Happy Birthday, Flamingo

Part II

After his session in court Alan came back to the office. Denny found him in the bathroom. He sidled up to the adjacent urinal.

"Hey there, buddy. Happy Birthday."

Alan looked at the tile in front of him, "It is my birthday isn't it?" He chuckled. "I had forgotten." He zipped up and moved to the sink, "I believe everyone eventually reaches a point in life where birthdays become irrelevant and they are nothing more than another day."

Denny finished and came to wash his hands, "Ridiculous. Birthdays are the greatest. I love every birthday I have; it's a reminder that I've made it another year—it's a reason to celebrate!"

Alan smiled at him in the mirror.

Denny looked at Alan eagerly, "Do you like my gift?"

"You got me a gift?" Alan said pleasantly surprised.

"I left it in your office."

"Oh, well, I haven't been to my office yet. I just got back from court."

"I can't wait until you open it. I picked it out just for you."

"I'm sure I'll like it, Denny."

"Denny," Brad walked in, "Shirley wants to see you."

Denny whispered to Alan, "She wants me! She was just playing hard to get." He trotted off excitedly.

"Bradley!" Alan said. "So good to see you."

"Alan," Brad said flatly, suspiciously. He stood at the urinal.

Alan stared at the back of his head, intending to make Brad uncomfortable; he was happy to see he succeeded.

Discomfited, Brad glanced over his shoulder at Alan, then stretched and twisted his neck from side to side, "Do you always watch other men urinate?"

"Sure. I might pick up some pointers, different techniques."

"I know what you're doing."

"Do you?" Alan chuckled to himself.

"I see you have a new assistant."

"I do. Do you have assistant envy? Who is your assistant? Oh, yes. Ryan. And how is Ryan working out for you, Brad?"

Brad sneered. "Well enjoy her while you can, sport. The partners aren't happy about Denny hiring her behind their back when they're trying to make cuts."

"So? That has nothing to do with me. For once, my hand isn't in this."

"That's what I said."

"Really," Alan said suspiciously.

"Yep," Brad said, zipping up.

"And why would defend me, Brad?"

"I said it wouldn't matter because you would scare her off soon enough—like Sally, like Tara, like Melissa."

Alan studied him, a mask of amusement on his face; but Brad's remark hit its target, "You're still upset about Sally. I believe you had your chance with her, Brad. As I recall, you blew it."

"So did you, sport." Brad continued, "This new girl…she's cute." He dried off his hands, ran his fingers through his hair.

"What about Denise?"

"What about her. I can't say this new girl is cute? I'm a man, aren't I?" He stood erect and jerked his suit jacket and sleeves into place.

"I'm uncertain. Are you a man, Bradley? I often wonder what your definition is." Alan smiled crookedly—a glint of challenge in his eye.

Brad started out the door, tossing his paper towel into the garbage like a basketball. He shot a final glare at Alan, "You'll screw it up. No doubt."

Alan picked up his brief case.

Seconds later, Brad re-entered, his military stance blocking the doorway, hands in his pants pocket.

"You're still here," Alan looked him over.

"In fact, I'm willing to put money on it."

Alan smirked, "Our conversation just became interesting."

Brad spewed out his conditions rapidly, "1. I don't think you'll even attract her attention enough to get a date with her. 2. If you, by some miracle, manage to land a date with her, you won't make it past the kiss goodnight, much less sleep with her. 3. Just for fun, let's pretend you do get past the first date, and sleep with her, I'm certain you will not last more than 6 months."

"Well, those are complicated terms. I find having to think about that all at once is too much to focus on. I would prefer to break it up into smaller, more achievable goals. How about we just start with number 1?"

"Okay, fine."

"How much are you willing to wager?"

"A thousand bucks."

Alan's eyes narrowed, "Boring. I already have a bunch of a thousand bucks. What I don't have, however, is the satisfaction of, let's say," he slid his hand down the front of his suit jacket, "seeing you wear women's heels to work—all day—and a feather boa. You know, ever since I saw you in that adorable little elf costume, I've had this overwhelming desire to see you dressed up in something else."

"You're sick."

"So I've been told."

Brad considered, his jaw muscles clenching. "All right, fine. You're on. If I lose, I wear the heels and boa. You lose you wear them—though you'd probably enjoy it."

Alan chuckled.

Brad started to leave and Alan called, "Oh, Brad—one more thing."

"Yea?"

