The Dinosaur Club Read online

  “I remember.”

  “Well, I never really needed anything more than that. Not me, personally.” He tried a smile; felt it fail. “Then, after the kids, we had that small first house. And that was great. Really as much as any family needed.” He waved the hand that held the drink, taking in the twenty-by-twenty bedroom. “Who the hell needs a bedroom this big?” he asked. “I mean, what the hell do you do in a bedroom that requires something almost half the size of a tennis court?”

  A small smile played across Samantha’s lips, and she had a sudden urge to show Fallon just what could be done in an oversized bedroom. Was it pity? She suddenly wasn’t sure. It was certainly inappropriate, given the work she was now doing for Carter. She squeezed his hand again, wondering if she could bear to deliver the next telling blow the man would receive. “No one needs it, Jack,” she said.

  “No, they don’t. It’s all stuff. Every last bit of it. The house, every damned thing that’s in it. Houses like this aren’t because people need them. They’re to show everybody else that they can have them.” He shook his head. “And so I keep asking myself why I’m so pissed off. And I keep asking why Trisha needs all the stuff she took.”

  “Maybe Trisha feels that losing her didn’t mean very much to you,” Samantha offered. “Maybe by taking everything—all your joint possessions—she’s trying to make you feel that you really did lose something.”

  Fallon stared at her, blinked again. Then his eyes took on a far-off look. “Maybe,” he said. “And maybe she was right.”

  Fallon renewed his offer of dinner. He wanted to thank Samantha for her help, and he also wanted to find out just where she stood in Carter Bennett’s downsizing scenario.

  They dined in a small French restaurant in the center of town. It was gracious and subdued with candlelit tables covered in starched linen. It was also nearly empty, with only two other couples seated at the other end of the dining area. The day had taken on a funereal feel, and as they settled in over coffee, he was momentarily reluctant to place another dark subject between them. But he had to know.

  “Look, there’s something I want to ask you about,” he began. He stared into his coffee, as though it might tell him how to proceed.

  “I heard something on the corporate grapevine that involves you. It was about a request you supposedly made to human resources, asking for a breakdown of employees by age group.”

  Now Samantha looked into her coffee, but said nothing.

  “It’s no secret that the company is looking to downsize,” he continued. “It’s also no secret that employees in a certain age group are usually the hardest hit when that happens. I understand the financial thinking behind that. I don’t agree with it, but I understand it.”

  Samantha looked up. “Is that why you broke our dinner date?”

  He nodded, then added, “Yeah, that’s the reason. I guess I felt …” He hesitated, looking for the right words. “… Insecure about seeing someone who might be involved in something that could end up cutting my financial throat. Or the throats of people I care about.”

  He saw her stiffen at the imagery, and immediately regretted it.

  “Then why did you agree to me coming with you today?” she asked.

  A small smile formed, then faded from his lips. “I decided I wanted to talk to you about it. I also thought I might need your help with the movers and all. Those moving guys can be pretty tough. I thought you could help me throw them out the door.” He smiled again, hesitated again. “And I very much wanted to see you.” The final words came hard, made him feel suddenly vulnerable.

  “I wanted to see you again, too, Jack. It’s why I came to your office. I tried to deny it, but that was the reason.”

  He felt a wash of relief. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “I can’t, Jack. Other than what you already know.” She shook her head. “They could fire me if I did, and they’d be justified. I’m a lawyer, and they’re my client. I owe them confidentiality.” She paused. “Believe me, I wish I could.”

  “Do you know if I’m on their hit list, or if any of my people are?”

  “As far as I know, there is no final list yet—not one I’ve seen, anyway. I don’t think the plan has even been approved by the board. But I think it’s close to happening.”

  “Will you tell me if, and when, you find out?”

  She shook her head again. “I don’t know.” She raised her eyes to meet his. “I’ll want to, but I don’t know if I will. That’s as honest as I can be, Jack.”

  He nodded. “Can you tell me how many people they’re talking about?”

  Samantha closed her eyes, then looked at him again. “You’re making this very hard for me.”

