Mistress of Justice (30 page)

She swallowed. “We don’t even know each other.”

Clayton smiled, shaking his head. “Hey, look, I don’t want to marry you. I want to make love to you. That’s all. Two adults. I’m telling you that you’re an attractive woman.”

“I have to go.”

“It’s not a compliment,” he continued. “It’s an observation. I know how to make love to women. I’m good at it. Don’t you find me attractive?”

“That’s not the point—”

“So you do?” he said quickly. He stroked the bed and repeated, “I want to make love with you. Harmless and simple.”

Taylor smiled. “You don’t want to make love at all. You want to fuck me.”

“No!” he whispered harshly. Then he smiled. “I want us to fuck
together.”

Mistake, girl. He likes dirty talk.

“Look.” He waved his hand in front of his crotch like a magician. He was erect. “You did this. Not everybody does.”

She found herself leaning back, first her palms on the rich bedspread, then her elbows.

“Do you know the first thing I noticed about you?” Clayton whispered, touching a renegade strand of her hair. “Your eyes. Even from across the room.”

She rolled onto her side. She glanced down between his legs and said, “You’re a pretty gifted man, Wendall. I would have thought that with all the excitement at the firm you’d be more distracted.”

He hesitated then asked, “ ‘Excitement’?”

“The merger.”

He didn’t move for a moment. She’d thrown him off stride. He laughed seductively. “I’ve got a pretty big appetite.”

Taylor scanned his face, which was no more than twelve inches from hers. “I read somewhere that hunters make love before the hunt,” she said. “Sex is supposed to steady the hand.” She shook her head. “Me, I think it’s dissipating.”

“Ah, dissipate me, dissipate me.…” But the words fell short of their intended playfulness and he sounded like a college boy making an inappropriate joke. And suddenly the balance of this contest shifted—barely—to her.

He whispered, “Lie down, put your head on the pillow.” He spoke in a mesmerizing voice and Taylor was suddenly aware of his penis pressing through layers of cloth against her leg. Clayton said, “I have some toys.”

“Do you?”

“I can make you feel very, very good. Like you’ve never felt before.”

She laughed and more power slipped to her side of the board. When the spell wasn’t working, his lines began to sound silly. She asked, “Why do you hate Donald Burdick?”

“I’m not interested in talking about him. Or about the merger.”

“Why not?”

“I’d rather make love to you.”

“The merger is all everybody’s talking about.”

“Are you worried about your job? You won’t have to be. I promise you that,” he said.

“I haven’t worried about a job for years. I’m mostly just curious why you dislike Donald Burdick so much.”

She sat up. Clayton seemed befuddled. The evidence of his passion hadn’t diminished but he seemed uncertain—as if he had met and overcome all types of reluctance in seducing women over the years yet had suddenly run into a new defense: a barrage of questions.

“Go on,” she said. “Tell me why.”

“Well,” Clayton finally offered, “I don’t dislike Donald personally. He’s one of the most charming men I know. Socially, I admire him. He’s a fine representative of old money.”

“The rumor is that you want to destroy him.”

Clayton considered his answer. “I hear lots of rumors at the firm. I suspect those that I hear aren’t any more accurate than the ones you hear. The merger is solely business. Destroying people is far too time-consuming.…”

Finally the partner’s spell broke completely.

Taylor Lockwood rolled off the bed and ran her fingers through her hair. “You should go downstairs, I think. You are the host, after all.”

Clayton tried one last time. “But …” His hand strayed across the bulging front of his slacks.

“You know, Wendall,” Taylor said, smiling, “that’s the best compliment I’ve had in months. Does a girl’s heart good. But if you’ll excuse me.”

After leaving the bedroom Taylor walked into the upstairs bathroom (which, she noticed, seemed to be in perfect working order). There she waited until Clayton was out of sight. Then she slipped into his office.

Inside, in addition to the desk, were an armchair, a Victorian tea serving table, several floor lamps, two large armoires; there were no closets. She turned on a lamp and pushed the door partially closed.

The desk was unlocked. Its cubbyholes were filled with hundreds of slips of paper. Bank statements, canceled checks, memos, notes, personal bills, receipts. Taylor sighed at the volume of material she’d have to look through then sat in the red-leather chair and started going through the items one by one.

She’d been doing this for fifteen minutes when she heard a voice in the doorway say, “Ah, here you are.…”

The man speaking was Wendall Clayton.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Taylor spun around and stood up, knocking a stack of papers to the floor. The sheets spread like spilled water.

Wendall Clayton was outside the door, talking to someone else. Just out of his line of sight, she reached toward the papers then heard Clayton say, “Let’s go inside here for a minute, shall we?”

