Simple Intent Page 2

  “Now we be done, Mr. King.”

  Ray struggled to stand. Blood ran into his eye from a gash on his forehead. Chancy, with the bag full of money tucked under his arm, waved a small black gun. He swung at Ray, clipped the side of his head. Ray went down, smacking his head on the hard tile. Just before he passed out he saw Chancy’s feet moving away. The motherfucker had shined his shoes this morning.

  Chancy leaned over the front counter and winked at Maria huddled in the corner. He opened the register and snatched the few bills in the drawer.

  She pushed out her chin, met his eyes. Chancy smiled and said, “Love to stay, but I gotta go.” He backed to the door, pulling his cap low on his forehead. Just another guy on his way somewhere, leaving footprints in snow that was already melting.

  Slowly, Ray pushed himself up. Blood dripped into his left eye. His ear was on fire. He crawled toward the open office door. James King sat in his white chair, wide eyes staring. There was a perfect round hole in his perfect round, shiny head. The snake was dead.

  CHAPTER 1

  Bring It On

  NO longer the City of Brotherly Love, Philadelphia had become the City of Bitch, Moan and Sue. The more the public wanted their revenge, their justice, their due—the more wealthy attorneys became. The men at Montgomery, Deluca, Banning and Scott were no exception. They sat in calfskin chairs that smelled like well-worn currency, sipped Peruvian coffee from Limoges china and displayed framed photographs of themselves cruising to the property in Belize on the firm’s yacht, the Don’t Say Anything.

  Fourteen of the top two hundred and fifty law firms in the United States made Philadelphia their home. Montgomery, Deluca, Banning and Scott was number five.

  Paris Kendrick had been with the firm from the beginning, when there was just Ted Montgomery and a metal desk. But that was more years ago than she’d ever admit, and thanks to a few cosmetic surgeries, she’d never have to.

  As the firm grew, law schools from all over the world sent the best and brightest to vie for intern positions. The wooing came from both ends. MDB&S spent a small fortune in symphony and theater tickets, golf outings, Atlantic City weekends, and the best box seats in three stadiums. This year’s potential rainmakers hadn’t been difficult to recruit, law schools were bursting at the seams in the new millennium. It seemed everyone had a dream.

  Paris Kendrick had heard it all. These new attorneys said they weren’t in it for the money, they said they wanted to help people that needed help. They said they wanted to make a change in the system, make a difference. She noticed they had no problem cashing their checks every payday, and thought the only difference they were making was from mainstream to Mainline, from lemon to Lexus.

  Today was Day One for the interns. Today, they would learn the first rule: To see anyone, to get anything, to be anyone at Montgomery, DeLuca, Banning and Scott, you had to go through Paris.

  In the lobby, Richard Early loitered by the marquee of business names. He watched the arrivals and tried to guess which floor they’d pick. So far, he’d been right sixty-two percent of the time. When a gorgeous brunette in a conservative suit entered, he figured her for floor three, Stanton Talent Agency. She had the exotic looks of a mixed parentage, the height and shoulders of an athletic father, the obvious benefits of a well-proportioned mother. He imagined her on the pages of his favorite lingerie catalog wearing red lace and leather. The young woman ran her eyes down the names on the marquee and stopped at Montgomery, Deluca, Banning and Scott. For once, Early was glad to be wrong. He followed her into the elevator.

  Kenneth Reilly ran through the lobby, slid across the newly-waxed floor and jammed his hand between the closing elevator doors. “Hold it,” he said, squeezing in. He glanced at the lit floor button, then at his companions.

  “Looks like we’re all headed to the same place.” He held out his hand. “Ken Reilly. Most people call me Reilly.”

  Early shook his hand. “Richard Early, pleased to meet you.”

  The woman smiled, resigned to social niceties. “Sailor Beaumont.”

  Reilly shook her hand. “The pleasure’s all mine.”

  They rode in silence, Sailor calming herself with a silent chant, Reilly bouncing in his shoes, and Early inhaling the perfumed air.

  The first thing they saw when the elevator doors opened was Paris posed behind the platform reception desk. She knew that first impressions meant everything.

