The Reform Artists: A Legal Suspense, Spy Thriller (The Reform Artists Series Book 1) (5 page)

It was almost eleven o’clock when Martin stepped off the elevator and into Findley, Feldman and Santori’s stately reception area on the fourteenth floor of the Washington Square building, in downtown D.C. He glanced past the Chippendale sofas and chairs and waved ‘hello’ to Monique, who was sorting mail behind the reception desk.

Young, slim, attractive and impeccably dressed and coiffed, Monique—the temporary agency’s ‘flavor of the month’—exuded a Vogue-like, left-bank sophistication that Martin initially found somewhat intimidating. She was of a type: an aesthetic, actually. All the full-time receptionist candidates that the agency had been auditioning for hire of late—whether male, female, African, Asian or European—looked like they had just stepped out of a fashion spread for
Elle
or
GQ
.

They all also came well-schooled in high-end client greeting and phone-answering etiquette. They never asked a guest to choose between generic “bottled water” and “coffee,” for instance. Instead, they inquired as to whether the visitor would prefer ‘an Evian’ or ‘a Keurig?’ They excelled as office furniture, complementing the reception area’s bespoke décor of parquet floors and fine antiques. But their luster faded rapidly whenever they had to navigate even the most mundane, unscripted conversation.

“Any messages?” Martin asked.

“Oh, yes!” Monique beamed.

Martin stepped forward and extended his upturned hand, as Monique’s face suddenly blushed crimson.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Silkwood. They weren’t for you.”

“Of course.” Martin smiled and sighed. Then, without missing a beat, he turned right and began the long walk down the corridor toward Joe Santori’s office at the southern end of the building.

“Is Mr. Santori in?” he asked her over his shoulder.

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you let him know I’ll be stopping by?”

“Certainly.”

“Thanks.”

Such minor, daily annoyances were a byproduct of David Feldman’s endless cost-cutting efforts. Feldman, the firm’s managing partner and fiscal hawk, kept this revolving door of ‘fetching incompetents’ turning, in order to avoid hiring a permanent receptionist and causing the firm to incur the one-time placement fee that would equal twenty-five percent of the new hire’s annual starting salary.

Feldman further greased the wheels of ineptitude by refusing to provide the temporary placement firm with any meaningful feedback on why he chose to reject its candidates.

Feldman’s penny-pinching behavior had intensified in the past year, as the now sixty-four-year-old partner rapidly approached the firm’s mandatory retirement age of sixty-five. (His buyout would depend on the strength of the current year’s P & L statement.) He was becoming more tight-fisted and risk averse with each passing month.

In his prime, Feldman had focused on creating value, rather than on squeezing it out of niggling operational decisions. His farsighted, strategic thinking had allowed the firm gradually to take over the top three floors of this landmark office building, at the corner of Connecticut Avenue and K Street, without ever paying a rental premium. Feldman accomplished this feat by negotiating a ‘right of first refusal’ clause into the firm’s original lease. That clause allowed FF&S to exchange office space it let elsewhere in the building, at par value, for comparable space on the top three floors the moment it became available.

Martin preferred to meet privately with Santori when he had anything ‘delicate’ to discuss. The less pleasant and more personally painful the topic, the more he felt compelled to seek out Santori and to dodge Feldman altogether—if possible. These two men not only occupied identical, glass-enclosed octagonal office suites at opposite ends of the fourteenth floor, they also represented polar extremes in temperament.

Feldman was a true “inside man:” obsessive, detail oriented and brash, if not downright blunt. A slight, thin man, with a black comb over and bushy eyebrows, he looked significantly older, and frailer, than his sixty-four years would suggest. Feldman had a temper, too, and when agitated, he would hurl invectives at the targets of his displeasure. At such times, it seemed that Feldman’s shrill voice could cut through thick safety glass, insulated sheet rock and steel support beams with the ease of a high-powered laser.

