle slowly, I pushed it open to reveal a vaguely disturbing tableau—Cheryl, dressed in a dark blue suit that had once been mine, looking very much at home behind my desk. From the looks of things, she appeared to be conducting an interview with a very animated young woman whose hair looked like it had been cut by a poodle groomer.
    I caught my secretary’s eye and offered up an inquisitive glance. In response she shot me one of her don’t-even-ask looks and promptly turned her attention back to the fascinating young woman with the strange hair. “Now, were there any other questions I can answer for you about the kinds of work involved?” she asked in an obvious effort to draw the interview to a close.
    “Well...,” began the young woman rather tentatively, but it was too late. Cheryl was already on her feet and moving toward the door.
    “It’s been a pleasure meeting you,” continued Cheryl, shepherding her toward the door.
    “It’s been really neat meeting you, Ms. Millholland,” gushed the young woman, ignoring me and speaking to my secretary. “I just want you to know that if I do get the job, I know it would, like, work out to be super for both of us, you know?”
    “I’m so sorry I’m late coming back from lunch, Ms. Millholland,” I piped in, my voice dripping with contrition. “I promise it won’t happen again. Would you like me to show the job candidate out?”
    “That would be very nice of you,” replied Cheryl, struggling valiantly to control her face.
    I took my time showing the hapless young woman to the door, ducking through the library and taking a detour through the trusts and estate department to give us time to chat. As we walked I managed to learn that her name was Amber and that she wanted to work as a legal secretary only until she’d saved enough money to pay for electrolysis school. I must confess, I entertained myself further by regaling her with stories about what a harridan “Ms. Millholland” really was to work for, complete with anecdotes about temper tantrums and punitive overtime.
    By the time I got back to my office, I found that my secretary had not only resumed her usual seat but also fetched fresh coffee for the both of us.
    “It would almost be worth hiring her just to see her face on the first day,” I announced as I settled in behind my desk.
    “No, it wouldn’t,” replied Cheryl. “I guarantee you you’d strangle her inside of a week. The woman has the IQ of a rutabaga. I hope you don’t mind what I did, but you still weren’t back from lunch and you’re already on Mrs. Goodlow’s shit list.”
    “What makes you say that?” I asked, wondering what on earth I’d done this time to get on the wrong side of Callahan Ross’s imperious office manager.
    “I’m afraid you’ve violated the three-strikes rule.“
    “And what, pray tell, is that?”
    “One of the things I’m really going to miss about this place is the way that the lawyers are always the last ones to figure out how things really work around here. The three-strikes rule, as in three strikes and you’re out, means that you’re expected to choose one of the first three applicants that Mrs. Goodlow sends you to interview.”
    “And if you don’t?” I demanded, doing some rapid calculating in my head and ending up in double digits.
    “Then she decides that you’re just being unreasonable, and to prove her point, she starts sending you terrible applicants until you come crawling on your knees to her office and beg for mercy, which, by the way, is exactly what she always wanted in the first place.”
    “Great,” I complained. “So what you’re telling me is that unless I pick somebody soon, I’m going to end up interviewing Chi-Chi the Chimp Girl and her fun-loving family of primate personal assistants.”
    “I’d say that pretty much sums up your current situation.”
    “Wonderful. Now tell me the good news.”
    “Your mother’s called twice since you came back from lunch.” I meant to groan, but instead it came out as a kind of plaintive keening sound. “She