Happy Birthday, Flamingo
Part I
Denny escorted a pretty woman to Alan Shore's office. She was in her early 30s. A curvy, toned, body veiled under a flippy knee-length skirt and a soft pink sweater.
"You can wait here. He should be in any minute. Can I bring you something to drink? Or an engagement ring?"
"No, thank you. I'm fine." She had a soft Southern drawl and a smooth bourbon voice that sent chills down his spine. He watched her take off her coat as if watching a strip tease.
"A trip to Maui?"
"Tempting, but I burn then freckle something awful."
"I bet you do--that pale, pale skin of yours." He swallows hard and adjusts his tie. "Am I going to regret this?"
She narrowed her blue feline eyes, "Regret what?"
"Uh, nothing." He points to his head, "Mad cow. Alan will be here soon."
"Thank you, Mr. Crane."
He took her hand in his, "Please, call me Denny," he kissed her hand.
"Will do—Denny."
"I could stay, keep you company while you wait for Alan."
"That's okay. I'm sure you're a busy man. I brought a book to entertain myself." She pulled a paperback out of her purse.
"Nah. I'm not busy. Everyone works for me. But that's good that you can, uh, entertain yourself. Takes all the pressure off."
"Off whom?"
"Off me," he stumbled over his words, "To, uh, you know, entertain you—while, while you wait for Alan."
"Oh, I don't know. You seem like a man who can handle himself just fine under pressure."
"Of course, I'm Denny Crane."
Shirley walked up. She glanced in the office at the pretty girl in Alan's office. She looked at Denny, "Where's Alan?"
"I don't know. He's usually here by now."
Shirley said to the woman, with a smile, "If you like, one of our other attorneys can assist you."
The lady's eyes moved to Denny. He looked at Shirley, "No, no. She's here for Alan."
Shirley looked surprised. She hadn't heard Alan was dating anyone, "Really?"
"She's his assistant."
"Assistant?"
"Yes. I hired her this morning."
Shirley's face froze in mask of surprised fury, "Denny," she cooed, "We need to talk." Then to the lady she said, "Please excuse us."
Shirley locked arms with Denny and pulled him away.
"Let me know if you need anything," Denny blurted on his way out, "Anything at all."
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"Denny!" Shirley said, pinching his arm in her grip. "What on earth has gotten into you?"
"Oh, that hurts," he said, pulling away. Then he re-thought the matter and held his arm out to her, "But I like it. Do it again."
Shirley rolled her eyes, "Damn it, Denny. You can't just go around hiring assistants for people. And for Alan? He doesn't need an assistant, and he certainly doesn't need one that
attractive. He'll have her devoured by lunch!"
"Shirley," Denny stopped. They stood in front of reception where the words Crane, Poole & Schmidt stretched along the wall. "See that," he said. "Crane. First name on the wall. I'm the
name that made this place. As long as my name is on that wall, I'll hire whoever I damned well please."
"If the committee finds out about this..."
"They won't find out…and if they do, who cares? I'm Denny Crane. You get rid of me, you might as well shut down the whole operation."
"Alan does not need an assistant."
"Yes, yes he does. He's one of the top lawyers in this firm—handles more cases than anybody—and he's my friend—so…." he threw up his hands as if that settled the matter.
"Well did you have to hire her?"
"Ooooh," Denny said, "You feel threatened—another hen in the henhouse."
"I do not feel threatened," she said through clenched teeth, "It's just that the scent of a sexual harassment suit is hanging in the air. She'll have the papers filed, with at least 30
documented allegations, before close of business tonight! I mean, we're talking about Alan--and you. You've probably already given her 10 of her allegations."
"Don't worry, Shirl. You're still my number one girl. Always have been," he put his hand on his heart, "Always will be."
"Thank you for that affirmation, Denny. But if she so much as threatens a lawsuit, it's your head!"
"Oooh. I like it when you're rough. Say it just once. I want to hear it!"
She shook her head in exasperation and walked away with Denny following her to her office, attempting to persuade her for a date.
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Alan walked briskly down the hall, attaché in hand. He was late. He hated being late. His office door stood open, a rarity, so he slowed and approached cautiously.
He saw a pair of bare female legs, crossed—and on the feet the best shoes: high heels with a strap around the ankle and a little silver charm teasing that place where the ankle
meets the foot.
"These are new," he said as he steps into the office.
She closed her book and stood to greet him. His eyes glided slowly up the legs and the rest of her body until their eyes meet.
"Mr. Shore?"
"How may I help you, Ms…?"
"Houston. I'm Miranda Houston," she said, holding out her hand to shake his.
"Pleasure," he said, taking her hand in his.
He took her hand firmly in his; he had a firm grip, soft hands, but not femininely soft--there was a masculine coarseness to them. He didn't shake her hand so much as press it firmly
and then held it, lingering.
"Mr. Shore…"
"Please, call me Alan." He whiffed the air for her perfume--hints of lavender, vanilla, sandalwood. His eyes fell to her throat where a thin pearl choker rested against her collarbone. A
crooked smile crossed his lips. He let go of her hand. He moved toward his desk as he talked, "Forgive me that I am unable to give you the undivided attention I would love to devote
you," he ran his eyes over her again and sighed, "for hours and hours, which I'm certain you deserve, but I have a case in an hour; so you'll have to continue talking, I assure you I'm
listening." He began unpacking his brief case and looking into folders. "So…To what do I owe this honor, Ms. Houston?"
"Miranda, please."
"Noted."