  Reilly sidestepped out of the elevator before the doors had fully opened. “Good morning, we’re the—”

  “Interns,” she finished. “Yes, I know. Paris Kendrick.” Her perfect breasts strained beneath Coco Chanel’s vision of corporate America as she extended a manicured hand to Reilly. Paris thought he’d clean up good under her tutelage. He already had that certain something. He was charming, intriguing even. If only she were younger—or he were richer. She dropped his hand, stepped down and greeted the other two, remembering Sailor Beaumont from the interviews. Even if she hadn’t come to them from such a socially respected family, this beauty would be hard to forget. Unlike the dumpy man behind her.

  A stocky dark-haired girl wearing a headset approached. She stepped behind the desk, plugged herself into the phone board and began routing calls. Paris introduced her with a nod of her head. “That’s Missy. She can answer any of your questions if I’m indisposed. Now, if you’ll follow me.”

  The interns followed the swaying hips of Paris Kendrick past offices with gold nameplates, rows of blue cubicles and a brightly lit break room. At Conference Room A, they filed in and selected their seats with care. This was a business where everything mattered.

  As subtle as her perfume, Paris disappeared, clicking the door shut behind her.

  Pure class. Montgomery, Deluca, Banning and Scott expected nothing less. Seated in soft leather chairs in climate-controlled comfort, the interns arranged themselves. Reilly unbuttoned his jacket, leaned back in his chair, and threw one leg casually over the other. Sailor sat facing the door, her signature handbag propped on the seat beside her, a worn leather satchel at her feet. Richard Early rocked in his chair, cleaning his wire-framed glasses with a handkerchief. Not long for this world of corporate lunches and client shmoozing, he’d be shipped downstairs to work at a hand-me-down desk, tread on second-grade carpet and fetch his own water from the tap. Shackled to his desk by numbers and papers and thickly bound ledgers, he would slave away in a tiny, dark cubicle and be assisted by a secretary hired for her competence not her breasts. Richard Early would become a forgotten gear in the machine.

  Reilly thought it was a waste. All those years of school. For what? If you were going to be a lawyer, you should be visible. People should know who you are. Like Edward J. Deluca and Len Banning. That was what Reilly wanted. Fame. And money.

  There was a knock at the door, and then it opened slowly.

  A beefy man in a checked shirt and paisley tie entered dabbing his sweaty forehead with a pink handkerchief and breathing through his mouth. “Murphy, taxes. I need Early. Right now.”

  Sailor fought the urge to plug her nose. Murphy smelled like old sneakers and pond scum.

  Early noticed. He made a face, then followed the man from a safe distance. At the door, he said, “It was nice to meet you, both.”

  Sailor and Reilly waved as Early shuffled out.

  Sailor leaned back and crossed her long, brown legs. Reilly appreciated the view. Well-groomed, impeccably dressed, she was charm and grace, like a darker Princess Di. She was nothing like the Irish girls from his neighborhood. She was old money, the kind of girl who’d never clip coupons or notice the price of cheese at the deli. If she wanted it, she got it.

  “Do you hear music?” Sailor asked.

  Ken Reilly smiled, recognizing the baritone of Henry James Scott. “Just wait,” he told her.

  The door opened and a stunning blonde straight from the beauty pageant circuit sauntered in. Behind her, the singing grew louder as the man burst through the door, singing and stomping
and shaking hair that didn’t budge. “If I was a rich man, daidle, deedle, daidle, digguh, digguh, deedle, daidle, dum…” Harry James Scott finished the song, holding the final note in perfect pitch. Miss Sweden applauded and motioned that Sailor and Reilly should, too.

  “Thank you. Thank you. I am Harry James Scott. And this is Victoria.” The blonde curtsied in the doorway, drawing her golden skirt behind her. Harry walked around the table then stopped behind Reilly. He boomed, “Come with me, my boy!”

  Reilly jumped. His knee hit the underside of the table with a solid thud, launching a mini tsunami in the crystal water pitcher. Sailor tried not to laugh.

  Reilly snatched up his things, limped after the odd couple, and then paused at the door to give Sailor the thumbs up. “Good luck.”