  “I know. But I can’t help it. Having information is the only way I’ll know what to do.”

  She looked away, then drew a deep breath. “They’re talking about one third of the workforce—about three thousand people.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Please don’t repeat where you heard that. Just talking to you could put me in front of the bar association’s disciplinary committee.”

  He seemed not to have heard. “Those bastards.”

  “Jack?”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t say anything.” His face had darkened and his voice had a bitter edge. “Wouldn’t it be ironic if you were accused of an ethics violation for telling me about something that was so morally repugnant?”

  Samantha bristled. “That’s not fair, Jack. I’m a lawyer. I’m doing what I’m paid to do. I’m giving legal advice.”

  His own anger flared. “That has the uncomfortable sound of someone who’s just following orders.”

  “You’re out of line,” Samantha snapped. “The other day you told me about problems with the fiber-optics line we make. But you’re still out there trying to sell it, even though you know it’s technically flawed.”

  “We’re trying to fix the flaws,” he snapped back. “These bastards are setting out to disrupt people’s lives—in some cases to destroy those lives. And their victims haven’t done a damned thing to deserve it.” He drew a breath, shook his head. “Look, okay, I know it’s not your fault, that you’re not behind it. And maybe I’d feel differently if I didn’t feel the noose tightening around my own neck—or the necks of people I care about. But, God, I hope not.”

  “Damn it, Jack. I told you I was ambitious. I will not make excuses for the work I do.” Samantha swallowed, still feeling the sting of rebuke. “And it could be worse. Understand that.” She drew a breath, then continued. “A while back the U.S. Supreme Court handed down a decision against a company named Massey-Ferguson that pulled off an even cruder downsizing plan. Massey-Ferguson was saddled with several divisions that were losing money and long-term employee-benefit packages that they considered a financial burden. But they didn’t want to terminate those benefits and face the fallout. So they developed a plan they called Project Sunshine. They set up a new company—Massey Combines—then sent fifteen hundred employees over to run it. They transferred all their benefits from the old company to the new one. They also transferred the benefits of four thousand employees who had already retired, along with the other debt of their unprofitable divisions. The new company was set up to fail. It never had a chance, and it went belly-up two years later, just as everyone knew it would.” She snapped her fingers. “And all those employees were gone, and they got nothing. No buyout, no extension of health insurance. Nothing. And those who had already retired lost most of their benefits as well.” She paused again, allowing it to sink in. “At least Waters Cable is prepared to buy everyone out.”

  Fallon snorted. “Only because they know everybody has gotten wise to so-called downsizing. They know they’d be hammered if they didn’t.”

  Samantha closed her eyes, then looked at him again. “That’s true. And for other reasons.” She hesitated, not certain how far she wanted to go. “I’ve run the figures, Jack. Just using an average salary of thirty thousand doll
ars, plus another thirty percent for the cost of benefits, a one-third reduction in the workforce will save the company one hundred and seventeen million dollars a year. In most cases they’ll pay the cost of their buyout in less than the first year, and after that the savings will be pure profit. And that’s all they’re after. Increased profit. It’s how they see their job. Their only job.” She shook her head again. “Damn it, I find it just as morally repugnant as you do. But there’s nothing I can do about it. I wish there were.” She picked up her coffee, then put it down again, untouched. “I shouldn’t be telling you any of this.”

  He reached across and took her hand. “I know you shouldn’t.” He smiled, trying to soften everything he had said. “Hell, I didn’t mean to make you sound Machiavellian. Thanks for what you did tell me.”

  She looked down at his hand on hers. “I hope you’re not hurt by this, Jack. I really mean that.”

  “I know you do. But I’m afraid that may be unavoidable.”

  Fallon offered to drive her back to the city, but Samantha insisted on the train. She wanted time alone to think, to sort out her thoughts and feelings.

  At the station he seemed nervous. He shifted his feet, almost like a teenager struggling for words.

