I was sitting back in my chair, long black stiletto heels propped on the windowsill
when Mrs. Shapiro opened the door without knocking and treated me to one of her sour
looks of disapproval.
I once read in a college text how executives got paid for thinking. The book had
sternly advised that just because an executive didn't seem to be doing anything didn't
mean they weren't making productive use of their time.
I'm not an executive, unfortunately, but I figured the theory was valid. And even
if not I could make an argument for it.
After all, the only people at Florenzi, Carruthers and Miller who had their own
offices were the partners and the senior lawyers. The rest were stuck out in the open
office, or if they were lucky, in between those divider things, living out their lives in
little square boxes.
I'd come to possess my own small office after convincing Florenzi that the
"confidential" information I was gathering, and the methods I used to gather it ought to
have the protection of solid walls. So in my mind, if no one elses, that made me a sort of
honorary big shot type person.
Mrs. Shapiro didn't like that at all. In her orderly world there were the senior
lawyers she fawned over, the junior lawyers she ignored, and the "girls" she ruled over. I
fit in nowhere. She didn't like my attitude, didn't like my clothes, and really didn't
like my independence.
She didn't like me either, to be truthful.
I'd been treated to every one of the many variations of her sour looks over my
first few weeks here, and after four years was pretty much immune. I don't even actively
dislike her any more. She's a pest, but a minor one. Into each life a little Shapiro must
fall.
"Something I can do for you, Mrs. Shapiro?" I asked sweetly, hardly turning my head
from studying the impressively phallic buildings of the Financial District.
I made a small bet with myself and let my heels slip a few inches apart on the
window sill.
"Mister Florenzi would like to see you in his office now," she said sternly.
"About time. It's nearly four."
"Perhaps you've forgotten you work for him and not the other way around, Miss
Romano," she said stiffly.
I eased my heels a little further apart.
"I hope you know that half the perverts in the city can see right up your skirt
like that!" she snapped.
I smiled at the predictability of life.
"I'm hoping for it," I said cheerily.
The door slammed behind me.
I let my heels drop to the floor then stood up, picked up the file and tape, then
paused to check myself in the mirror. Mrs. Shapiro would disagree but I figured I was
presentable enough.
I locked the door behind me and headed up the hall to Florenzi's room, yawning a
little. It had been a late night, and I don't mean partying.
Partying I can take. Sitting in an old van watching a door for eight hours is
something else again. Mrs. Shapiro would never credit how much energy you could lose doing
absolutely nothing.
Actually, hall is a misnomer. Florenzi et al took up the whole floor. The middle of
the floor held the library, kitchen, some consultation rooms, supply room, photocopy
machines, etc. The actual offices circled the outside of the building, hogging the
windows. Between them were the serfs; the law clerks, researchers and secretaries, desks
shoved together with little discernable pattern except an aisle to pass through them.
I walked through masses of primly dressed young women hurrying to finish off
letters and reports so they could head home, ignoring the leers from a few of the younger
lawyers along the way.
I arrived at Mrs. Shapiro's small "office", behind the dividers blocking free
access to Florenzi's office. She looked me up and down with disapproval, but picked up the
phone to tell Florenzi I was there.
My first day at work she'd sternly informed me of the dress code. It had been
designed back when Methuselah was in kindergarten, and nobody, including Mrs. Shapiro, had
seen any reason to change it. It called for subdued colors, long skirts, nothing tight,
nothing revealing, nothing well, you get the idea.
I'd just quit The Job then, the NYPD, and had actually, for the first time in my
life, wanted to look and behave like a normal person. I was on my best behaviour, and had
gone along with her, even putting up with her overbearing attitude and snide little
comments.
That hadn't lasted long. My patience never does. Turned out the rules were for
legal secretaries, receptionists and law clerks. Nobody had thought of female lawyers back
then, I suppose. Not that it mattered, since Florenzi didn't have any now either.
But since my particular position hadn't been defined I'd decided I wasn't covered.
Sure it was a technicality, but hell, if you couldn't use technicalities with lawyers who
could you use them with?
I wore a nice suede mini dress to work one day. It was a lovely shade of blue and
went well with my black hair. It wasn't even that short you'd expect it to send someone
into apoplexy over if you didn't know Mrs. Shapiro.
I'd argued that with all the time I spent on surveillance I had to sometimes adapt
the way I looked to blend in. I don't think Florenzi really bought it so much as liked to
look at my legs. But he'd backed me up. I wasn't in the rules so I could wear what I
wanted "within reason".
Mrs. Shapiro and I had been at war ever since, and so far I'd won most of the big
ones.
