Garfield returned the scrutiny, and after an uncomfortable few seconds he offered a professional grin, the expression as practiced and genuine as a politician’s. He released Jeffrey’s hand, as though he’d taken Jeffrey’s measure through some sort of osmosis, and then motioned with his head at the table, where a bottle of Rioja waited on the white linen tablecloth, two Riedel goblets filled with several ruby inches, the third still empty, awaiting Jeffrey’s arrival.
Jeffrey sat, taking in Garfield’s lean jaw line, not an ounce of the soft-living flab that many attorneys sported as they approached the ends of their careers. Quite the opposite; Garfield seemed to project vitality and a glow almost like an aura, as if his presence had altered the physics of the atmosphere around him, imbuing it with confident energy by virtue of his moving effortlessly through it.
“A pleasure,” Garfield said easily, his voice modulated, the slightest trace of a southern accent playing at the edges of the syllables. “Thank you for agreeing to fly out to meet with us. Roger here assures me it was time well spent.”
“I hope so, Mr. Garfield.”
“I grilled him most of the afternoon, and he still showed up for dinner, so you have to give him that,” Roger said, picking up the bottle and pouring Jeffrey a generous measure. “This is excellent. I hope you like reds. One of Spain’s best,” he explained.
Jeffrey raised the glass to his nose, savoring the bouquet before holding it out in a toast. “Again, thanks for the hospitality.”
Roger and Garfield clinked their glasses against his and took appreciative swallows, and then returned their attention to Jeffrey, who suddenly felt like something on a laboratory slide. Garfield began speaking quietly, the voice of a man accustomed to his audience paying attention to what he was saying, and described the opening Jeffrey was interviewing for, stressing the attributes he prized the most, which mirrored what Roger had already told him. The entire speech took five minutes and was as well-crafted as a Shakespearian sonnet, building at the end to the point where Jeffrey almost felt as though he should applaud.
The questioning followed. Roger sat quietly, contributing as much as a stuffed boar head while Garfield expertly raked Jeffrey over the coals, probing every aspect of his professional and private life. The interrogation was civilized but laser-focused, and after a half hour of it, interrupted only by ordering their meals, Jeffrey felt like he’d been cross-examined by an A-team prosecutor, and was clearly guilty as charged — only of what, he had no idea. Then, as abruptly and intensely as it had begun, it stopped, and Garfield returned to making small talk with Roger, seemingly having made a decision, and now focused on extracting maximum enjoyment from his filet, which he attacked with the gusto of a shipwrecked sailor.
Over coffee, Garfield reclined against his seat back and checked his cell phone for messages, then set the little device on the table and leaned forward.
“I like you, young man. Roger assured me I would, but you never know until you’re in the clinch. He also indicated to me that you want the position, so it seems as though we’ve got a match. Welcome aboard. He’ll draw up the particulars of the offer and get them to you within twenty-four hours. I’ve got a good feeling about this, and frankly, one of my larger clients could use your expertise sooner rather than later, which is why there’s a rush. If you could start on Monday it wouldn’t be soon enough, but I understand that’s not feasible. As it is, I’d like you to commit to getting back here as soon as humanly possible — within a week would be best. Are you okay with picking up and leaving everything behind in San Francisco? I realize this is abrupt,” Garfield asked, not really in doubt about what the answer would be, Jeffrey could tell.
“One city’s pretty much like the other when you’re spending most of your time in the office, sir, so I don’t have any misgivings. As I told Roger, if the opportunity is substantial enough, I’ll move mountains.”
That was the right answer, because both men nodded, another successful deal concluded. Garfield rose, extending his hand again.
“I’m sorry. I committed to spending tonight with my wife at the opera, and it started half an hour ago. For that brief respite, I thank you, but I can’t miss the entire thing or I’ll never hear the end of it. Roger, you know what to do. Jeffrey, safe travels, and see you soon,” he said, and then sauntered out of the restaurant, looking neither left nor right, the room seeming to shrink when he left, as though he’d taken a substantial portion of the oxygen with him.
“You weren’t kidding. He’s impressive,” Jeffrey said to Roger, the last of the second bottle of wine all that remained in their glasses.
“You don’t know the half of it. I’d say you’re one lucky bastard right now. Let me pay the bill and we can get out of here; have a drink at the bar to celebrate. I’ll have everything ready for you by the time you land in S.F. The plane won’t be available for departure until tomorrow at one, so you can afford one nightcap,” Roger said, waving off any objection with a practiced hand.
The check could have bought a timeshare, and once it was settled Roger led Jeffrey to the lounge, a contemporary affair that reeked of prosperity, and ordered two glasses of Glenlivet after taking a seat at the half-full bar. The Scotch tasted like liquid gold, and Roger ran down a checklist of items that would be in the package as they toasted and then nursed the drinks, Roger’s eyes twinkling as the alcohol hit home.
Jeffrey was preparing to call it an early night when Roger nudged him and squinted over Jeffrey’s right shoulder at the other end of the bar. He followed Roger’s stare, and found himself looking into the dark eyes of a striking young woman — a brunette with alabaster skin, high Slavic cheekbones, and luxuriant shoulder-length hair, mid-twenties, who was just getting comfortable as she waited for her drink to arrive. His breath caught in his throat as her gaze shifted briefly to Roger, then returned to Jeffrey, a blink of merriment in it, as though they’d been caught enjoying a joke that only they were privy to.
Roger’s elbow dug into his side and he leaned in, his high-octane whisper practically singeing Jeffrey’s ear.
“Holy shit. What I wouldn’t do to be young again. Here’s some cash for the drinks — I’ll leave you to this. We old dogs need our beauty rest, and if you play your cards right, you may need the flight to catch up on the sleep you miss…” Roger slipped a hundred dollar bill under Jeffrey’s glass, finished his Scotch with a gulp, and dismounted from the bar stool. Jeffrey thanked him and watched him teeter off somewhat unsteadily, the potent cocktail having apparently rushed straight to his head.
The woman’s drink arrived — a Cosmopolitan, one of the lounge’s specialties, per the menu — and she took a grateful sip, downing a third of it before closing her eyes as if offering a silent prayer of thanks. When she opened them again, Jeffrey realized he was gawking. She smiled and the room tilted, and suddenly there was only her, everything else consigned to meaningless background noise, her teeth sparkling as a darting pink tongue flicked an errant drop from the corner of her mouth. She took another sip, this one smaller, and Jeffrey felt the liquid courage flush his face as he stood and moved to the barstool next to her.
“Excuse me. Is this seat taken?” he asked, imagining himself sounding like a modern Cary Grant in the refined environment. At least he hoped so, because the faint whiff of perfume he got was as powerful an aphrodisiac as if she’d offered him a lap dance, and at that moment he wanted to hear her voice more than anything in the universe.