Santori, on the other hand, was the firm’s “outside guy” and its primary rainmaker. Big, tan, affable, athletic, extroverted and upbeat, he exuded an off-the-charts self-confidence and likability. At six-foot-two and 205 pounds, with a thick head of curly gray hair, Santori looked like a former college linebacker. He had developed a slight gut in recent years, but that seemed more related to a naturally slowing metabolism than to any reduction in physical activity. In fact, the fifty-nine-year-old kept on the go seven days a week. He played tennis Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, completed eighteen holes of golf every weekend and had recently started attending a spinning class with thirty-eight-year-old wife number three.

What Martin admired most about Santori was that he knew his strengths and his passions—and he led with them. In fact, Santori successfully arranged his business and personal life to accommodate his interests.

He blocked out his competitive sporting activities on his calendar each week as “networking time,” which they were. He split the rest of his time between providing financial advice to the firm’s top clients and serving on the boards of at least a dozen non-profit trade groups, whose membership just happened to represent key FF&S target markets. At those board meetings, Santori used his no-nonsense, creative approach to business problem solving to impress his peers and elicit referrals. He was a consummate politician, plying his trade in the most politically vital city on earth. Each day, he brought new business contacts together for their mutual benefit...and frequently, for the firm’s eventual profit.

Santori’s door stood slightly ajar, so Martin rapped on it gently and then poked his head inside. He found Santori standing in the middle of the room, sans business jacket, in his custom-tailored, pinstriped shirt, silk tie, silk suspenders and slacks, practicing his putting swing on the office’s forest-green carpet. Santori had just tapped a ball in the direction of an aluminum putting cup, which stood about eight feet away from him, and Martin watched the ball rapidly close in on, and find, its target.

“Nice shot,” he said.

“All in a day’s work, my boy,” Santori said. He smiled and waved Martin in, while he began queuing up another ball. His eyes never left the carpet.

“Wanna make this interesting, Dave?” he asked Feldman, whom Martin now saw was seated on a couch at his far left. “Say, a Hamilton or two?”

“Not while you’re in your kill zone, Joe—unless, you want to play left-handed?”

Santori ignored him, lined up the putter and hit the ball firmly. This time, it looked like a repeat of the previous shot, until the very end, when the ball suddenly trailed off to the right.

“Damn!” Feldman whelped.

Santori shook his head. “Woulda, coulda, shoulda.” He winked at Martin and smiled wryly at the older man as he parked the putter against his desk and came over to join them.

“You did that on purpose—to spite me,” Feldman complained.

“I’m not that good.”

“Oh, yes, you are!”

Santori stepped forward, gave Martin a firm handshake and guided him to a seat by Feldman, who was studying his wristwatch.

Feldman frowned. “I hear you just got in. Don’t we have enough work to keep you busy?”

Santori bowed flamboyantly and deferentially before the older man. “Nice twofer, Dave." Then, to Martin: "He’s busting both our balls with that one.

“I’m impressed,” he added, turning back to Feldman. “It appears you’ve still got your mojo.”

“Damned right, I do.”

“Actually,” Santori said, “I told Marty to sleep in, today. I’m worried that if he doesn’t slow down a little, he might wind up looking like you in a few years.”

“Those would have to be some mighty rough years,” Feldman said, and they all laughed.

Santori took a seat facing the couch and turned in Martin’s direction. “What’s up? I hear you wanted to see me. Everything going OK with the Great Plains audit?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s shaping up well.”

“Good.”

“Nice billable hours on that job!” Feldman chirped.

“Yep. We should make out pretty well,” Martin said.

“Like bandits,” Feldman cooed.

An awkward silence followed before Martin finally blurted out his news. “Listen guys, Katie and I have separated. I’m living in a motel, and I spent the morning meeting with an attorney up in Olney. I just thought you two should know.”

Santori and Feldman exchanged quick, relieved glances.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Marty,” Santori began.

“A real shame,” Feldman added.