At the moment I was wearing a dark blue silk blouse and a black leather miniskirt
with very high stiletto heels. Mrs. Florenzi had gone ballistic the first time I'd worn
the skirt, but I'd convinced Florenzi it gave me a kind of rakish look that would reassure
clients about how streetwise I was.
I like leather a lot. It's not like it's a fetish or anything (well, some of it
is). I just think I look good in it. I like the feel of it against me, like how it keeps
out the cold and rain, and like how it lasts. I've got leather and suede jackets, coats,
shirts, skirts, pants, and everything else in every color of the rainbow.
I don't actually have a lot of minis. Truthfully they can be a pain since they draw
attention I often don't want. I wear them now and then to remind Mrs. Shapiro and
everyone else that I can, and because I have great legs and, well, I guess I like to
show them off. Plus, the skirt is useful for distracting men, at times, like my boss.
Bunch of stiffs in this place, really, from top to bottom. There's a few that are
okay, but most of the men are moneygrubbing, backstabbing jerks, and most of the women are
either stodgy old prudes or flittery young things trying desperately to hook a husband.
"He'll see you now, Miss Romano," Shapiro said, managing to make my name sound like
an insult.
"Thanks, honey," I said, going through before she had time for an outraged reply.
Florenzi stared at my legs, like he always did. He was a tough, savvy guy, but I
had long since discovered his weakness for legs. Don't get me wrong, he loved all parts of
the female body, but legs were his weakness. He was sitting behind a huge greenish marble
desk. Across from him was a round faced balding man of middle years in a blue pinstriped
suit.
I hate pinstripes.
"This is Ms. Romano," Florenzi said. "Our investigator. She used to be a detective
with the New York Police Department."
He'd neglected to introduce the man but I knew who he was, of course.
"Mr. Torrieri," I said, holding out my hand.
He pulled his eyes off my legs and shook as if surprised I'd offered. His grip was
soft, weak and sweaty.
"Ms. Romano has some good news for you," Florenzi said jovially.
"For what you're charging me I should hope so," Torrieri said in Italian.
"You get what you pay for, my friend," Florenzi replied with a broad smile.
Florenzi had made a lot of money sucking up to the Italian community over the past
forty years. He was fourth generation American and had had to go to school to learn
Italian after law school. They hadn't taught marketing in law schools back then but
Florenzi was a natural. He wasn't a great lawyer but he was a hell of a salesman.
Torrieri owned a shipping company, which was why Florenzi had involved himself in
this minor case involving one of Torrieri's helicopters.
The helicopter, one of a fleet he ran, had made a forced landing on the helipad at
the World Trade Center. Ten of the passengers were suing, claiming a variety of back and
neck injuries were worth about forty million dollars in total.
I had a formal written report, but I'd learned the clients loved TV, especially
those like Torrieri who, despite being quite shrewd, weren't all that sophisticated.
"I've spent the last couple of weeks watching these people suing you, Mr.
Torrieri," I said in Italian. "I think you'll appreciate what I've discovered."
I opened the cabinet across from them and popped the tape into the VCR, then turned
on the TV and moved to stand behind them as they turned to the screen. I opened the file
and laid a picture on the desk between them.
"Michael Mullaly, back injury keeps him in constant pain." I picked up the
statement Mullaly had made and started to read from it. "Since the accident I have been in
near constant pain which my doctors have been unable to significantly control. I cannot
concentrate on my work and have had to take many days off, using up all my sick leave. I
spend most of my time at home laying in my bed with cold compresses against my back in an
effort to ease the pain..."
On the TV Mullaly was playing football with some friends. He jumped up to catch a
pass, then dodged in and out among tacklers before being brought down heavily. He got up,
laughing and high fived another of the men.
And so it went. Nancy Shaver who could hardly move her neck was watching tennis,
clearly having no difficulty moving her head from side to side. She then went swimming.
Peter Fernandez had a bad back much like Mullaly's but was working on his roof, bending
and stopping, hammering and pulling. Paul Schiffler's spinal cord injury hadn't stopped
him from playing handball, nor lifting in a big screen TV left in front of his door.
"You're lucky the idiot delivery guys left that out front," Florenzi said with a
snort.
"I paid them a hundred bucks to. It's in my expense claims."
He laughed, as did Torrieri, who was in a much better mood now than he had been
when he came in.
And then came the piece de resistance, and Torrieri frowned at the sight of Jason
Dunning sitting at a table with a tall, bone thin man. Dunning was the helicopter pilot.
"This is Jason Dunning, the pilot who was flying the helicopter," I said.
"What's he doing here?" Torrieri said in surprise.
