Practice to Deceive Read Online Free Page A

defeat.
    “You’re kinda cute, you know that?” Desirée giggled. “You kids should go home. It’s almost closing time,” she announced and shut the door.
    “The woman has gone goofy,” I told Cynthia.
    “She’ll get over it,” she said, putting her feet up on her desk. She was wearing black slacks and a white turtleneck under a black linen jacket. Those were the only colors Cynthia ever wore: black and white. She had hired a woman to choose a wardrobe for her, to devise a “look,” and this is what she came up with. She had hired another to do her hair and makeup; another to teach her poise, elocution, and what books to read; and another to decorate her office and home. She was a self-made woman, my Cynthia.
    Our eyes locked. She smiled at me and I smiled at her. As is becoming increasingly frequent with us, we found ourselves thinking the same thing at the same time.
    “You’ve come a long way since the psychiatric ward at Lake Memorial,” I told her.
    “Seems like a long way.” She paused a moment and then added, “Sometimes I wonder why I’m not dead.”
    “Divine intervention,” I told her.
    “Think so?”
    “Either that or the old saying is true: Only the good die young.”
    “Then I should live forever.”
    “God, I hope so.”
    That’s when Cynthia went serious on me. It was like someone flipped a light switch. “I’m worried,” she said. “I’ve been worried ever since we accepted the settlement.”
    “About what?”
    “Is my … wealth … going to affect our relationship?”
    “Absolutely.”
    “It is?” She seemed frightened.
    “I expect to be entertained at a much finer class of restaurant for one thing.”
    “Oh?” she said. “Will you wear a tie?”
    “If you’re buying, I’ll wear a tie.”
    “And dress pants and shoes instead of jeans and sneakers?”
    “You’re becoming awfully demanding.”
    “I can afford it.”
    “Sure, dress pants and shoes.”
    “I’m serious.”
    “So am I,” I said, only I wasn’t and she was. It’s a failing of mine, not taking seriously what others deem terribly important. Her sigh told me that our conversation wasn’t going the way she’d hoped, and the hurt look in her eyes … I had put it there. The moment called for a show of sincerity, and I wasn’t very good at that. But I tried.
    “Listen,” I told her, “you’re good at your job, one of the best in this market, maybe the entire country. And you’re paid accordingly. Sure, you could make more money working for one of the bigger law firms, get yourself a corner office, but you’d lose your freedom. Me? I’m also good at my job, one of the best in this market, maybe the entire country. And I’m paid accordingly. Sure, I could make more money working for one of the bigger PI firms, but I’d lose my freedom.
    “What I’m trying to say is, you and I are a lot alike—professionally, I mean. We both enjoy what we do, we both care about what we do. The only difference is that the practice of law is more lucrative than my chosen profession, at least for those who do it well. I’m happy doing what I do. I wouldn’t be happy doing what you do. Money doesn’t enter into it. I’m saying this badly, I know,” I said.
    “No, you’re not,” Cynthia told me.
    “I don’t care about the money; I never have,” I added. “You know how I live. I drive a 1979 Monza, for God’s sake. It’s not the money, it’s the caring that matters to me. If you became just an empty suit chasing bucks, that would make a difference. Getting rich? Who cares? Well, I care; I’m really happy for you. It’s great. It’s just that …” I paused. “If the money doesn’t change you, it won’t change us. OK?”
    “OK,” she said. She seemed relieved. “Anyway, what I said last night about being filthy, stinking rich isn’t exactly true, what with taxes.…”
    “And bonuses,” I volunteered.
    “Yeah, and bonuses. I’m not so much rich as I am really, really, really well