“Anika, I am eager to work here. It’s just that I have had so much on my mind recently,” I fumbled, reaching for the most palatable excuse, “you know, with the Dell Nelson en banc and everything. I just want to give this a good think before committing. That’s all.”

Anika smiled and put her arm around my shoulder. “Ah yes, of course! The Dell Nelson case,” she purred, opening the door to the building. We walked out onto a bustling street. “You know, I almost forgot to tell you. I’m glad you reminded me. Such a small world. So my sister works for that Peter Nussbaum’s brother’s company.”

“She works at Tartac?” I asked.

“Close—Tarmac.”

“I think the family business is Tartac,” I corrected Anika.

“These names are very confusing,” Anika giggled. “From what I understand, Robert Nussbaum started a spinoff company, about a year ago, that specializes in tar for airport runways. Hence the name Tarmac. My sister just got hired as their Web designer. It’s a super-duper small company and up to now they haven’t had a Web presence at all. But don’t worry, she’s not, like, friends with Robert Nussbaum. But small world, right?”

“Yeah, small world for sure,” I responded, not quite knowing what to make of this information. “And it would be fine if she were friends with Robert. Robert hasn’t done anything.”

“Oh, whatever,” Anika said. She shook her head, suddenly bored. “I just was tickled by the connection and wanted to let you know. So, just give me a call once you’ve made up your mind. We really want you here, Sheila.”

“Thanks, Anika, I’ll definitely call you soon.”

Tarmac? Tartac? Tar-whickety-whack?

Without thinking, I hopped the 4 train to Midtown and walked into Barnes and Hellman, the law firm where I had worked as a summer associate. I found myself on the fortieth floor, asking for John Powers, the hiring partner who had extended me a permanent job offer two years earlier. John’s secretary, Amy, had taken a liking to me during my summer there. Amy had gotten a bit tipsy at the Maritime Hotel during a summer event and I’d heard her call John a “hateful asshole” in the bathroom. I’d never breathed a word of it to anyone (at the firm). Amy had not forgotten the tremendous act of kindness, so she squeezed me in for five minutes with the hateful asshole.

I’d forgotten how nice Barnes’s offices were, especially compared to the ACLU and Friedman’s torture chamber. Big open space, lots of light, Lichtensteins adorning the walls, hardwood floors. How could such a beautiful place be bad?