The Associate

At 5:00 a.m., the usual hour now, the alarm clock exploded at full volume and Kyle slapped it twice before it shut off. He hurried through the shower and the shave, and fifteen minutes later he was on the sidewalk, fashionably dressed because he could certainly afford fine clothes. His life had quickly become a harried, fatigued mess, but he was determined to look nice as he stumbled through the day. He bought a coffee, a bagel, and a copy of the Times at his favorite all-night deli, then caught a cab at the corner of Twenty-fourth and Seventh. Ten minutes later, he'd finished breakfast, scanned the newspaper, and gulped half the coffee. He walked into the Broad Street entrance of his office building at 6:00, on schedule. Regardless of the hour, he was never alone during the elevator ride up. There were usually two or three other bleary-eyed and gaunt-faced associates, all sleep deprived, all avoiding eye contact as the elevator hummed and rocked gently upward and they asked themselves several questions.



What was I thinking when I chose law school?



How long will I last in this meat grinder?



What fool designed this method of practicing law?



There was seldom a word because there was nothing to say. Like prisoners riding to the gallows, they chose to meditate and put things in perspective.



At the cube, Kyle was not surprised to see another young lawyer. Tim Reynolds had been the first to sneak in a sleeping bag  -  a new, thermally insulated Eddie Bauer special that he claimed he'd owned for years and taken all over the country. But it had a new smell to it. Tim  -  without shoes, tie, shirt, or jacket, and wearing an old T-shirt  -  was partially curled under his small desk, inside the sleeping bag, dead to the world. Kyle kicked his feet, woke him up, and began with a pleasant "You look like crap."



"Good morning," Tim said, scrambling to his feet and reaching for his shoes. "What time is it?"



"Six ten. What time did you go to sleep?"



"I don't remember. Sometime after two." He was pulling on his shirt quickly, as if a dreaded partner might appear any second and issue demerits. "I have a memo due for Toby Roland at seven and I have no idea what I'm doing."



"Just keep billing," Kyle said without a trace of sympathy as he unpacked his briefcase and pulled out his laptop. Tim finished dressing and grabbed a file. "I'll be in the library," he said, already a wreck.



"Don't forget to brush your teeth," Kyle said.



When Reynolds was gone, Kyle went online, to a Web site called QuickFace.com. There were several sites that allowed amateur sleuths to put together composite sketches of faces, and Kyle had studied them all. QuickFace was by far the most detailed and accurate. He began with Nigel's eyes, always the most important feature. Get the eyes right, and half the identification is over. The site offered over two hundred different types of eyes  -  every race, color, origin, and blend. Kyle went through them quickly, found the closest set, and began his face.



Nose, thin and pointed. Eyebrows, moderately thick and a bit long down the sides. Lips, very thin. Cheekbones, higher and wider. Chin, not long but very flat, no dimple. Ears, oval and stuck close to the skull. After he added the hair, he went back to the eyes, tried another pair, then another. The ears were too high, so he lowered them. He tinkered and sculpted until 6:30  -  a half hour unbilled and wasted unless he chose to pad a bit during the day  -  and when Nigel was properly put together and easily identified from forty feet away, Kyle printed the face and hustled off to the library, carrying a thick file because everyone carried a thick file into the library. His private spot was a dead end in a dark corner on the third level of stacked tiers, a lonesome place where they stored thick tomes of annotations no one had used in decades. On the second shelf from the bottom, he lifted three of the books and removed an unmarked manila envelope, letter-sized. He opened it and pulled out three other composites  -  a splendid rendering of his archenemy, Bennie, and two others of the goons who were stalking him around New York City. To his knowledge, he had not been within fifty feet of them, and had never made eye contact, but he'd seen both on several occasions and was confident that his artwork was at least a decent starting point. The addition of Nigel's dreadful face to the collection did nothing to improve its overall attractiveness.



He hid the envelope and returned to the cube, where Tabor the Gunner was busy making his usual noisy preparations for the day. The issue of whose career held the most promise had been settled weeks earlier. Tabor was the man, the star, the fast-tracked partner-to-be, and everyone else could get out of the way. He'd proven his talents by billing twenty-one hours in a single day. He'd shown his skill by billing more the first month than all other litigation rookies, though Kyle was only four hours behind. He volunteered for projects and worked the cafeteria like an old Irish ward boss.



"Slept in the library last night," he said as soon as he saw Kyle.



"Good morning, Tabor."



"The carpet in the main library is thinner than the carpet in the twenty-third library, did you know that, Kyle? I much prefer sleeping on the twenty-third, but it does have more noise. Which do you prefer?"



"We're all cracking up, Tabor."



"Yes, we are."



"Tim used his sleeping bag last night."



"For what? He and Dr. Dale finally getting it on?"



"Don't know about that. I woke him up an hour ago."



"So you went home? Slept in your own bed?"



"Oh, yes."



"Well, I have two projects due at noon today, both extremely important and urgent, and I can't afford the luxury of sleep."



"You're the greatest, Tabor. Go, Superman."



And with that Tabor was gone.



DALE ARMSTRONG arrived promptly at seven, her usual time, and though she looked a bit sleepy, she was put together as always. Evidently, the bulk of her fat salary was being spent on designer clothing, and Kyle, along with Tim and Tabor, looked forward to the daily fashion statement.



"You look great today," Kyle said with a smile.



"Thank you."



"Prada?"



"Dolce & Gabbana."



"Killer shoes. Blahniks?"



"Jimmy Choo."



"Five hundred bucks?"



"Don't ask."



Admiring her each day, Kyle was quickly learning the names of the high priests of female clothing. It was one of the few topics she cared to discuss. After six weeks of shared space in the cube, he still knew very little about her. When she talked, which was not very often, it was always about law firm business and the miserable life of a first-year associate. If there was a boyfriend, he had yet to be mentioned. She had dropped her guard twice and agreed to drinks after work, but she usually declined. And while every rookie was openly grousing about the hours and the pressure, Dale Armstrong seemed to be feeling the strain more than most.



"What are you doing for lunch?" Kyle asked.



"I haven't had breakfast yet," she replied coolly and withdrew into her little section of the cube.