  “Look,” he said. “I’m sorry about today. All of it. My crazy marital situation, all the things going on in the company.” He touched her arm lightly. “I don’t know if it’s possible, or if you even want to, but I’d like to put all of it aside and just see you.”

  “The day was fine, Jack. And the awkward parts weren’t your fault.”

  “No, the day sucked,” he said. “But I’d like another chance at it.” He paused again, toed the station platform. “Look, I’d love it if you could come out this weekend. We could cook some steaks in the backyard, go for a drive, do whatever you’d like. Just spend some time together.”

  A small smile played at the corners of Samantha’s mouth. “Are you talking about the day, or the weekend?” she asked.

  Fallon seemed to gulp, widening her smile. “Well, the weekend would be terrific,” he said, then rushed on. “I mean you could stay in one of the kids’ rooms. I wouldn’t expect you to …”

  Samantha touched his arm, cutting him off. “I’d love to, Jack.” She leaned up, kissed him softly. “I’ll get a train schedule in New York and let you know which one I’ll be on.”

  Fallon stared at her, a small smile playing on his own lips now. “I promise you it’ll be different.”

  The train pulled into the station, and Samantha took his arm again. “Take tomorrow morning off,” she said. “Go see a lawyer. Get a real killer—because that’s the type your wife will hire. You can bet on it!”

  6

  THE LAW OFFICES OF ARTHUR C. GRISHAM, ESQ., WERE located just off the Village Green, a rectangular square of public grass where the inhabitants of Bedford gathered periodically to celebrate patriotic events and summer band concerts. Fallon, whose civic involvement began and ended at the train station, hadn’t set foot on its well-manicured lawn in four years.

  He also had never really noticed Grisham’s office, lawyers being relegated in his mind to real estate closings and wills. But the office was far from hidden. Grisham’s legal lair took up the entire first floor of a vintage Victorian house set behind an encircling white picket fence, with an oversized shingle hung from a post, intoning the attorney’s presence.

  After putting Samantha on the train, Fallon had contacted several local friends who had endured recent divorces. Grisham had represented the former wives of two, and each had told Fallon to hire the man, whom they alternately described as a shark, and a backstabbing bloodsucker. “Get to him before Trisha does, Jack,” the more vehement friend had urged. “Otherwise you’ll find yourself sitting in court while that cocksucker Grisham feasts on your flesh.”

  Fallon entered the office half expecting to find ghoulish cobwebs draped around well-used candles. Instead he found a sedate waiting room, dominated by a middle-aged woman seated behind a polished mahogany desk.

  The woman, about forty, Fallon guessed, viewed him with open suspicion through rhinestone-studded glasses, shaped incredibly like the eyes of a voracious jungle cat.

  “You’re here for a deposition?” she asked. The woman spoke behind one arched eye, with the wary tone of a gatekeeper who had handled many a troublesome visitor in her time.

  “No. At least I don’t think so,” Fallon said. He tried a smile. “My name’s Fallon. I called for an appointment earlier this morning.”

  The woman’s face suddenly changed—would have become benignly maternal had the cat’s eyes not intruded. She offered a now consoling smile. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I remember now. You’re taking Attorney Grisham’s cancellation. I thought you were here to see one of the associates. They do most of our defendant depositions.” She took a clipboard from her otherwise uncluttered desk and handed it to Fallon. “Please have a seat, and fill out this financial questionnaire. Attorney Grisham will need the information when he consults with you.”

  Fallon smiled at her use of the formal title—attorney—then took a chair. The clipboard had a cheap ballpoint pen attached—held in place by a long, beaded chain. Attorney Grisham wasn’t about to suffer any felonious theft of his Bics, Fallon decided. He placed the clipboard on his lap and glanced about the office. The reception area was also inexpensively, though comfortably, furnished, with an assortment of upholstered, institutional chairs, and an eclectic collection of frame-shop lithographs hung from the walls. There was only one other waiting client, a woman seated to Fallon’s right, and she glared at him as though he were some recently revealed child molester. Fallon fixed his eyes on the clipboard, certain the woman would scream for the police if he so much as blinked.

