Page 231 - A Little Life: A Novel

windows at either end, one set facing west and the other facing east, as well
as the entire southern wall, which looks over a parking lot. His room and
bathroom are at the eastern-facing end, which looks onto the top of a stubby

building on Mercer Street; Willem’s rooms—or what he continues to think
of as Willem’s rooms—are at the western-facing end, which looks over
Greene Street. There is a kitchen in the middle of the apartment, and a third
bathroom. And in between the two suites of rooms are acres of space, the
black floors shiny as piano keys.
It is still an unfamiliar feeling to have so much space, and a stranger one
to be able to afford it. But you can, he has to remind himself sometimes, just

as he does when he stands in the grocery store, wondering whether he
should buy a tub of the black olives he likes, which are so salty they make
his mouth pucker and his eyes water. When he first moved to the city, they
were an indulgence, and he’d buy them just once a month, one glistening
spoonful at a time. Every night he’d eat only one, sucking the meat slowly
off the stone as he sat reading briefs. You can buy them, he tells himself. You

have the money. But he still finds it difficult to remember.
The reason behind Greene Street, and the container of olives that are
usually in the refrigerator, is his job at Rosen Pritchard and Klein, one of
the city’s most powerful and prestigious firms, where he is a litigator and,
for a little more than a year now, a partner. Five years ago, he and Citizen
and Rhodes had been working on a case concerning securities fraud at a
large commercial bank called Thackery Smith, and shortly after the case

had settled, he had been contacted by a man named Lucien Voigt, whom he
knew was the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and
Klein, and who had represented Thackery Smith in their negotiations.
Voigt asked him to have a drink. He had been impressed by his work,
especially in the courtroom, he said. And Thackery Smith had been as well.
He had heard of him anyway—he and Judge Sullivan had been on law

review together—and had researched him. Had he ever considered leaving
the U.S. Attorney’s Office and coming to the dark side?
He would have been lying if he said he hadn’t. All around him, people
were leaving. Citizen, he knew, was talking to an international firm in
Washington, D.C. Rhodes was wondering whether he should go in-house at
a bank. He himself had been approached by two other firms, and had turned
them both down. They loved the U.S. Attorney’s Office, all of them. But

Citizen and Rhodes were older than he was, and Rhodes and his wife