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We fall silent as the staff removes the table that seats six and returns with a larger round table that seats eight. The staff reset the top with an undercloth in the same design as the drapes, that brushes the floor with a shorter white tablecloth overlaying it. White napkins sit atop menus bordered by heavy cutlery, wine goblets, and water glasses. While staff bustles about, getting everything rearranged, a manager arrives. “Mr. Brandon?’
Clay unfolds from the deep armchair.
The manager updates the status of the meal. “We’ve alerted the kitchen, but the extra guests will delay lunch. I hope that’s acceptable.”
“Perfectly fine. Thank you so much, Tony. Could we order drinks now? And maybe something to nibble on while we wait?”
“Of course. I’ll send someone in right away.”
After a couple of bobbing bows, Tony takes his leave. A few minutes later, a server comes in from the bar and takes drink orders. The understanding is no business will be discussed before or during the meal. Instead, Clay and Max savor barrel-aged single malt whisky. Miller orders champagne and shares it with Lanscombe and Hargrove. Rebecca Masters and I get draft beer, and Elena sticks with iced tea. A tray with crackers and cheese is available.
Twenty minutes later, Frederick Lanscombe’s jaw drops to his chest when Micki walks in, followed by lunch. “What the hell is she doing here? Don’t tell me she’s your legal counsel?”
Dressed professionally in a Chanel suit, hair swept up into a perfect twist, Micki looks like a million dollars—American, not Canadian.
“Nice to see you, Michelle.” Clay bows over her hand. “I’m sorry Kath couldn’t join us, but she’s visiting some women’s shelters today.”
Micki’s face lights up, accentuating her natural beauty. “I’m joining her after this. Can’t wait to get to work.” She casts a cool gaze over the team from the law firm. “Hello, Rebecca. Nice to see you. Tyler, Mark.” They all incline their heads slightly in acknowledgement. She turns to Lanscombe. “Well, hello, Fred. I thought you might be visiting your son.” She spits out the last words, as if removing a nasty taste.
Puzzlement spreads over the faces of his partners. Frederick clears his throat, forestalling questions. The fulcrum has shifted, and he’s scrambling to regain the power position. “Mr. Brandon, perhaps we could move things along. I’m a busy man.”
“Dr. Brandon, actually.” Clay doesn’t suggest using first names. “Lunch first, counselor. Then we’ll get down to business.” Lanscombe walks over to the drinks tray, puts down the half-empty flute and pours a double scotch. Drinks it down. Pours another, drinks that too. He sets a third at his place.
Instead of letting everyone order their own meal, Clay asked Elena to consult with the University Club food service to set the menu. The food is excellent, but Fred Lanscombe looks like he’s eating ashes. A steak-and-potato man, it turns out he’s a legend for the number of things he dislikes. And Micki knows them all. When the platter of raw oysters perched on crushed ice and salt is put on the table, the green of his face reflects against the white cloth. While the rest of us enjoy the briny delight, he holds his napkin to his lips.
After a small taste of the bitter bed of frisée, he toys with the salad of fig, goat cheese, and walnuts, with a fig vinaigrette. The main course is poached salmon with a hollandaise sauce, flanked by tender asparagus, and tiny potatoes. He forks up a potato, only to find they’re filled with sour cream and caviar. Reaching into the bread basket for a last-ditch chance, a grimace shows how much he dislikes seeds on bread. Caraway rye and sesame-covered butter rolls are the offerings. He drops the roll as if it is a hot coal.
“If you could have chosen the meal, Fred, what would we be eating?” Micki’s smile is so sweet I can feel my blood sugar rise.
“Yes, well, we’d start with iceberg lettuce and thousand island dressing. Then a nice medium steak and baked potato with butter. Dessert would be vanilla ice cream.”
“A classic American meal.” Max’s posture signals boring.
In the meantime, most of the conversation is about the newest play at the Goodman, predictions for the Cubs and Sox, speculation on how the Blackhawks will do in the playoffs, having won the Stanley Cup last season. Rebecca recommends a Korean-American restaurant, Parachute, that is opening next month in Avondale. Micki gushes over Cress’ new book, which will be out next month.
Lanscombe doesn’t take part.” Mr... uh… Dr. Brandon, I’m afraid I haven’t been able to eat any of this meal.” He mumbles something about allergies and diverticulosis. Micki’s been spot-on. He doesn’t have either but uses them as excuses to avoid eating things he doesn’t like.
Fake commiseration oozes from Clay. “Really sorry about that. I can have Elena ask the kitchen for a sandwich if you prefer. I know the children’s menu offers grilled cheese and tomato soup.”
Lanscombe huffs, “Don’t bother. I’ll just have some coffee. Then perhaps we can stop farting around and get to the reason for this gathering.”
Clay waves a hand and conjures coffee and dessert, a luscious set of three tarts—lemon, pear, and sweet potato. We tuck in, all except Lanscombe, who waves away the plate.
“Gives me heartburn.”
Table cleared and coffee cups refilled, Miller stands up and leans over the table, hands pressed down for balance as he gets in Clay’s face.
“Why exactly are we here,Dr.Brandon? My impression was you are planning to present us with a proposal to upgrade our computer system with new security tools.” Tyler has enjoyed his meal and now he’s ready to go a few rounds.
“Really, Mr. Miller? I don’t believe I suggested any such proposal.” Clay sips his coffee. “Max, did you prepare a cybersecurity proposal?”
“No.” He folds his arms, then leans back. “Perhaps JL has a proposal for a new security system—alarms, security guards.”
“Definitely not. The Aon Building provides all that, and I would never work with a company that abuses their employees.”
The other law partners swivel their heads to face Lanscombe. “What is he talking about?” Mark Hargrove’s suave tone is at odds with the hardness around his mouth.
Rebecca breaks in, “Let’s not be coy. We all know he’s referring to Ms. Press.” She gives me a curt nod. “I can assure you, Mr. Martin, Ms. Press was offered a very good severance package as well as the recommendations that ensured she was hired by…” She turns to Micki. “Who is it that hired you?”