"The heels have to be red or pink—something showy," emphasizing the word with splayed fingers.

Brad tensed up, stretched his neck, "Fine. You have…" he thought, "Two weeks to get that date or you've lost—and it has to be an official date, too—where you actually ask her out; working lunches and dinners do not count."

"Agreed. But only two weeks? I've only just met her and I'm shy around new women," Alan said, sarcastically.

Brad smirked and said, "Two weeks, sport," assured that even Alan couldn't pull this one off.

Miranda walked past Shirley Schmidt's office.

"Ms. Houston…" Shirley called out to her.

"Yes?"

"Please have a seat, Ms. Houston…"

"Miranda."

"Got it."

Miranda sat across from Shirley's desk. Shirley continued, "You and I haven't actually met. I'm Shirley Schmidt. I'm senior partner here."

"Nice to meet you."

Shirley smiled, "Do you like it here so far?"

"I do."

Her smile tightened, "I understand Denny hired you."

"Yes."

"You weren't supposed to be hired…"
Shock and fear crossed Miranda's face, certain that Shirley was firing her, "But…"

"Don't worry, I'm not firing you. Alan does need an assistant; he has for some time. However, with Alan, finding the right assistant for him is difficult. Frankly, we usually try to avoid pretty ones, like yourself."

"Isn't that discrimination of a sort?"

"Well, yes. However, in the long run, we find that it protects the interests of the firm by reducing the number of sexual harassment suits filed against us. Alan, while he is a wonderful attorney, has…"

"Issues…"

Shirley nodded, "Yes…many, many issues; but the senior partners, with the exception of Denny, who also has many issues, are concerned about a particular set of issues that leads to sexual harassment claims."

"Allow me to allay your fears, Ms. Schmidt. Alan and I have an understanding."

"Call me Schmidt. When you say 'Ms.' I think you're talking to my mother, which is scary since she's been dead for several years now."

Miranda smiled, "Schmidt, you don't need to worry about sexual harassment suits coming from me. Alan and I have reached an understanding; we also have a contract."

"Yes, I'm familiar with Alan's contracts." Schmidt smiled, "Alan has had those contracts in the past; unfortunately, they don't hold much water in court when a serious suit is filed."

"Yes, but we have an understanding."

"Do you mind explaining the terms of this understanding?" Shirley removed her glasses and held them folded in her hand.

"Sure. He can ogle me and mentally undress me as much as he likes as long as I'm fairly and adequately compensated to put up with it. He also likes to rate my outfits. I don't mind. It seems to make him happy, so what harm does it do?"

"Sexual harassment makes for a threatening work environment…"
"Only for those people who are threatened by it," she shrugged, "I'm not. In fact, between you and me," she lowered her voice, "I kind of like it—just a little."

"You like being objectified?"

"Is it objectification if it's consensual?"

"Good point."

"Here's a copy of the contract, if you would like to see it."

Shirley took and put her glasses back on. She skimmed it, "Who drew this up?"

"I did."
"Very good; it's tight, though I'm certain Alan could shape shift his way through the tiniest crack in it."

"But we have…"

"An understanding," Shirley said, "Yes, I know."

She pointed to the document, "This is the figure you're asking for?"

"Yes. I think it's reasonable."

"It is, certainly in lieu of a law suit that could nail us for millions."

Shirley handed the document back.

"Oh, that's your copy."

"Thank you."
"I figured at least one senior partner should have a copy. You seemed like the best option."

"Good choice. You know, Miranda, for whatever reason, I like you; and whatever goes on between you and Alan, as long as it doesn't affect the firm, is, frankly, none of my business. Obviously, you're a big girl and can take care of yourself. And I know I'm not your mother." Shirley leaned onto her desk, clasped her hands together, and lowered her voice in warning, "Please understand my words are kindly meant: I just want to warn you, as I feel obligated to do so, to tread carefully with Alan Shore. He has his good qualities, no doubt. He's very charming. In many ways he is the most honest, trustworthy, reliable man I know. I would trust him with my life, but I would never trust him with my heart."

Miranda nodded, "I understand. Thank you for your concern, but I will never do anything to compromise the integrity of this firm or the people who work here," Miranda stood, "Well, if that's all...?"

"That's all. Thank you, Miranda."

Alan returned to his office to find Miranda at her desk, typing.

"Hello, Miranda."

"How did the case go?"

"I lost."

The clicking of the computer keys stopped and she looked up at him, "I'm sorry."

