He explained to Bernie that they would not be using the boat to entertain clients, because they were shagging ass out of San Francisco, they were leaving, they would not be back for years, if ever. "Do you understand?"

“Don’t holler.” Bernie nodded at the open door to his anteroom. “I think Kitty’s come in.”

Kitty, Bernie’s ancient, close-mouthed secretary, might make a good referee. Nevertheless, Mitch shut the door.

“You get my note?” Bernie asked innocently. “There’s something you have to know.”

Mitch regarded him suspiciously: “What?”

Bernie sat back, grinning. “Western Casualty wants to retain us.”

Western had insured the doctor. Mitch was ready for almost anything but this. Striking while he was off balance, Bernie skidded a letter across the desk. It was signed by the company’s chief counsel. Western had apparently decided to insure themselves against future problems with Gordon, Bertelli, et al. , by canning their present firm and hiring the winners.

“That’s ridiculous,” Mitch blurted, shaken. “We’re a plaintiffs’ firm. Besides, there’s conflict of interest. Western’s appealing.”

“They know they’ll lose it anyway.”

Mitch studied his partner curiously. “How do you know all this? You been bugging their office?”

“I had lunch with them yesterday. While you were playing boat.”

A year ago, Mitch thought, he might have considered the offer a stroke of luck. He must not waver now, or Bernie would never quit trying to change his mind. He let the letter flutter to the desk. In the offer, at least, he saw a wedge and a sop to his conscience.

“No,” he said.

“No what?”

“If I’d wanted to represent a corporation, I’d have been a corporation lawyer.”

“And besides,” Bernie pointed out, “you’re looking for an out.”

“All right, I am. Anyway,” he offered swiftly, “you negotiate with them. By yourself.” He sketched the outline of their dissolution. Fifty-fifty, right down the middle, even though eighteen years ago he had put up most of the cash from his father’s estate. And Bernie could continue to use his name if he wanted, as an unpaid consultant. “Unpaid,” he warned, "and unconsulted.” He would agree, if it made Bernie more secure, not to practice law in San Francisco for the next ten years. By the time he had finished he had probably cost himself fifty thousand dollars, but he felt as if he had laid down a ten-ton load. “And you’ll still get Western.”

When he had finished, Bernie was smiling. “You’re very generous.” Idly, he picked up a desk model of the menacing dark-blue fighter he had flown in Korea. He strafed his dictating machine, with a faraway look in his eyes. “The trouble is, it won’t go, not with Western.”

“Why not?”