Burdick shrugged. "You have the floor."

Sipping had stopped. Doodling had stopped. Some partners – like the aging, oblivious Ralph Dudley – were confused because the final vote on the merger wasn't scheduled until January. They were terrified that they might have to make a decision without someone's telling them what to do.

"I'm moving to change the date of the ratification vote regarding the merger to November 28, one week from today."

Clayton's trim young protégé, Randy Simms III, whom Burdick detested, said quickly, "Second."

There was complete silence. And Burdick was mildly surprised that Clayton's bid caught some people off guard. But then Burdick and his wife were rumored to have the best intelligence sources on Wall Street and were often one step ahead of everybody else.

One voice called, "Can we discuss it?"

"The rules of order allow for debate," Clayton said.

And debate ensued Clayton was clearly prepared for it. He met every objection, making a good case for the acceleration – the year-end tax planning, for instance, hinting that the merger would put significant money into the pockets of all the partners and that they needed to know before December 31 how much this might be.

More voices joined in and a tide of comments and tension-breaking laughter filled the room.

Clayton managed to insert into the discussion a comment on Sullivan & Perelli's income cap on the executive committee partners. Burdick observed that this was irrelevant to the immediate motion under consideration but would not go unnoticed by the younger, poorer partners. The gist of the comment was that after the merger the senior partners could earn no more than two million a year, leaving that much more to be distributed to the rest of the partners Hubbard, White & Willis currently had no such cap, which was the reason that five partners on the executive committee – such as Burdick and Stanley – earned 18 percent of the firm's income and junior partners often earned less than they did as salaried associates.

"What is the cap?" one partner, obviously impressed, asked.

Goddamn socialism, Burdick thought, then he interrupted the youngster to say bluntly, "We're not here now to discuss the substantive issue of the merger. It's merely a procedural matter on when the vote should be. And my opinion is that it's impossible to review the material in one week. We need until January."

"Well, Donald," Clayton pointed out, "you've had everything for two weeks already. And I'd imagine you, like all the rest of us, read it as soon as they messengered the binders to us from Perelli & Sullivan."

He had read it, of course, and so had the team of lawyers he and Vera had hired.

A new partner at the end of the table made a comment. "I don't think we can debate this too much. It's not inappropriate to talk about the substance of the merger now, I think." His dialect put him within five minutes of the Charles River.

"Yes, it is inappropriate," Burdick said shortly, silencing him. Then to Clayton, "Go ahead with your vote. It makes no sense to me but if two thirds of the partners are in favor -"

Clayton gave a very minuscule frown. "A simple majority, Donald."

Burdick shook his head. A trace of confusion now crossed his face. "Majority? No, Wendall, I don't think so. The issue is the merger of the firm and that requires a vote of two thirds."

Clayton said, "No, we'd be voting simply on establishing an agenda and timetable. Under the partnership rules, Donald, that requires only a simple majority."

Burdick was patient. "Yes, but it's an agenda and timetable that pertain to a merger."

Each of the two partners pulled out a copy of the partnership documents, like dueling knights drawing swords.

"Section fourteen, paragraph four, subparagraph d." Clayton said this as if reading from the tome though everyone knew he'd memorized it long ago.

Burdick continued reading for a few moments. "It's ambiguous. But I won't make an issue of it. We'll be here all day at this rate. And I, for one, have some work to do for clients."

The senior partner knew, of course, that Clayton was absolutely correct about the majority vote on this matter. However, it had been vitally important to make clear to everyone in the room exactly where Burdick stood on the merger – how adamantly against it he was.

"Go ahead," Burdick said to Stanley.

As the rotund partner growled off names, Burdick sat calmly, pretending to edit a letter though he was keeping a perfect tally in his head of the fors and againsts.

Distraction on his face, agony in his heart, Burdick added them up. His mood slipped from cautious to alarmed to despairing. Clayton prevailed – and by almost a two-thirds majority, the magic percentage needed to win the entire war.

The list Stanley had shown Burdick earlier was not accurate. Clayton was stronger than they'd thought.

Clayton looked at Burdick, studying his opponent from behind the emotionless guise of the great. His gold pen danced on a pad. "If anyone needs any information from Perelli – to make a better-informed decision next week – just let me know."

Burdick said, "Thank you, Wendall. I appreciate the time you've spent on the matter." Looking around the room – at both his supporters and his Judases – with as neutral a face as he could muster, he added, "Now, any more issues we ought to discuss?"

"Dimitri." Taylor Lockwood's voice was a whisper. "Don't say 'satin touch' tonight. Please."

"Hey, come on," the man replied in a deep Greek-accented voice, "the guys in the audience, they like it."

"It's embarrassing."

"It's sexy," he replied petulantly.

"No, it's not, and all it does is get me moony looks from the lechers."

"Hey, they like to fantasize. So do I. You got the lights?"

She sighed and said, "Yeah, I got the lights."

From the amplifier his voice filled the bar. "Ladies and gentlemen, Miracles Pub is pleased to bring you the silky and oh-so-smooth satin touch of Taylor Lockwood on the keys. A warm round of applause please. And don't forget to ask your waitress about the Miracles menu of exotic drinks."

Oh-so-smooth satin touch?

Taylor clicked the switch that turned the house lights down and ignited the two overhead spots trained on her. Dimitri had made the spotlights himself – pineapple cans painted black.

Smiling at them all, even the moony lechers, she began to play Gershwin on the battered Baldwin baby grand.

It wasn't a bad gig. The temperamental owner of the club in the West Village – a lech himself – had figured that an attractive woman jazz pianist would help sell bad food, so he'd hired her for Tuesday nights, subject only to sporadic preemption by Dimitri's son-in-law's balalaika orchestra.

With her day job at the firm and this gig, Taylor had found a type of harmony in her life. Music was her pure sensual love, her paralegal job gave her the pleasures of intellect, organization, function. She sometimes felt like those men with two wives who know nothing of the other. Maybe someday she'd get nailed but so far the secret was safe.

A half hour later Taylor was doing the bridge to "Anything Goes" when the front door swung open with its familiar D to B-flat squeak. The woman who entered was in her mid-twenties, with a round, sweet, big-sister face framed by hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a sweater decorated with reindeer, black ski pants and, on her petite, out-turned feet, Top-Siders. She smiled nervously and waved broadly to Taylor then stopped suddenly, afraid of disrupting the show.

Taylor nodded back and finished the tune. Then she announced a break and sat down.

"Carrie, thanks for coming."

The young girl's eyes sparkled. "You are so good. I didn't know you were a musician. Where did you study? Like, Juilliard?"