Stanley Wiley's father had founded Wiley & Beck in 1949. Beck had been dead so long now no one knew exactly why his name was still on the door. Had a nice ring to it-Wiley & Beck-and, too, it would be expensive to change the stationery and such. For an accounting firm that had been around for half a century, the amazing thing was how little it had grown. There were a dozen partners in tax, including Luther, and twenty or so in auditing. Their clients were mid-range companies that couldn't afford the national accounting firms.
If Stanley Wiley'd had more ambition, some thirty years earlier, the old firm might possibly have caught the wave and become a force. But he hadn't, and it didn't, and now it pretended to be content by calling itself a "boutique firm."
Just as Luther was planning another quick departure for another sprint to the mall, Stanley materialized from nowhere with a long sandwich, lettuce hanging off the sides. "Got a minute?" he said with a mouthful. He was already sitting before Luther could say yes or no or can it be quick? He wore silly bow ties and usually had a variety of stains on his blue button-downs-ink, mayonnaise, coffee. Stanley was a slob, his office a notorious landfill where documents and files were lost for months. "Try Stanley's office" was the firm's slogan for paperwork that would never be found.
"I hear you're not going to be at the Christmas dinner tomorrow night," he said, still chewing. Stanley liked to roam the halls at lunch with a sandwich in one hand, a soda in the other, as if he were too busy for a real lunch.
"I'm eliminating a lot of things this year, Stanley, no offense to anyone," Luther said.
"So it's true."
"It's true. We will not be there."
Stanley swallowed with a frown, then examined the sandwich in search of the next bite. He was the managing partner, not the boss. Luther'd been a partner for six years. No one at Wiley & Beck could force him to do anything.
"Sorry to hear that. Jayne will be disappointed."
"I'll drop her a note," Luther said. It wasn't a terrible evening-a nice dinner at an old restaurant downtown, in a private room upstairs, good food, decent wines, a few speeches, then a band and dancing until late. Black tie, of course, and the ladies tried hard to one-up each other with dresses and jewelry. Jayne Wiley was a delightful woman who deserved a lot more than she got with Stanley.
"Any particular reason?" Stanley asked, prying just a little.
"We're skipping the whole production this year, Stanley, no tree, no gifts, no hassle. Saving the money and taking a cruise for ten days. Blair's gone, we need a break. I figure we'll catch up rather nicely next year, or if not, the year after."
"It does come every year, doesn't it?"
"It does indeed."
"I see you're losing weight."
"Ten pounds. The beaches are waiting."
"You look great, Luther. Tanning, I hear."
"Trying a darker shade, yes. I can't let the sun get the best of me."
A huge bite of the ham-on-baguette, with strands of lettuce trailing along and hanging between the lips. Then movement: "Not a bad idea, really." Or something like that.
Stanley's idea of a vacation was a week in his beach house, a hand-me-down in which he had invested nothing in thirty years. Luther and Nora had spent one dreadful week there, guests of the Wileys, who took the main bedroom and put the Kranks in the "guest suite," a narrow room with bunk beds and no air conditioning. Stanley'd knocked back gin and tonics from midmorning until late afternoon and the sun never touched his skin.
He left, his cheeks full, but before Luther could escape, Yank Slader darted in. "Up to fifty-two hundred bucks, old boy," he announced. "With no end in sight. Abigail just spent six hundred bucks on a dress for the Christmas dinner, don't know why she couldn't wear the one from last year or the year before, but why argue? Shoes were a buck-forty. Purse another ninety. Closets're full of purses and shoes, but don't get me started. We'll top seven grand at this rate. Please let me go on the cruise."
Inspired by Luther, Yank was keeping a precise tally on the Christmas damage. Twice a week he dashed in for updates. What he would do with the results was uncertain. Most likely nothing, and he knew it. "You're my hero," he said again, and left as quickly as he'd arrived.
They're all envious, Luther thought to himself. At this moment, crunch time with only a week to go, and the holiday madness growing each day, they're all jealous as hell. Some, like Stanley, were reluctant to admit it. Others, like Yank, were downright proud of Luther.
Too late to tan. Luther walked to his window and enjoyed the view of a cold rain falling on the city. Gray skies, barren trees, a few leaves scattering with the wind, traffic backed up on the streets in the distance. How lovely, he thought smugly. He patted his flat stomach, then went downstairs and had a diet soda with Biff, the travel agent.

At the buzzer, Nora bolted from the BronzeMat and grabbed a towel. Sweating was not something she particularly enjoyed, and she wiped herself with a vengeance.
She was wearing a very small red bikini, one that had looked great ............