The Last Billable Hour [antikvár]

i, t II ^rChips of GoldHoward sat in the waiting room. His shirt was stuck to his back. He rotated his left shoulder ftirtively, trying to calm an itch between his shoulder blades. This happened with every interview. The minute you found the lobby your suit didn't fit. The worst partwell, almost the worst partwas waiting to get started.This was definitely the most lavish firm so far. Beams from the soft track lighting burrowed into the salmon-colored carpet, highlighted the white tulips in the centerpiece, and reflected faintly from the rosewood tables. In front of him, muffled by a brass-railed glass wall, six men and a woman worked at a long rosewood conference table.Even the receptionists were plush: black curls against red silk, blond hair cascading over a gold necklace, obscuring a dimple. This would make law firm number, let's see, eleven. His uncle was being pretty damn loyal to keep setting these up.He wasn't alone in the reception area. There was a continuous influx, first of dark-suited men, then of younger men in short-sleeved polyester shirts, who kept their eyes fixed on the carpet. Occasionally uneasy groups combining both types hovered momentarily, conferring soMy among themselves, before being greeted and whisked away by a secretary. An old couple sat next to each other on one of the big sofas, the gentleman consulting his watch with increasing irritation. And seated near Howard, their knees separated only by the comer of the coffee table, was the Neat-hair who was going to get the job.Howard spotted him immediately. The guy was in his mid-twenties like Howard, right out of law school like Howard. Unlike Howard, he was a New Yorker ad for Stanley Blacker. Navy1