The Pieces of My Self

4 - Testament

LILLIAN

Office of Brown & Associates, 2 June 2174, Thursday

I always hated going to Tony's office—mainly because Tony was there. He's my ex, and we're about as incompatible as the mathematical consistency proofs of Hilbert and Gödel. Tony's venue was an over-the-top oh là là designed to impress clients and intimidate opponents with its retro-fancy antique furniture, hand-woven carpets, and collectible art. Not my style.

My Shared Autonomous Mover, or Sammy, had a broken air conditioner, so I was hot and tired. As I mentally girded for battle, I noticed stains where Amara, my 4-year-old, glopped oatmeal onto my striped shirt and khaki shorts. I wiped them with a tissue but wound up with bigger smears. Unfortunately, there wasn't much I could do about my road-beaten running shoes. Oh, well.

Cool air hit me as I opened the door to his suite. I clamped arms to my sides to hide sweat stains around my armpits—the result of sultry 95-degree weather.

His assistant was not at her desk, but her cloying perfume invaded the space like a forest of flowers. Colette claimed to be part German, and prided herself on Teutonic efficiency, even if it meant enduring a bursting bladder or worse, to support Tony's Big And Important meetings. Maybe I didn't rate, or maybe the meeting wasn't as big and important as Tony had billed it. Absent the gatekeeper, I pushed into his office.

My pet name for Tony is Toady, not because he's obsequious, but because he reminds me of a wide-mouthed amphibian. I never told him that. He's a heavyset, 50-ish Black attorney who moves his whole body when he looks at you, like his neck doesn't do sideways. Squatting in the leather chair behind his teak desk, he was like the animal character in The Wind in the Willows.

He looked cool wearing a white linen suit with no tie. A photo on his desk, turned outward as a kind of "look-at-me" ad, showed a younger version of himself shaking hands with President Mangalotte while standing next to Henri Knightly and other famous people.

He motioned for me to sit, poured a cup of coffee, and slid it across the desk.

"It's too warm for coffee," I said. "I'd like some iced tea."

The game began.

Tony retrieved the coffee, scooped in cream and sugar, and shrugged. "I don't have any tea. Sorry." He took a sip and smiled.

I could tell he was lying. There was a tea caddy on his credenza. And besides, his lips were moving.

He tapped his fingertips together while clucking to himself. It was a nervous habit I used to call chicken fingers.

He clucked again, nodding his head while fiddling with papers. "I drew up a consulting agreement after coordinating with my client, Mrs. Knightly. I'd like to make something clear. You work directly with me on this. I'm the one who must be satisfied. I pay your fees. Comprendre?"

"Always the master of subtlety, Tony, just like your prick."

He faked a pout. "You don't get any points for sarcasm, you know. My client wanted to give you an incentive for a quick conclusion to this project, but I determine how that works and how much you get." He paused, eyes lingering on mine. "I know you need the money. Think of your daughter."

You mean our daughter, you shit! I bit my tongue as he pushed the documents toward me. Enough said. I needed the money.

"Sign these."

I flipped to the part about payment. "Do I get some money up-front? I'll need that."

"Of course, he said. It seals the deal. As you see, Mrs. Knightly is providing a fair amount for weekly progress payments. Just sign the damn papers, Lillian."