“Any chance the two of you might patch things up?” Santori asked.

“Not likely,” Martin said, privately feeling the sting of his words.

Santori leaned forward in his chair. “She wants custody of the kids, I presume?”

“Yeah. And fighting that is probably going to be an uphill battle, what with all the traveling I do. You know, the worst part of this is the effect the divorce will have on the kids. They don’t deserve it.”

“So, what happened?” Feldman asked, unable to leave Martin’s sudden vulnerability alone. “Did she catch you making out with the babysitter or something?”

Martin looked Feldman coldly in the eye and held his gaze until he finally saw the man’s Adam’s apple twitch. “I’m really not sure what’s behind it. We hit a bit of a rough patch, lately. But we were planning to see a marriage counselor and work things out.”

“At least, you were planning to—” Feldman sniped.

Santori glared at Feldman. “Knock it off, Dave! Can’t you see the guy’s in pain?” Then, turning back to Martin, he continued. “Do you think things might get ugly?”

Martin hesitated. “I really don’t know.”

“Well, let’s hope not. These matters can become pretty distracting and draining, if they get out of hand. That would not be good for you...or the firm.”

“I agree.”

“So, what can we do to help? Do you need to take some time off?  Could you use extra staff on the Great Plains gig?”

“No, I’m all right. Really.”

Santori’s face lit up. “Say, what if I ask my nephew, Tony, to bone up on the Great Plains account. That way, he could work Chicago as your backup—just in case you need it.”

“No!” Martin snapped. “I’m fine. I don’t need any ‘back up.’ And if I did, I would decide whom to pick.”

“OK, OK. I was just trying to help.”

“Are you sure that’s all you were doing?”

Santori blinked. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know,” Martin said, “but you suddenly seem unusually free with the resources, especially considering the way our partner, Mr. Scrooge, over there, has been pinching pennies of late. This is also the first time you have ever suggested that I might need an understudy.”

Feldman cleared his throat. “For the record, I ‘pinch pennies,’ as you so crudely put it, to reduce costs and improve margins. And I would never ‘pinch’ to the point where it put our profits at risk.”

“I should hope not,” Martin said.

Santori raised a hand. “Let’s take things down a notch, shall we? First off, Marty, let me say that Dave and I have the utmost confidence in you and your abilities. You should know that by now. But for many reasons—Dave’s retirement being one—it’s critical that we proceed cautiously.

“I offered some extra manpower and suggested Tony as a possible backup, because the firm could face considerable exposure if, and only if, your divorce took a particularly ugly turn and it began to affect your work. As you know, we currently have an unusually large number of audits in the pipeline.

“I want to be supportive, that’s all—and to look after our common interests. Remember, I’ve been in your shoes before. I know what a shit storm divorce can be.”

“And yet, you voluntarily keep slipping those shoes back on,” Feldman jabbed, “which suggests you’ve learned nothing.” He flashed a deep, satisfied smile.

Santori waved him off and continued. “Would you take some advice, Marty, from a twice-divorced guy?”

“Sure.”

“Whatever happens, keep it amicable. And by that, I mean, first-and-foremost, keep it out of court. The only ones who make out in a contested divorce these days are the attorneys.”

“Actually, if memory serves,” Feldman interjected, “your first wife did quite well by ignoring that advice.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Santori said, looking vaguely annoyed. “She probably would have gotten the house, half the savings and half my retirement anyway, but we could have avoided all those costly attorneys’ fees—”

“Fees the judge made you pay.”

“Yeah. But it was a wash, really,” Santori explained, primarily for his younger colleague’s benefit. “Paying those court costs probably saved me from having to foot the bill for years of anger-management therapy for my ex.”

Feldman cupped his hands now, as if he was going to whisper a secret to Martin. Then, he shouted, “That’s because wife number one caught Joe getting a blow job from wife number two—just a few feet from where we are sitting now. Walked right in on them.”