"You know that guy?"
He leaned forward and shook his head slowly.
"The name Peter Worcowski ring a bell?"
"The sonovabitch lawyer suing me?"
"Yup."
"What was Dunning doing talking to him?"
"Just wait."
The next scene had Worcowski talking with Shaver in her doorway. Then there was one
of Worcowski talking with Fernandez. The camera panned over the building, then back to the
door.
Several shots later Torrieri was impatiently shaking his head.
"I don't get it," he snapped.
"These people suing you are supposed to be lawyers, architects and business
executives, people with big earning power who can afford to ride helicopters. They're not.
Most of them are unemployed. My guess is Worcowski paid for their tickets. He's Dunning's
brother in law, by the way."
"Figlio di Puttana!"
Florenzi beamed approvingly.
"What's the insurance company been saying? Settle for a half million apiece?
Worcowski would scoop half that. Not a bad little scheme."
Torrieri got over his outrage quickly and jumped up to give me a delighted hug.
"How much do you pay this little girl, Riccardo?" he demanded.
"Too much."
"Not enough! You give her a big bonus for this!"
"Of course, Pietro. Of course."
We saw him off, all smiles, then I held out my hand expectantly. Florenzi shook
it.
"No bonus...Riccardo?" I asked sarcastically.
"Don't get snotty, you," he said, his eyes dropping to my legs.
He took my hand as he moved back to his desk and sat down, then pulled me onto his
lap and let his right hand stroke my inner thigh.
"You have such soft skin," he said with a sigh.
"Is that why you hired me, Riccardo?" I teased.
His hand slid up beneath my skirt and I obligingly eased my legs wider.
"I hired you because you're good at your job," he said, his fingers reaching the
outline of my thong, stroking along the narrow indentation of my slit through the soft
silk.
"And?" I asked sweetly.
"Because you're Italian, of course."
He looked down the front of my shirt as his finger traced the line of my sex.
"And because you like my legs."
"And because you have a mouth like a vacuum cleaner, you little slut," he said with
a grin.
"I don't think Mrs. Shapiro would like to hear you say that," I said mockingly.
"Spread your legs."
I eased my legs wider and he squeezed my sex gently, then tugged down on my thong.
I lifted my buttocks so it could slip out, and he pulled them down my legs and over my
boots. I had my hair removed by laser from ankle to belly years ago, and I was completely
hairless as he palmed my sex and let his fingers rub along my slit.
I could feel him harden under my ass while his finger pushed against my entrance
and slipped inside. He was older than my father, but he had incredibly talented hands, and
I shuddered weakly as his long, agile finger probed deep inside me and his thumb began to
rub at my clit.
"Dirty old man," I sighed.
"Hot little slut," he replied.
He leaned in and chewed at the nape of my neck.
"What about my bonus?" I groaned.
"I'll give you a bonus," he growled.
He pushed a second finger inside me and began to pump them in and out. His thumb
never stopped rubbing at my clit, which had quickly swelled with heat, and was growing
more and more tender with each passing second.
"Open your shirt. Show me your tits!" he said, panting for breath.
I undid my buttons as his left hand slid through my silky hair and pulled my head
back. I pulled the shirt open then undid the clip between my bra cups. Florenzi yanked my
head back hard to make my back arch, and I let out a soft, guttural cry of pain. My hips
were working against his fingers, grinding against them as the heat inside me built up
rapidly.
I felt him licking at my stiff nipples as I stared, my head upside down, at the
cabinet next to his wall. I was breathing in short, sharp little gasps and pants as he
closed his mouth around the centre of one breast and then bit in, his teeth closing harder
and harder against the soft, warm flesh, his tongue whipping back and forth against the
rigid little button of my nipple as the pain mounted.
He pushed a third finger inside me, then a fourth, pumping them steadily, thrusting
hard, jamming them into me and twisting his hand from side to side. His thumb was a blur
against my clit as I forced my lips tightly together to hide the moan of pain. His teeth
closed even harder around the centre of my breast so that the flesh throbbed and hurt. He
was sucking now, sucking with his whole mouth as his tongue worked on my nipple and his
teeth clamped tighter and tighter.
He was pulling harder on my hair, so that my head was forced even further down, and
my hips lifted to compensate. His fingers were stabbing into my sex and I was gasping and
panting and moaning deep in my throat.
His teeth released and I moaned in relief, but they then bit into my other nipple
so I had to let out a soft cry of pain. They bit again, and again, gently compared to how
hard he had bitten my other breast. Then he opened his mouth wide once more and bit into
my breast as his tongue whipped across my other nipple.
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