Rough Trade

his personal acre of polished mahogany, and she closed the door quietly upon us.
    He did not smile. His face was pinched and puritanical. He had always fancied himself a father figure, and his disappointment therefore carried with it something of a paternal air. He shook his head sadly in a small gesture of shock and disbelief. He cast his eyes at me as if to say that what was coming would be all the worse on account of his deep affection for me.
    I knew it was all bullshit.
    “Where have you been? We’ve been looking all over for you,” he demanded, sounding like my father on prom night—actually, prom morning to be more accurate— after I’d wandered in sometime after breakfast, hung over and reeking of dope.
    “Milwaukee,” I replied without elaboration.
    “I figured as much. Ned Bergstrom called and woke me up this morning. As you can imagine, he and the rest of the partners in Milwaukee are extremely upset.”
    “Why? Because they’ll lose their seats on the fifty-yard line if the Monarchs move to Los Angeles?”
    “Don’t take that tone with me, young lady,” he snapped. “You don’t think the fact that our firm name is now linked to the most heinous incidence of civic treason in Milwaukee history is an issue of legitimate concern? Ned said he’s afraid to go to lunch at his club for fear of what people will say to him! Not only that, but he had to read about it in the newspaper. I can’t believe that you would knowingly involve this firm in a controversy of national proportions without consulting anybody. May I remind you that no matter what you seem to think, this firm is not your private fiefdom—”
    “Is that what this is about?” I cut in incredulously. “Ned Bergstrom being too ashamed to have lunch at his club?”
    “I know it seems hard to believe that you could be the cause of an even more serious problem than the Monarchs’ mess, but apparently your reputation for being a lightning rod for trouble is nothing if not well deserved.” He paused to emit another sigh, steepling his fingers together and laying them on the desk in front of him in a schoolmasterly gesture.
    “Well, are you going to tell me what I’m supposed to have done,” I demanded, “or do I have to ask the secretaries?”
    “Avco has fired us for cause. We received written notification this morning that they are actively seeking representation elsewhere.”
    For a minute the earth actually moved and Tillman’s patrician office seemed to rock beneath my feet. Under the terms of our agreement with Avco, if they fired us for cause, then they were no longer bound to pay us. Providing that they had a valid reason, the firm would lose in excess of a quarter of a million dollars in fees for work already performed.
    “Of course, with a matter of this magnitude I have no choice but to bring it formally before the management committee,” continued Tillman. “Gil Hendrickson is in New York and not due back until late tonight, that’s why I’ve scheduled it for ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Naturally, you will be given an opportunity to present your explanation of events at that time.”
    Stunned, I stood there for a fraction of a second before willing myself to make my way toward the door. There was a rushing sound in my ears, like surf, that drowned out everything else. It took me a minute to identify it, but when I did I realized that what I was hearing was the death rattle of my career.
     
    I would be lying if I said that one of the attractions of what I do isn’t the risk, the fact that there’s nothing like standing on the high wire to keep you focused, to prevent your mind from straying into the messy gray areas of your personal life. Of course, the downside is that sometimes you fall.
    The trouble was that what was happening both with Avco and the Monarchs was no longer just happening to the client. It was happening to me. It would be as if Claudia, who gets her kicks from her heroic feats of surgical legerdemain, suddenly felt herself being pulled from the wreckage and about to go under the knife.
    I went back to my office and thought briefly about storming out, or feeling sorry for myself, or calling Stephen and seeing if I could lose myself in sweaty sex. But I’ve never had much appetite for self-pity, and when I called Stephen, all I got was this year’s assistant telling me that he was in a meeting that was expected to last for the rest of the afternoon.
    After that I did what I always do. I