The Undertaker by William Brown

another dull-eyed, security guard, an almost perfect clone of the guy down on the first floor. Flashing past one guard was easy. Doing it a second time? That was pushing my luck.
    As I stood there for a moment debating, the fellow with the file folders got off behind me. He didn't turn right toward the glass doors. Instead, he turned left and headed toward a plain metal fire door set in the wall at the opposite end of the lobby. It had an electronic key pad fastened to the wall and a large magnetic lock set above the header. We had one of these on our rear service entrance in LA and an elephant couldn't pull the door open once the magnet had engaged. I watched the intern balancing the file folders on a raised thigh with one hand, while he reached for the key pad with the other, so I made the snap decision to follow him.
    “Dude, you're going to drop those things. Here, let me help you,” I volunteered.
    “Thanks man. I should've gone back for a cart, but I ducked out for a smoke and ran out of time.”
    “Been there,” I told him as I reached to help him with the files.
    “I got these,” he said. “Just pull the door open,” he nodded at the handle.
    “Isn't it locked?”
    “Shit, these damned things never work.”
    He was right. The door swung open as if there was no lock at all. “Some security system,” I smiled.
    “Yeah, but I'm not complaining,” he answered as I followed him inside. “I fight 'em all day long on this floor and most of the others, but it beats going all the way around through the big lobby and getting hassled by the gargoyles and gatekeepers.”
    “Tell me about it, man. Try to deliver a sandwich before it gets cold.”
    “Yeah, half the time the keypads got the codes wrong and the other half some secretary's stuck her gum in the lock so she can take a short cut to the john.”
    “Speaking of sandwiches, is Mr. Tinkerton's office still in the back corner?” I asked, figuring the headman's office is always back in the far corner.
    “Last time I looked. “First star to the right and straight on 'til morning.” You can't miss it,”
    “Thanks, man, I'll have three deliveries done and be gone before they even know I was here.”
    “Well, if they catch you, don't tell them how you got in.”
    “No sweat. And thanks,” I said as I turned the corner and strode off down the perimeter corridor, head-up, whistling as if I belonged there. The office decor was a very classy light gray with dark gray accents, thick carpet, large partitioned workstations, can lights in the ceiling, colorful framed prints on the walls, big leafy plants, and computers everywhere. Around the perimeter, glass-fronted offices ran around the window walls, each one with a small, engraved brass nameplate on the door, probably arranged in some pecking order by size and view according to rank and seniority. The secretaries, clerks, and younger associates were stuck with the cubicles in the middle. Glass or cube, everybody was out in plain view. When you're billing by the hour, you don't want half the staff spending their time on fantasy football. I wondered which cubes belonged to the two associates who watched the moving van up on Sedgwick a couple of days ago.
    Both the offices and cubicles were nicely furnished, with cherry-wood desks, credenzas, and armchairs, but the desks got successively larger as one went from the small cubicles to the larger ones, to the perimeter and on to the corner offices. In each corner sat a larger office: more like a suite, with its own reception area and a side conference room. Probably for the general partners, I thought.
    In the far corner, I saw an even larger suite that must be the cave of the Managing Partner. Guarding the approach was a huge, fortress-like desk complete with its own resident Troll to ward off the uninvited. Her graying hair was cut short and straight. She wore only the faintest hint of make-up and a conservative, dark-blue business suit, just like the lawyers.