He paused and reflected, "Today, it doesn't seem to matter."

"Your lunch is on your desk. I'll bring your messages to you in a moment—just as soon as I finish this."

"Thank you."

He took off his coat and hung it on the coat rack. Miranda approached him with a few sticky notes as he opened a file on his desk.

"I chose Thai. I hope that's okay." She took the file and handed him a paper carton.

"Wonderful choice. What's this?"

"Orange chicken with noodles. I went medium on the spice. You didn't seem like a "mild" sort of man to me."

He smiled. "Perfect."

"I set an appointment with Mr. Graham as you requested. He will be here at 2. These are other phone calls you received while you were out."

"Thank you." He looked up at her. "Where's your lunch? Didn't you order anything?"

"Yes. It's on my desk."

"Please join me. I… hate to eat alone."

She retrieved her lunch and sat across from him at his desk.

"How has your day been so far?" He opened a napkin and spread it over his lap.

"Good. No complaints. Oh, I took the liberty of ordering you some jasmine tea as well. I hope you like it," she said, offering a mug to him.

"Jasmine?" he said, enjoying the novelty. He sniffed it first, "Pleasant aroma." He sipped the tea, "Mm. Very nice."

Miranda was pleased he liked it.

"So what was your case about today?"

"Insurance fraud."

"What happened?" She watched him remove the chopsticks from the wrapper as she removed her own. He had nice hands—squarish, masculine, but not brutal.

He sighed and said matter of factly as he poked at the food in his container, "A man burned down his own business in order to collect the insurance money so he could pay off his taxes and get the IRS off his back."

"Sounds interesting. You defended the man, not the company, right?"

"Naturally." His fingers masterfully maneuvered the chopsticks without awkwardness or timidity. His hands were assured, steady.

"So he goes to prison now?"

"Yes. And has to pay back the money and still owes the taxes."

"Does he have a family?"

"Of course."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's the business. But," he smiled, "Enough about that. I want to hear about you, Miranda. Why are you here?"

"Denny hired me."

"Beyond that."

"The short version: I thought about law school, ended up in paralegal school. Graduated. Worked for some sleazy people and a few good ones," she shrugged, "I guess I've been a little lost. But now I'm pursuing a dream; so I feel like I'm on the right track."

"A dream? How romantic. I didn't think there were any dreamers left." He stared into his tea then took a sip.

"Why? You're one."

He chuckled and swallowed his tea, "What makes you say that?"

"Law is, at least in theory, a noble pursuit—defending people, helping them."

He nodded, setting down his tea cup, "In theory. Perhaps I used to be a dreamer, when I was in college. I have no illusions left."

"Law isn't what you hoped it would be, is it?"

"Some days, some cases. Those are the cases I hold on to, savor."

"But they are few and far between?"

"Indeed."

"So now what's your dream?"

"Retirement."

She laughed, "Nonsense. You don't strike me as a 'retirement' sort of fellow."

"Oh, but I am," he said.

"What would you do?"

"Live in Bali. Wear shorts and funny hats. Build a boat."

"Build a boat?"

"Sure, why not? Or take up golf." He put some food in his mouth then dabbed his lips with a napkin.

"Okay, you lost me at golf."

A brief silence followed as he chewed, thinking. Then he added, "I would read. A lot. All the stuff I want to read now but rarely do."

"Such as?"

"Vonnegut. Melville. Tennyson—there's so many. I mean, I read now and enjoy it, but it's just, different. What I read now strips away the illusions. In retirement I want to work on building them back."

"I think there's a dreamer left in you yet."

He smiled into his food, nodding, "Maybe you're right."

Another silence, a comfortable one, fell over them as they ate.

"Well," Miranda said, "I believe lunch is about over. I have the contract ready for you to sign and your appointment will be here soon."

She cleaned up their mess and started back to her desk.

"Oh, by the way, Denny said he left a package in here for me?"

Miranda shook her head, perplexed, scanning the office, "Mm-no. I haven't seen a package. I haven't seen him since this morning. What kind of package is it?"

"I don't know. He just said he left me a gift. "Hmm, odd."

"A gift? Is it your birthday?"

"Apparently."

"Happy Birthday, Alan," she said brightly, their eyes lingered.

"Thank you."

She started out the door.

"Miranda," he said.

"Yes?" She turned, her profile in the doorway.

His eyes floated over her—her full breasts and hips, the small waist, the shapely legs.