  Grisham’s questionnaire didn’t seek much—only every financial fact about Fallon’s life: real estate, stocks, bonds, IRAs, 401-Ks, bank accounts, pension and medical benefits, credit-card limits, club memberships, and a detailed accounting of all indebtedness, including judgments, liens, mortgages, and assignments. Fallon suddenly wondered if he was getting a divorce or trying to buy a Rolls-Royce from the lover of Wally’s ex-wife.

  Ten minutes after he had finished detailing his innermost financial secrets, the door to Grisham’s office opened, revealing a thirtyish woman, hankie in hand, with a tall, slender, hawk-nosed man firmly attached to one elbow. The man, attired in a gray three-piece suit, offered muttered final words, several consoling nods, and a look that said: Fear not, we shall impale your wayward husband in due course.

  As the woman left, Grisham paused in the door, smiled confidently at the other who was still waiting, then turned his gaze on Fallon. It was a look a bird of prey might give a wounded rabbit, Fallon thought, and he struggled for a neutral expression. The receptionist saved him.

  “This is Mr. Fallon, your ten o’clock.”

  Grisham’s eyes immediately softened, and he smiled broadly. “Come in, Mr. Fallon, and tell me how I can help you.”

  Fallon followed his lanky form into a spacious office, furnished in rich walnut and leather and set off by a massive fireplace and a wall-sized bookcase filled with legal tomes.

  Grisham slipped into his executive desk chair, quickly perused the clipboard the receptionist had handed him, then looked back at Fallon.

  “Well, you seem financially sound,” he began, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each syllable. “That’s bad.”

  “It is?” Fallon said.

  “Well, it’s good for me, because you’ll be able to pay your bill.” A small chuckle. “And it’s good for your soon-to-be-ex wife because there will be plucking potential.” A regretful shrug. “But for you, not so good, unless I can come to the rescue.” Grisham rubbed his long-fingered hands together like a man preparing for a feast. “Tell me the particulars of this affair,” he urged, Adam’s apple bobbing expectantly. “Start at the beginning, and bring me up to the present.”

  Fallon began as instructed—starting with hi
s and Trisha’s marriage twenty-four years ago; their early years together; Trisha’s decision to stop working when their first child was born; their typical middle-class struggle to buy a home, raise children, fight for some semblance of modest affluence. It all sounded trite and commonplace, and, he thought, more than a little boring, and he wondered how you told someone, how you explained the joyful times of it all, or if they ever really existed. When he reached the point about Howard, he discovered a surprising reluctance to discuss it. Wounded pride? An attack against his own sense of manhood? He forced himself through it, as openly and honestly as he could, on down to Trisha’s move to the Manhattan condo, and the subsequent invasion of his home by the movers, even his own petty anger at finding his possessions—his stuff—suddenly gone. Now this stranger would be arbiter and potential savior in Fallon’s parsimonious battle to save his stuff and his resources. It left Fallon feeling sick.

  “So, she ran off with a mutual tennis friend.” A small smile played on Grisham’s lips. “And am I to be given to understand that you’ve been served no papers yet?”

  “That’s right,” Fallon said. He could taste his meager breakfast in his mouth.

  “Do you know if Dr. Nowicki’s wife has filed against him, or if she’s engaged counsel?”

  There was a glitter in Grisham’s soft brown eyes, and Fallon was certain that Arthur the bloodsucker was now considering Howard’s plucking potential, and the possibility of playing a part in it.

  “I have no idea,” Fallon said.

  Grisham drummed his fingers on the desk. “I shall contact her,” he said. He gave Fallon a sly wink. “She may prove beneficial to us.” He raised a knowing finger. “Especially if she’s engaged a private investigator to document this adultery. It could save us the expense.”

  Bile rose to meet Fallon’s breakfast. “I don’t want to get involved in that,” Fallon snapped. “We have kids. I don’t want them sitting in court, listening to details about who their mother was screwing. Thinking their father sent some peep out to document all of it.” He shook his head. “I mean she’s done it. Quite openly. I can’t see how all that other stuff matters.”