Chapter 1: Son of the Old Sod
Dan Norton arrived at his law office at precisely 7:30 AM on a fine Southern California morning. The night before, the Steelers had beaten Seattle 21-10 in the Superbowl, and while Norton hadn't even watched the game, he had some scratch riding on Pittsburgh. A lot of scratch, in fact, and he was in a pretty chipper mood.
He balanced an overstuffed briefcase and a mocha-jalapeño latte in meaty paws a little too large for his short frame. Risking a sip, he basked in the knowledge that he'd been the one to talk the Kaffee Klutch barista into adding fresh jalapeño to ordinary chocolate. Now the combo graced the menu as a house specialty.
Dan's law office rested on the thirty-ninth floor of a glass-and-steel column that looked like a rocket ready to launch into orbit. If the building actually did blast off, the afterburners would take out the entire lobby, including the pedestrians cutting through, as well as the homeless people sheltering under its buttresses.
He loved the law firm of Agostini and Norton with an intensity second only to what he felt for his mother and his mistress. Founder Tomo Agostini lay seven years in the grave, but Dan still flushed with affection at the memory of the gruff old Sicilian with his thick Brooklyn accent and crass pin-striped suits. When the old man finally died, practically every mob organization in Southern California owed favors to Agostini and Norton.
Those had been good times, back when Dan was slaving eighty hours a week for a partnership, defending one Cosa Nostra member after another in federal court and usually winning. After making partner, Dan got the bright idea to fire a couple of unproductive young lawyers and take on half a dozen accountants and computer specialists in their stead.
Red-faced, Agostini had sputtered that he couldn't fire those men; they were family. At first Dan thought the old man was going to do something rash. If it was over for him, well, Dan had had a great run and couldn't complain.
But Agostini surprised him. The old man unbuttoned his suit coat from across his ball gut and listened as Dan explained that computers were the wave of the future. Nobody carried money around in suitcases anymore. If you wanted to do the laundry right, you used the spiffy new detergent, and that meant electronic funds transfers. EFTs in their turn meant accountants.
Agostini offered Dan a fat Cuban cigar, which he politely declined. One of the new men had a wife who was an accountant, Agostini mused. Norton could hire her. And some of the guys' sons were majoring in that inscrutable field, computer science. No problem. Agostini thumped Norton hard on the back and declared that was what he hired his Danny-boy for, even if he was a goddamn Mick.
As Agostini grew older, the US Department of Justice made better use of both federal racketeering laws and their own accountants, and the organized-crime legal business petered out. The accountants and the geek boys stayed, though. Nobody could say the Agostini firm wasn't interested in fresh ideas.
Dan's lucky day had come in 1997, when a slight, youngish-looking man with prominent deep-set eyes walked into the office. No, he didn't have an appointment. Yes, he understood that Mr. Norton was very busy. Even so, would she please inform Mr. Norton that Mr. Benjamin Linus wished to speak with him.
Agostini and Norton had secretaries, good ones, and Deirdre Hannegan was the best. Through his half-open door, Dan heard Deirdre coldly inform the visitor that Mr. Norton was in court and would be all day.
"Don't kid a kidder," Linus said. "I know very well that Mr. Norton isn't in court, and if he's smart, he'll clear his desk for a meeting right now."
Deirdre told Linus to wait. A little green light lit up on Dan's phone, a signal from Deirdre to let him know that a potential big fish was on the hook. If Dan wanted to take the risk, he'd ring her back, tell her to send the whale in. If not, he'd ignore it, and eventually the minnow would get bored and swim away.
Two hours later, spurred by curiosity, Dan poked his head into the waiting room. Linus sat unmoving on an orange Danish-modern chair, staring straight at Deirdre with a ghastly half-smile.
If a barracuda could grin, that's what it would look like.
Dan surrendered to the best decision of his career. "Come on in, Mr. Linus."
He had been getting tired of the few remaining mobsters and their petty, inept money-laundering schemes. On slow days, he wondered if he should try to run one himself. He knew he could do it and not get caught.
In short, Dan was ready for something easy, and Linus's proposal seemed almost heaven-sent. So much money for so little effort, that at first Dan sat noncommittal, while Linus explained what he wanted the law firm to do.
"Keep the government off Mittelos Bioscience's back. Smooth out any obstacles to the product imports from the Tunisia division. Pay the taxes, the fees, the tariffs. All of them."