"Actually, Alan, I'm here to help you."
He froze, stared at her with a blank expression, "Come again."
"Gladly."
"I've been assigned to work under you."
Alan studied her, perplexed, "Under me?"
"Yes. You know, as an assistant--a secretary of sorts, though I hate that word."
"Ms… uh, Miranda, while nothing would make me happier than to have you under me, I don't really need an assistant or at least I'm told I don't. So, I'm sorry you have wasted your
time."
"I don't think you have a choice in the matter."
"Is that so? I did not authorize hiring you. I think I would have a choice as to whether or not I have an assistant."
"But I've been hired already."
"By whom? Who authorized this?"
"Denny Crane. He hired me this morning. He said you needed an assistant. But if you don't want me then I suppose I'll go." She began gathering her things.
Alan came from around his desk, "Wait, Ms. Houston, it's not that I don't want you," his eyes fell to her neck and the pearl choker resting there; he beamed, "It's just that this is all just
a big surprise. You needn't go."
She stared at him, confused and a little hurt.
"But I do have a few questions first."
"When were you hired."
"Today."
"And Denny hired you?"
"Yes."
Miranda cocked an eyebrow, "Is that a problem?"
"Not at all, just a few more questions," he paused, groping for the right words, "How do I say this?"
"Just say it."
He searched her eyes to see if she really meant what she said. When her steady eyes assured him of her sincerity, he added, "How do you feel about being ogled? Or even somewhat,
just mildly, sexually harassed? No groping or anything—just ratings."
"Ratings?"
"I like to rate sweaters, and shoes; skirts sometimes, too."
"I see." She crossed her arms over her chest with an amused smirk. "Mr. Shore..."
"Alan."
"Alan," she stroked the word, shaking her hair out of her face with a toss of her head.
He smiled, thinking about how he would like to press his face against her hair, run his fingers through it.
"You seem like an honest sort of guy, a guy who can handle the truth, so let me be clear here: as long as I'm compensated fairly, and I do mean fairly, and as long as I'm not bored,
you can rate my sweaters or my shoes or my nail polish, if that tickles your pickle; you can even mentally undress me if that's what gets you through the day."
He laughed aloud, "'Tickles my pickle'? That's a new one. And mentally undressing you, or physically, either one, would certainly get me through the day. So it seems we have an
understanding."
"Seems we do."
"Can I get you to sign a contract attesting that you won't sue just because I have…"
"Issues?"
He nodded and tilted his head, "Well, I was going to say fetishes; but issues will work. It's just that I have attempted to hide these 'issues' in the past and it's always caused…"
"Issues…"
He chuckled, nodding, "Well, yes. So I am making an effort to prevent these…"
"Issues," They said in unison.
"Will the contract state my compensation as well?" Miranda said.
"Of course."
"Then I'm happy--depending on the figure is."
"Are you sure? Because if you have even a shadow of a doubt…"
He moved closer to her.
"Alan. Everywhere I've worked I've been ogled and mentally undressed, or worse, groped and manhandled by greasy fingers and ugly men with bad breath. Except at those places I
didn't make any money to balance out the stuff I had to deal with. At least here I expect to have a…balance. I think you understand me."
"Indeed, I do. I have only one other question: Are you real?" He touched her sweater on the shoulder, stroking it in small circles. His touch excited her, but fought it with a blank
expression.
"Cashmere," he whispered.
"So is that my desk out here?"
"Yes."
"Shall I start today?"
"Yes, please do," he said.
"Is there anything I can do to help you prepare for your case today? Otherwise, I will begin drawing up our contract."
"No, I don't think so." He looked at his watch.
"How do you like your coffee?"
His eyes ran over her face, "Two sugars, and real cream; it's in the fridge--just enough to make it a nice caramel color."
She turned and walked out of the room, flipping her wavy hair down her back.
He cocked his head and craned to watch her walk away, her skirt moving with the sway of her hips.
"You don't really have time for that right now, Alan," she said, glancing at him over her shoulder, "You have to be in court soon."
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Within minutes Miranda reappeared with a coffee mug and set it on his desk.
"Thank you," he said, taking a sip while moving into action. He began filling his bag with other folders and papers while she got his coat.
She helped him into his coat, "I called a cab for you; it'll save you time; it's already downstairs."
"Thank you."
His cell phone rang. He answered it and walked out the door, talking. When he realized he forgot his bag, he turned to go back to the office to get it, but Miranda was behind him with
his bag and his coffee. He got onto the elevator and she followed him. He got off the phone. She handed him the coffee.
"Thank you." He began talking, watching the floor numbers light up in their descent, "That was a friend of mine; he needs help. Call him back. His name is Pat Graham. You'll find his
number in the black book on my desk. Set an appointment for him to come in and talk. After lunch would be best. I should be back by noon, no later than 1."
"Will do. Do you want your lunch ordered in or will you go out?"
The doors opened and they stepped out together.
"Order in," he said.
He handed her the mug and she handed him his bag, "Anything in particular?"
"Whatever you like. I'm not too finicky. I like a wide variety."
"Alan," she said. "Come here. Your tie is a little crooked." While she fixed his tie he leaned slightly to smell her hair.
She shifted the tie a little and patted his lapel, "There."
He grinned warmly, "Thank you. Already you're a great asset to me."
He walked out the door, paused and turned back. She was already on her way back to the office. He called out to her, "Miranda."
She turned back.
"Yes?"
"The shoes are wonderful. A 10. Really."
She smiled and turned away as he disappeared into the cab.