  Sailor was still staring after them when, from the back of the room, Leonard Banning cleared his throat. “Ah-hem.” He loved using the hidden door to make his entrances—especially after that corny Scott performance. The startled look on the girl’s face as she turned round was perfect. He set down his goblet of spring water, tucked a folder under his arm and stepped away from the sideboard.

  “Miss Beaumont?”

  “Yes,” she said standing and extending her hand. “You must be Mr. Banning.” He looked like his headshot on the website and seemed charming, in a ponytailed Burt Reynolds kind of way. Kind of sexy too, for an older guy.

  Banning hesitated. If he took her hand she was an equal. If he let her stand there, he was a dick. He let her stand there.

  Len Banning had his heyday in the sixties—thanks to sex, drugs, rock and roll—and Vietnam. Now, he mostly ran the ship for Ted Montgomery, who couldn’t be bothered. He owed Ted. He owed Ted everything. So, here he was, a washed-up attorney playing tour guide to interns, hoping they’d sign on at the firm, bill two hundred hours and buy him a new Bentley, or maybe that Harley Fatboy he’d seen last week. Tiffany would love him on a Hog.

  He smiled to himself then opened the folder, as Sailor sat back down. He said, “I see Mr. Reilly wasn’t quite able to make up his mind. So, he’ll be doing double duty, Entertainment and Criminal. Not that those two aren’t already hand-in-hand.” “And you?” Banning dropped the folder on the table and arranged himself in the chair across from Sailor. “Are you settled in at the condos?”

  “There really wasn’t much settling to do. I had baggage limitations.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, my father taught me how to pack. First, you lay out all the things you want to bring, then reduce them by half and bring more money.”

  It was Banning’s turn to laugh. “Your father is a very wise man.”

  “And a very good shopper.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll have no problem filling your closet this summer. Philadelphia has some of the finest shopping on the East Coast, maybe enough to convince you to make this move permanent.”

  Banning watched her reaction. Sometimes the summer interns were too immature, unseasoned. Not this one.

  Sailor raised a brow. “Touché, Mr. Banning. But first, let’s see what MDB&S can offer me.” Her voice dropped into a soft, southern drawl as she tilted her head and batted her eyes. “A poor li’l ole girl from Connecticut.” The act was complete. Banning had been trumped.

  Sailor locked her eyes on his. “Shall we?”

  Banning grinned as he slid the folder across the broad teak tabletop. Then the most amazing thing happened. Something Len Banning hadn’t felt in years, not since Failson-Nough, not since he’d cracked his first law book. Banning had the feeling that whatever he said or did at that moment could matter. It could make a difference.

  From some small place, it came rushing back to him, that old forgotten need to help, to heal, to change things. He started thinking that change was possible again, even if he’d already fucked up once or twice.

  Helen Peterson knocked lightly then opened the door, pushing a rolling cart of white file boxes. She spoke to Banning, a question on her face. “Looking for these?’ She parked the cart near him, wondered why his face was so flushed. She turned to Sailor.

  “I’m Helen. Welcome to MDB&S. I hope you enjoy your summer here.” She motioned to the file cart. “Looks like you’ll have plenty to keep you busy.”

  “Are those all mine?”

  Banning laughed. “Not all yours, or should I say ours.”

  Helen did a double take. Did he just say, ours?

  Banning closed the folder they’d been looking at and pushed it aside. “You can go over that later, it’s just org charts and inter-office info. But this?” He slid a white box from the file cart. “This is the good stuff.”

  He ran his fingers over the files then stopped and pulled an inch thick manila folder from the stack and slid it to Sailor. “Tell me what you see.”

  Sailor looked at Banning and wondered what he expected of her. Wondered if he actually thought she knew what the hell she was doing. She flipped through the file photos then began skimming the pages.

  Helen headed for the door, but Banning motioned for her to stay.

  He looked back to Sailor. “Miss Beaumont?”

  Sailor spoke without looking up. “It’s clearly a case of mistaken identity. There are no credible witnesses. I can’t believe she was convicted. And she’s been there, what? Four years?” Sailor closed the file, slid it back to Banning. “We need to get someone to help her.”

  “Who? Who would you get to help?” He opened the file. “Corrine Knoeble certainly deserved something better than the incompetent, bungling counselor who screwed up the first time. Who would you get to help? Perhaps someone like you?”