Dan glanced down at his notes, wondering if Linus was deranged. "I could save you ten, twenty percent right off the top. That's even before we go over the books."
Instead of answering, Linus settled into silence.
"All right," Dan grumbled. "Your time, your dime. Compliance is going to cost you."
"Not in the long run it won't. Privacy is what I'm buying, Mr. Norton. I want Mittelos to squeak like a pig scrubbed for the county fair if any spotlights shine on it." He shrugged, and his eyes protruded a little more. "The last CEO left things in disarray. Charles Widmore is our biggest competitor now."
Aha, Dan thought. A chink in the armor. Mr. Linus had a temper, even if he kept it under wraps.
Dan had a little button of his own, which he pressed with his knee while pretending to take notes. Deirdre's phone lit up with a blue light which had one purpose, and one alone. Initiate a high-colonic investigation of this guy. Check him out, down to what he had for breakfast this morning. Get the Morrison Agency on it, which meant spare no expense.
When Dan said, "I'll get back to you, Mr. Linus," the small man didn't bat an eyelash. Instead, he recited in a cool, passionless voice, "Daniel Lawrence Norton, of Boston, Massachusetts. Graduated summa cum laude in mathematics, MIT, 1972. Quit his first year of mathematics doctoral studies at Princeton to study law at Harvard. Editor of the Crimson Law Review—"
"You may be paying me, but I'll never get the time back," Dan snapped. "That's all in Who's Who."
"I'll tell you what's not in Who's Who. Your mother Bridget, age 74, has been funneling money for years into Sinn Fein. But not all of it stays in Sinn Fein, does it, Dan? Some of it makes its way into Eastern Europe, where a lot of sellers want to match up their products with willing buyers. I believe you once told her on the phone in a half-joking manner that this is what happens when women get involved in politics. She even laughed." Linus licked his lips, the first spontaneous gesture he'd made since entering the office. "I certainly wouldn't talk to my mother like that."
Dan's phone rang. It was Deirdre, and Dan hoped that Linus didn't see the thin film of sweat which had formed on his upper lip.
"He checks out, Dan," said Deirdre. "Chief Operations Officer of Mittelos Bioscience of Portland, like he said. The car's a company vehicle."
"Thanks, Didi. Take an early lunch, OK? And pick up a gyros for me from that food truck on Wilshire."
"Sure, boss."
Dan's use of "Didi" meant that she was to flip off the recorder which had been preserving the interview for posterity. "Early lunch" meant draw up the new client paperwork but handle with care, because eventually there would be two sets, one for anyone with a badge who came knocking, and one which stayed internal to Agostini and Norton.
Dan wouldn't touch a gyros even if it made him crap gold. He'd been eating vegan since his mild coronary of the summer before. Not even a real coronary, the doctors had said. Just a twitch. A tiny blockage. But Dan wasn't taking any chances. Instead of a gyros, what Dan really wanted was for Dick Morrison's boyos to put a tail on Ben Linus when he left the law office.
"I'd like a gyros, too," Linus said right after Dan hung up.
"Too late. Already placed the order."
"But in your case, Dan, is it really a good idea? I mean, with a history of heart disease and all."
"So maybe I should give you mine, huh?"
"Well, if you're offering—"
Dan got up and walked around his desk. His slow-motion pace gave the impression he was swimming through air, and his eyes never left Linus's. Seating himself in the chair opposite Linus, he spoke in quiet voice. "Don't fuck with me, Benjamin. Never, ever fuck with me." He noted how Linus winced at the obscenity. "Because all I have to do is make a phone call to Mr. Widmore and tell him about your little proposition."
"You wouldn't do that. You'd get disbarred."
"You naive son-of-a-bitch," Dan said. "You were raised Methodist, weren't you? Or maybe Congregationalist, or whatever they're calling it these days. So I'm betting you don't know what a white martyr is."
Benjamin Linus shook his head.
"My mother would like nothing more than to become a white martyr to liberate Northern Ireland from the boys in orange. I keep telling her that nobody is going to send a seventy-five year old grandma to Club Fed for buying the Provos a few guns, but she doesn't believe me. So go ahead, Ben, make her day. But think twice, because if you do, your life will suddenly become very, very difficult." He leaned away from Linus, settling back into his own chair. "And work on that wince, why don't you? Your prissy little expressions are going to give you away every time."
So began the long association between Benjamin Linus and the law firm of Agostini and Norton.
(continued)