Desperately she kicked the papers under the desk; they disappeared—except for the corner of one letter. She reached down for it but the door was swinging open. Taylor leapt behind the largest armoire. She pressed herself flat against the wall, her head pressing painfully into the hard, cold plaster. Another voice spoke. A man’s voice, one she recognized. Ralph Dudley asked, “What is it exactly you wanted to see me about, Wendall?”

The door closed. Clayton said, “Have a seat.”

“Is something wrong?”

Clayton’s voice was curious. “I don’t remember this light being on.”

Taylor eased back harder against the wall.

Silence. What were they doing? Could they see the tips of her shoes, the corner of the paper under the desk? Was the chair she’d sat in still warm?

Clayton said, “Ralph, you’re part of, I guess I’d call it, the old guard, the old-boy network at the firm.”

“I go back a ways, that’s true.”

“You and Donald started at about the same time, didn’t you?”

“Bill Stanley, too. And Lamar Fredericks.”

“I see you at the DAC with Joe Wilkins and Porter quite a bit, don’t I?”

“Yes, we go there often. What do you—”

“Enjoying yourself tonight, are you?”

“Quite, Wendall.” The old partner’s voice was filled with anxiety as Clayton asked these pleasant questions with a slightly sadistic edge.

Silence. Feet shifting.

Clayton continued. “Young people here tonight. Lots of young people. It’s funny, isn’t it, Ralph? When I was their age I was making … fifty, seventy-five dollars a week. These youngsters make ninety thousand dollars a year. Amazing.”

“Wendall, is there something you want?”

“Ralph, I want you to vote in favor of the merger on Tuesday. That’s what I want.”

A long pause. The old man’s voice was trembling when he said, “I can’t, Wendall. You know that. If the merger goes through I lose my job. Donald loses his; a lot of people do.”

“You’ll be well provided for, Ralph. A good severance.”

“I can’t. I can’t afford to retire.”

“No, of course not. You’ve got expenses.”

Dudley sounded very cautious now. “That’s right. It costs a lot to live here.”

“Manhattan … most expensive city on earth.”

“I’m sorry, Wendall. I’ll have to say no to the merger.”

Silence again. Taylor imagined Dudley’s thoughts racing to catch up with Clayton’s. Taylor’s, however, had already arrived at their sad destination.

“You don’t mind blunt talk?” Clayton asked.

“Of course not. I appreciate candor and—”

“If you don’t vote in favor of the merger I’ll go public with your affair with a sixteen-year-old girl.”

The choked laugh didn’t mask the despair. “What are you talking about?”

“Ralph, I respect your intelligence; I hope you’ll respect mine. The little whore, the one you dress up and parade around as your granddaughter, which makes it all the more disgusting. You—”

Taylor heard the slap of a blow, a laugh of surprise from Clayton, feet dancing in the awkward shuffle of wrestling. Finally: a sad, desperate groan from Dudley—a sound filled with pain and hate and hopelessness.

Clayton laughed again. “Really, Ralph … Are you all right? There, sit down now. Are you hurt?”

“Don’t touch me,” Dudley said, his voice cracking. The sounds of the older man’s sobbing echoed softly in the room.

Clayton said patiently, “Let’s not be emotional. There’s no reason for me to tell anyone. Let’s negotiate a little bit. You’re the firm’s charmer, aren’t you? You’re suave, debonaire. You’re a holdout from the days when a lawyer’s manners were as important as his intelligence. So, now, how’s this? You and three of your cronies switch your votes in favor of the merger and I won’t share your secret.”

“Three others?”

“Say, Joe, Porter, pick somebody else. But—here’s the good part—you bring me any
more
and I’ll kick in fifty thousand each to your severance package. That should keep you in teenage pussy for another year or so.”

“You’re vile,” Dudley spat out.

“More vile than you?” Clayton asked. “I wonder. The vote’s day after tomorrow, Ralph. Why don’t you think about it.” Clayton’s was the voice of luxurious moderation. “Just think about it. It’s your decision. Come on, go downstairs, have a drink. Relax.”

“If you only understood—”

Clayton’s voice cut through the room like a knife. “Oh, but that’s the point, Ralph. I can’t understand. And no one else will either.”

The door opened. Two pairs of feet receded. Both slowly. One pair in triumph, one in despair, but the sound they made was the same.

Still in the quiet den Taylor was concentrating on a single noise.

Rhythmic and soft.

She had stayed here, hiding behind the armoire, after the partners had left because Clayton had remained upstairs; she’d heard his voice from nearby.

Then after five minutes or so the sound began. What is that?