"I know...I should give them up."
"Well, you should. Unless you want to develop diabetes later in life. Why are you on the floor?"
"I was checking the TV."
"Why? Is it broken?"
"I don't think so." He got to his feet.
"The water is running in your shower," she said. "That's not environmentally conscious." She poured coffee, handed it to him. "Go and take your shower. I've got to get to my class."
When he came out of the shower, she was gone. He pulled the covers up over the bed (as close as he ever came to making it) and went into the closet to dress for the day.
CENTURY CITY
TUESDAY, AUGUST 24
8:45 A. M.
The law firm of Hassle and Black occupied five floors of an office building in Century City. They were a forward-looking, socially aware firm. They represented many Hollywood celebrities and wealthy activists who were committed to environmental concerns. The fact that they also represented three of the biggest land developers in Orange County was less often publicized. But as the partners said, it kept the firm balanced.
Evans had joined the firm because of its many environmentally active clients, particularly George Morton. He was one of four attorneys who worked almost full-time for Morton, and for Morton's pet charity, the National Environmental Resource Fund, NERF.
Nevertheless, he was still a junior associate, and his office was small, with a window that looked directly at the flat glass wall of the skyscraper across the street.
Evans looked over the papers on his desk. It was the usual stuff that came to junior attorneys. There was a residential sublet, an employment agreement, written interrogatories for a bankruptcy, a form for the Franchise Tax Board, and two drafted letters threatening lawsuits on behalf of his clients--one for an artist against a gallery refusing to return his unsold paintings, and one for George Morton's mistress, who claimed that the parking attendant at Sushi Roku had scratched her Mercedes convertible while parking it.
The mistress, Margaret Lane, was an ex-actress with a bad temper and a propensity for litigation. Whenever George neglected her--which, in recent months, was increasingly often--she would find a reason to sue somebody. And the suit would inevitably land on Evans's desk. He made a note to call Margo; he didn't think she should proceed with this suit, but she would take convincing.
The next item was a spreadsheet from a Beverly Hills BMW dealer who claimed that the "What Would Jesus Drive?" campaign had hurt his business because it denigrated luxury cars. Apparently his dealership was a block from a church, and some parishioners had come around after services and harangued his sales staff. The dealer didn't like that, but it looked to Evans as if his sales figures were higher this year than last. Evans made a note to call him, too.
Then he checked his e-mails, sorting through twenty offers to enlarge his penis, ten offers for tranquilizers, and another ten to get a new mortgage now before rates started to rise. There were only a half-dozen e-mails of importance, the first from Herb Lowenstein, asking to see him. Lowenstein was the senior partner on Morton's account; he did mostly estate management, but handled other aspects of investments as well. For Morton, estate management was a full-time job.
Evans wandered down the hall to Herb's office.
Lisa, Herb Lowenstein's assistant, was listening on the phone. She hung up and looked guilty when Evans entered. "He's talking to Jack Nicholson."
"How is Jack?"
"He's good. Finishing a picture with Meryl. There were some problems."
Lisa Ray was a bright-eyed twenty-seven-year-old, and a dedicated gossip. Evans had long ago come to rely on her for office information of all sorts.
"What's Herb want me for?"
"Something about Nick Drake."
"What's this meeting about tomorrow at nine?"
"I don'tknow, " she said, sounding amazed. "I can't find out athing.
"Who called it?"
"Morton's accountants." She looked at the phone on her desk. "Oh, he's hung up. You can go right in."
Herb Lowenstein stood and shook Evans's hand perfunctorily. He was a pleasant-faced balding man, mild-mannered and slightly nerdy. His office was decorated with dozens of pictures of his family, stacked three and four deep on his desk. He got on well with Evans, if only because these days, whenever Morton's thirty-year-old daughter got arrested for cocaine possession, it was Evans who went downtown at midnight to post her bail. Lowenstein had done it for many years, and now was glad to sleep through the night.
"So," he said, "how was Iceland?"
"Good. Cold."
"Is everything okay?"
"Sure."
"I mean, between George and Nick. Everything okay there?"
"I think so. Why?"
"Nick is worried. He called me twice in the last hour."
"About what?"
"Where are we on George's NERF donation?"
"Nick's asking that?"
"Is there a problem about it?"
"George wants to hold off for a while."
"Why?"
"He didn't say."