"I'm really glad…" he paused, swallowed, "I'm really glad you ordered Thai."

"Me, too," she said softly.

Miranda's first day passed quietly and quickly. She had just a few files to put away before she went home. She had grown used to feeling Alan's eyes on her and could even ignore it—mostly; there was something different in the way he looked at her versus the way her other male colleagues had looked at her, treated her. He didn't look like a drooling dog; his ogles were honest, open, sincere—odd words to describe an ogle. Appreciative. That's the word. Alan appreciated her—like an art lover appreciates a Monet or a car collector appreciates a cherry Model T; therein laid the difference and it made all the difference. Her past bosses did not look at her with appreciation, but rather eyed her as a cold beer and a choice steak—just something to slake the thirst, to stave off the hunger until the next meal came around. Yet, there was something predatory about Alan, too—just enough to make him exciting. Having the attention of a man like Alan gave her a small thrill. And why not? He was a man of power, confidence, talent, sharp intellect, prowess—a man who really could have any woman he wanted. He would be easy to work for—he wasn't at all demanding. One more file and then she would have to go teach her yoga class. Have dinner. Her mind ran over the contents of her fridge and cabinets. She didn't feel like…

"Miranda."

She jumped, stumbling against the filing cabinet. He slid the drawer shut and slowly closed in on her as his eyes slid up her body.

"Oh, my God, Alan!" she said, her hand over her heart, trying to collect herself. "You scared me. I about jumped out of my skin!"

He was clearly amused and enjoyed watching the way the pearls would sink and rise in the little hollow at the base of her neck as she tried to catch her breath, "I'm flattered that you would equate me with God. And while having you against the filing cabinet is a fantasy of mine, I had pictured it a little differently—though, interestingly, you equate me with God in that scenario, too."

She tapped him playfully with the folder, "I see I'll have to put a bell on you." She turned back to the cabinet and searched for the drawer she needed.

"I'm sorry I startled you. As for your skin, let's keep you in it. You may, however, jump out of your clothes whenever you wish." He moved closer to her back and she straightened; he lowered his voice and his mouth close to her ear said, "Now, let's talk about where you can tie that bell…"

Miranda laughed, shaking her head, "You're such a rascal. What am I going to do with you?" She glanced at him flirtatiously over her shoulder. She knelt down and filed the last file.

"I've been pondering that very question all day," he said. "Maybe we can discuss it over dinner. I've come up with a few suggestions I would like you to consider."

She looked up at him, "Well, as tempting as it is to go to dinner with the man who nearly killed me, I'll have to pass tonight. I've got plans." She held out her hand and he helped her to stand.

"Plans?"

"Yes, plans. And I'm about to be late for my plans. I've got to go."

"That's too bad. Well, good night then."

"Night, Alan. See you in the morning." She rushed back to her desk and gathered up her things.

Brad approached her. "Miranda, right?"

"Yes."

"Hi. Brad Chase. I'm one of the senior partners here."

"Yes, nice to meet you, Mr. Chase." They shook hands.

"Oh, please, call me Brad."

"If you wish." She didn't like him. He was too pretty, too finely chiseled.

"So you're working for Alan Shore, right?"

"Yes. I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude, but I'm kind of in a hurry."

"Oh, sorry. I don't want to keep you. I just wanted you to know that if you ever need anything, ever have, say, an issue with Alan, don't hesitate to let us know. He's been known to be something of a letch."

Miranda studied Brad, attempting to gauge his sincerity. There was something not right.

Alan appeared seemingly from thin air, "Hello, Bradley. Staying late tonight?" He assisted Miranda with her coat.

"Hey Alan," Brad smiled. "I was just introducing myself to Miranda."

"Already on a first name basis with her, too, I see. Impressive. She must really like you. Do you like him, Ms. Houston?"

Miranda smiled uncomfortably. There was obvious friction between these two men that she did not want to be pulled into.

Brad cocked his head in irritation.

Miranda looked between the two men, "Gentleman, I would really love to stay and play, but I'm..."

"Well, I'm just curious, Ms. Houston," Alan said. "What is it that Brad could have been warning you about?"

Alan leveled a challenging stare at Brad.

"This whole Alpha male thing you two have is all very National Geographic, and most interesting. I would love to see how it turns out, but I have to go. Alan, see you in the morning. Brad, nice to meet you."

She rushed off, leaving the two men to stare at one another. Brad smiled and said, "See you around, Alan. Good luck."

