American Express

It’s hard to think of all the places and nights, Nicola’s like a railway car, deep and gleaming, the crowd at the Un Deux Trois, Billy’s. Unknown brilliant faces jammed at the bar. The dark, dramatic eye that blazes for a moment and disappears.

In those days they were living in apartments with funny furniture and on Sundays sleeping until noon. They were in the last rank of the armies of law. Clever junior partners were above them, partners, associates, men in fine suits who had lunch at the Four Seasons. Frank’s father went three or four times a week, or else to the Century Club or the Union, where there were men even older than he. Half of the members can’t urinate, he used to say, and the other half can’t stop.

Alan on the other hand was from Cleveland, where his father was well known, if not detested. No defendant was too guilty, no case too clear-cut. Once in another part of the state he was defending a murderer, a black man. He knew what the jury was thinking, he knew what he looked like to them. He stood up slowly. It could be they had heard certain things, he began. They may have heard, for instance, that he was a big-time lawyer from the city. They may have heard that he wore $300 suits, that he drove a Cadillac and smoked expensive cigars. He was walking along as if looking for something on the floor. They may have heard that he was Jewish.

He stopped and looked up. Well, he was from the city, he said. He wore $300 suits, he drove a Cadillac, smoked big cigars, and he was Jewish. “Now that we have that settled, let’s talk about this case.”