Page 19 of Go Back to December

“Maybe we’re being too pessimistic.” Even I’m struggling to believe my own words. “This could mean we get bigger budgets.”

“Bless your heart.” Lacy whips her head back and forth as she refills my glass. “No fucking way. The revised budget decree is a preview. They’re going to look at both firms and ask everyone to identify efficiencies.”

One of the ugliest words in the corporate vernacular.

Taking stock of the carnage in the room all too quickly, I locate Baz. He’s stranded behind Denny’s shoulder as Blackhart works the crowd gathered around him. Blackhart’s so wasted, he bobs back and forth like one of those inflatable punching bags. If he fell, I wonder if Baz would try to catch him, or if he’d just let him drop.

I don’t know what it says about me that I hope Baz would let him fall. And that the fist curled at Baz’s side gives me reason to believe he would.

Badger is not among the swarm of sycophants. He and Alicia departed quickly after the merger announcement. My opportunity to lobby him is one more casualty of this horrific night.

Lacy’s phone buzzes. She greets the person calling with several variations of her favorite word before ending the call.

“Was that your contact at GL?” Sybil asks, her voice languid from the tequila.

“They told them all today at their party—which was a catered office lunch.” Lacy shudders. “There’s going to be a vote of all the Gresham and B&S senior partners in January, after the holidays. They’ll decide which practice areas to keep, and which to eliminate.”

We have only a few weeks to convince them to keep funding the café. It will take a Christmas miracle, or an entire personality transplant, for me to pull this off.

While I nurse my second shot, Lacy and Sybil quickly tumble down the garden path to annihilation, along with the rest of the Money Honeys who haven’t made partner yet.

“How are we getting intel on these merger discussions?” Lacy’s eyes are wild as she grips a tequila bottle. “Sybil, are you on the integration team?”

“No, sweetie, that would actually make sense,” Sybil quips. “But I know who is.”

A smile creeps across her face as she points a long finger across the room at Baz.

He’s wisely avoiding the bar, and the pack of hyenas who’ll happily rip the flesh from his bones for his role in causing this turmoil.

Baz never drinks at these things. He usually nurses a glass of soda water with a lime, whose sole purpose is to give the impression that there’s some vodka or gin alongside it. I can attest from personal experience Baz hates all things lime-oriented.

Sybil’s grin widens. “Baz is going to get us the dirt.”

I laugh, and Lacy joins in because she’s completely compromised and hasn’t found the hole in Sybil’s plan: Baz has no incentive to give us anything.

The two of them are snorting and high-fiving, and if either of them had the dexterity to hold a pen, they would sketch out an assault map.

“Hey, Smithers and Burns.” I snap my fingers, and they sober slightly. “Have you both forgotten that Baz is the architect of this axis of evil? There isn’t a snow cone’s chance in hell he’d help the café. He’s persona non grata.”

They exchange a look and howl so hard Lacy’s nose starts running.

“Mas tequila, and then we plot revenge,” Sybil says with flair.

It sounds good, revenge. And I need something to fuel my fight, because it won’t be enough to remind people about the good the café does for this community. We’re going to have to play dirty; that’s the only language these weasels speak. But my anger is seeping out, exhaustion is creeping in, and my inner warrior left the building hours ago. I need time to regroup, to form a new plan.

When Sybil and Lacy saunter back to the bar, it’s my signal to get the hell out of Dodge.

Traffic jams the road outside. It’s the last night for city celebrations and performances prior to the holiday shutdown, and the street closures and re-routings have yielded a frenzy to escape from downtown.

The line to get into the train station snakes halfway to the North Pole. While the twelve-block walk to Manny’s apartment would give me a chance to process the chaos of the night, there’s a stretch in between downtown and his neighborhood that real estate agents characterize as transitional, when they mean you sure can bet on getting mugged here!

I pull up the more reliable rideshare app on my phone. The scattergram of spots on the screen indicates several cars circling in the area. One of them matches with the Blackhart & Steele building address. I walk back toward the building and am about to press accept on the ride when camel cashmere flares in the distance.

Baz stands out like a flame in the night in that coat.

As he stomps toward me, I wonder how I could have ever mistaken the man at the station for him. With his Bowie eyes on fire, and those tensed broad shoulders, Baz is unforgettable.

And terrifying. I turn and flee. A few gasping breaths, and I’ve convinced myself I’ve slipped him.