Breed Read Free Page B

arrivals step out of the elevator: Alex’s longtime secretary; his paralegal; his intern (the daughter of an old friend), all of whom know enough to arrive at work promptly; two other secretaries holding their breakfasts in white paper bags; an IT kid with a backpack and earbuds; Lew Chang’s paralegal, who looks as if she has been crying, which more or less confirms Alex’s suspicion that Lew and she are having a fling, a lawsuit waiting to happen; and Jim Johnson, the last one off the elevator. His face has been nicked and scraped by this morning’s hasty shave, and his flowing hair has been sensibly barbered. A classic case of too little, too late.
    “Hello, Jim,” Alex says, indicating with a wave that Johnson follow through the outer office and into his corner lair, where Alex settles in behind his desk, a cherrywood Sheraton that used to be in Alex’s house. With a second wave he directs Johnson to an old leather club chair, which looks comfortable enough but is so deep that anyone consigned to it must sit with his knees practically parallel with his chin.
    After a minute of small talk, Alex, with the efficiency of a man who bills at $1,750 per hour, arrives at the point of this meeting.
    “So, Jim. Pregnancy. We don’t understand your reluctance to give us the name of your doctor. That seems odd to me, to both of us.”
    “Well, Alex,” Johnson says, with a weirdly sarcastic edge to his voice, “it doesn’t seem odd to me. Not in the slightest. I noted the look on your face when you saw Jill. And I think you’ll understand this, Alex: I thought there just might be something more I could be doing to provide for my family.”
    “What look on my face, my friend?” Alex is aware that calling someone my friend is usually a way of saying you are not friends, and he notes with equal measures of amazement and amusement how quickly the gloves have come off between him and Johnson.
    “Envy. A need to know. Desire. Sorrow. You name it.”
    “It seems as if you’re doing all the naming, Jim.”
    “Yes, I am. And I am also naming the price.”
    “For giving us a simple piece of information?”
    “Didn’t you know, Alex? We’re living in an information economy. Information is gold, it’s oil, it’s land, it’s power.”
    “Okay, then tell me this, Counselor. And you don’t have to divulge where you had this done—but what did you do? Is this some state-of-the-art in vitro clinic? In which case, I’d have to say: I’d be very surprised if there is anybody reputable or anyplace that’s had any kind of track record that we’ve overlooked. Is this something that involves surgery? Because Leslie’s been through enough of that. Is this some mumbo-jumbo faith-healing situation? Because if that’s your great trump card, then, my friend, I might have to throw you out the window.”
    “Is there a box I can check that says ‘None of the above’?” Johnson says, palpably enjoying his position in this back-and-forth.
    “You know, when we sat together, week after week, in that dank little room at Herald Church,” Alex says, leaning back in his chair, tepeeing his fingers, “there was a consensus, a kind of unwritten law, if you will, that we were all of us there for each other and there would be a sharing of information. I find your behavior, Jim, very strange, if not reprehensible.”
    “I can say two words, a man’s name, and you and Leslie will be on your way to the nursery. But meanwhile, I have to do what’s best for my family. Kids change everything, don’t you understand that? This isn’t about me and Jill anymore. This is about our son.”
    “Your son…”
    “Yes, we peeked. Fact is, Jill’s had a few complications and we’ve spent our fair share of time on the old ob-gyn trail.”
    “Okay. So it’s none of the above. Tell me what procedure you used.”
    “It’s called fertility enhancement,” Johnson says. He leans forward in his chair and quickly stands up, begins to pace, rolling