  Sailor balked. “Like me? Mr. Banning, I don’t know anything about cases like this. I think you’ve got the wrong idea.” She dropped her voice, ran a pattern across the tabletop with her fingers. “I might be a Beaumont, but I’m not my mother, and I have no intention of following in her footsteps.”

  “You couldn’t,” he said.

  Sailor jerked her head up. “What?”

  “I knew your mother,” he said. “And I know you, what you think you’re planning for your life. But look at Corrine Knoebel. Do you think this is what she was planning? Do you think she is so much different than you? Look, she has green eyes, like you. She is tall, like you. Do you think she loved a man once? Felt the pain of loss? Do you think she dreamed of having children, or a home in the suburbs? Do you think she deserves less than the best representation in court?”

  “I’m not judging anyone, Mr. Banning. I am simply stating that I would not be the right person for the job. My father sent me here to work with Mr. Deluca. I was under the impression that was understood.”

  “Sometimes things change.” Banning said, staring past Sailor, as if he’d heard someone call his name from far away. He blinked then looked into Sailor’s eyes. “Sometimes what people think they shouldn’t be doing is exactly what they should be doing.”

  “But.” Sailor looked to Helen for help. The woman shrugged. Shit. This was her first day. Her first morning—and look what a mess it was already.

  Banning stood up. “I think you know what I’m talking about. That’s why you’re here,” he said pushing the file back to Sailor.

  He followed Helen to the door. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. See what you can learn.”

  In the hall, Helen said, “Very nice.”

  “Just doing my job.”

  Helen mumbled, “It’s about damn time.”

  Reilly and Sailor sat behind their newly appointed desks in their newly appointed cubicles. Music drifted down the hall as the cleaning crew moved through five floors of wiping and vacuuming.

  Sailor called through the thin wall, “I’m not kidding you, Reilly. That’s what he said.”

  Reilly called back, “If Banning is going to work with us on these pro bono cases, I wonder if we’ll get Deluca for the criminal ones?”

  “Deluca won’t have time for us. According to this morning’s paper he has a hearing
tomorrow for the Gallo case. I’m sure he’ll be too busy preparing for that to play mother hen to a bunch of third years.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Still, it would be pretty cool, wouldn’t it?”

  Sailor turned back to the stack of files. “No, Reilly. It would be pretty cool to go home and get some sleep. I wonder what he expects us to do with all of this? How much longer are you going to stay?”

  “Baby, I could go all night. Just wind me up and watch me go.” He jumped on his desk and did an impromptu dance on that shook the cubicle walls.

  “Okay, okay,” Sailor said laughing. “Sorry I asked. Get back to work, would you?”

  A few offices away, Edward John Deluca, Esquire was doing some wondering of his own. What the housekeeper was planning for dinner, when he’d see Mariel again, and how to tell his mobster client that he was, without a doubt, fucked.

  Deluca knew it wasn’t that the guy didn’t know how to run his business. He just didn’t know how to keep his hands off the wrong broads. If Gallo hadn’t been thinking with Little Lou One Eye that night, they wouldn’t be in this predicament. If he hadn’t brought Susie Cupcake to the warehouse, she never would have seen the crates. How many times had Deluca told Gallo, “Keep your business and pleasure separate.” He couldn’t remember. In all the years they’d known each other, this was probably the dumbest fucking thing Gallo had done, and now he needed Deluca to lift up the rug and start sweeping. Otherwise, they were all going down.

  CHAPTER 2

  Maria Made Good

  IT was summer on the Cape. A time of magic and dreams, when sunburns could be healed with ice-cold beer and spicy crabs, and childhood romances would prove to be the basis for all others to come.

  The wind blew across the ocean, up the beach, through the saw grass and over the gardens into the open window of the breakfast nook. White embroidered curtains fluttered and danced against wooden restraints. The pages of a newspaper rustled, a small dog yapped and a coffee maker clicked then hissed on the counter. Though the gourmet kitchen was outfitted with the finest hi-tech steel appliances, the honey-glazed walls, terra cotta tiles and colorful pottery in glass-fronted cupboards made it feel warm and welcoming.