The Wiley & Beck office Christmas party would begin with a lunch catered by two feuding Greek brothers who made the best baklava in the city. The bar opened at precisely eleven forty-five-three bars actually-and soon thereafter things got sloppy. Stanley Wiley would be the first to get smashed-he'd blame it on the loaded eggnog-and he'd stand on a box at the end of the conference table and deliver the same speech he'd given a week earlier at the black-tie Christmas dinner. Then they'd present him with a gift, a shotgun or a new sand wedge or some other useless souvenir that he'd practically cry over, then quietly give to a client months later. There'd be other gifts, some speeches and gags, and a song or two as the booze flowed. Two male strippers appeared one year, and, to the beat of a howling boom box, disrobed down to their leopard thongs while the men ran for cover and the secretaries squealed with delight. Dox, Luther's secretary, had squealed the loudest and still had photos of the boys. In a memo, Stanley had banned future strippers.
By five, some of the most starched and staid accountants at Wiley & Beck would be groping or attempting to grope some of the homeliest secretaries. Getting plastered was accepted behavior. They'd haul Stanley to his office and fill him with coffee before he could go home. The firm hired cars so no one would drive.
All in all, it was a mess. But the partners loved it because it was a good drunk away from their wives, who'd been properly entertained at the firm's fancy Christmas dinner and had never been invited to the office party. The secretaries loved it because they saw and heard things they could tuck away and use as blackmail for the rest of the year.
Luther hated the Christmas party even in a good year. He drank little and never got drunk, and every year he was embarrassed for his colleagues as they made fools of themselves.
So he stayed in his office with his door locked and tended to last-minute details. Then some music started down the hall just after 11 A.M. Luther found the right moment and disappeared. It was the twenty-third of December. He wouldn't return until the sixth of January, and by then the office would be back to normal.
Good riddance.
He stepped into the travel agency to say good-bye to Biff, but she was already gone, off to a fabulous new resort in Mexico that offered a holiday package. He walked briskly to his car, quite proud that he was skipping the madness up on the sixth floor. He drove toward the mall, for one last tanning session, one last look at the crush of idiots who'd waited till almost the last minute to buy whatever was left in the stores. The traffic was dense and slow, and when he finally arrived at the mall a traffic cop was blocking the entrance. Parking lots were full. No more room. Go away.
Gladly, thought Luther.
He met Nora for lunch at a crowded bakery in the District. They'd actually made a reservation, something unheard of for the rest of the year. He was late. She'd been crying.
"It's Bev Scheel," she said. "Went for a checkup yesterday. The cancer's back, for the third time."
Though Luther and Walt had never been close, their wives had managed to maintain good relations over the past couple of years. Truth was, for many years no one on Hemlock had much to do with the Scheels. They'd worked hard to have more, and their higher income had always been on display.
"It's spread to her lungs," Nora said, wiping her eyes. They ordered sparkling water. "And they suspect it's in her kidneys and liver."
Luther winced as the horrific disease crept on. "That's awful," he said in a low voice.
"This could be her last Christmas."
"Did her doctor say that?" he asked, wary of amateur prognostications.
"No, I did."
They dwelt on the Scheels far too long, and............