Alan watched him walk away, masking his irritation with Brad. He didn't care about how the bet turned out, but he did care about eventually winning Miranda—for however long he could or would hold on to her.

Alan found Denny in the usual spot—the balcony.

"It's about time you showed up. I've been waiting all night."

"Denny, it's 6:30."

"Well, felt like all night."

Alan sat in his chair, wrapping his coat around him. "It's almost too cold to sit out here."

"Almost." Denny poured Alan a scotch while Alan lit his cigar. Denny leaned back in his chair and took a long drag off his cigar, releasing the smoke slowly. "Ever notice how much clearer the sky is at night when it's cold outside? Look at all those stars."

Alan looked up, "That's one of the things I appreciate about you, Denny."

"What's that?"

"You remind me of the world outside of myself. Because of you I have a deeper appreciation for nature than I ever did before. I may even become quite avid."

"You're not going to turn into one of those environmentalists are you?"

"I don't know."

"I hope not; they're a pain in the ass."

"How can you appreciate nature the way you do and not like environmentalists?"

"Because they don't have any appreciation for humanity; they have no balance. They would rather save some African dung beetle instead of digging up land to lay irrigation lines to grow crops. Or they would rather save some whale rather than save the jobs and the livelihoods of the men and their families who depend on those whales."

"But surely you recognize that the earth has a delicate ecological system—that losing one thing could throw it all out of balance; that would not serve humanity either. The environmentalists are trying to keep our air and water clean in order to stave off diseases that result from pollutants. Surely you recognize that."

"It's the crazies I'm talking about."

Alan chuckled, leaned his head back and exhaled. "I was reading an article last night about the declining bee population. Bees are on the verge of extinction because of toxic sprays, viruses—they think maybe even cell phones and towers are contributory. Denny, do you realize that if we lose the bees our plants won't get pollinated; the plants that produce our food will not produce, plants our livestock survive on won't grow; it stands to reason that the human race would only survive a year or two without bees. Bees, Denny!"

"First the salmon now the bees. You are becoming one of those environmentalists."

Alan chuckled. "But I do agree with you that we need more balance. Less urban sprawl, less waste. More responsible use of all our resources."

A silence drifted between them.

"Oh!" Denny scooted to the edge of his seat, "Did you get the gift?"

"What gift? I looked all over my office and Miranda said she didn't see anything either. Are you sure you gave me a gift?"

"Yes! She's your gift."

Alan studied him and then it dawned on him, "Miranda? Miranda is my gift?"

"Yes," Denny said with a growl and lecherous look, "Do you like her? I picked her out myself… just for you."

"The best birthday gift I've ever received. She's magnificent. Thank you, Denny."

"Pissed off Shirley, but who cares? Piss 'em off every now and then, keeps them thinking about you. As long as they're thinking about you, you stay right here," he said, pointing at his head. "And here," he said pointing at his heart.

Alan laughed, taking a sip of his scotch.

"She's something, isn't she?" Denny said, puffing his cigar, looking up at the sky.

"Miranda or Shirley?"

"Both, actually."

"Yes they are." Alan looked out across the skyline, pensive.

"So you really like your gift."

"I love my gift. You have impeccable taste."

"So…have you opened your gift yet?" Denny said, leering. "I wanted to, but thought I should probably let you be the first."

"I am glad that you allowed me the opportunity to open my gift first. I hope it stays that way."

"Of course."

"She's got some body."

"Denny." Alan said, a mild warning in his voice.

Alan reflected for a moment, "Her body is the least of her attributes."

"What do you mean?"

"She just has this indescribable quality of sincerity and sweetness mixed with sex appeal and allure—intelligence and playfulness. She makes me feel protective and predatory all at the same time; it's a new feeling, both thrilling and agitating, I'd like to savor that for a while."

"Sounds like you've gone soft."

Alan chuckled through a smoke ring.

"I'm anything but soft," Denny said, mostly to himself. "Took my little blue pill."

"Hands off, Denny," Alan warned.

"What kind of flamingo are you?"

"A contented one," Alan looked at him steadily, "I have a best friend who has adorned my life with a beautiful gift—putting the happiness of his flamingo before his own desires; it's a rarity to have such a friend—that's the best gift of all."

"Well, happy birthday, flamingo. Glad I helped to make it happy for you."

"You, did, Denny; you did, indeed." They touched their glasses together in a toast of friendship.