The Dinosaur Club Page 14

  Bennett remained silent. Waters offered up another smile.

  “Not to be concerned, Carter. Not about me.” Another pause. “But I might point out that if my people can spot this purchase, so can the SEC. I suggest you have your cousin sell off her stock, then repurchase it in—shall we say—a more secure manner.”

  Bennett nodded, tried to appear at ease. His body had coiled like a spring with Waters’s little bombshell—due more to the exposure of his own stupidity than to any fear of the man seated across from him. No, Waters was no threat. Good old Charlie had his own skeleton to hide—quite different, but there all the same—and Bennett knew that alone would keep him safe. But the stupidity of his action still rankled. It had been born out of arrogance, and there was no excuse for it.

  “I’ll speak to my cousin today,” he said.

  “That’s probably a very good idea,” Waters said.

  Fallon had spent the remainder of the day dealing with bankers, stockbrokers, and credit-card companies, just as Arthur C. Grisham had decreed. It had started badly at his bank, where he found that Trisha had already closed out their joint checking and money market accounts to the tune of nine thousand dollars, leaving only five thousand in CDs that would not mature for another month. She had also made application for a sixty-thousand-dollar loan against 80 percent of the equity in their home. But the application had required both their signatures and lay stalled on the loan officer’s desk. Fallon subjected it to a quick and painless death. But the credit-card company was a different story. The one card in both their names—which he had paid off a month earlier—had been maxed out to the tune of ten thousand dollars in a combination of purchases and cash advances. Trisha had not yet made it to the stockbroker, however—although she had telephoned, asking about balances in those accounts—and Fallon immediately closed out each and reopened them solely in his own name. Out of eighty-six thousand dollars in savings, he had managed to safeguard seventy-five, along with the equity in his home. But only temporarily, he told himself, and only by the skin of your now grinding teeth. That, and the perverse but accurate wisdom of Arthur C. Grisham, professional bloodsucker. And even with those efforts, he still faced ten thousand dollars of unanticipated debt on his and Trisha’s credit card.

  Fallon sat in his car outside a local dry-cleaning establishment. It was four-thirty in the afternoon, and he had never made it to his office; had never found time to eat lunch; had never taken the time to think about the one bright prospect in his immediate future—the planned weekend visit by Samantha Moore. The day’s experiences had played through a myriad of conflicting moods. Depression had ruled as he had entered the bank, still questioning the need to protect himself from a woman with whom he had raised two children. But those depressing doubts had quickly turned to blistering rage when he had found himself nearly bereft of funds. At the stockbroker’s office he had enjoyed a certain vindictive glee, but that had quickly changed to visions of murder and mayhem when the credit-card company had informed him he was ten thousand dollars in hock.

  Now he felt bruised, battered, and beaten, and still faced with one more stupid incident in the ever downward spiraling vicissitudes of his middle-aged life.

  Fallon entered the dry-cleaning shop carrying the suit coat he had picked up three days earlier. Upon arriving home that day, he had found three of the four buttons on the left sleeve missing or mangled, and the fourth dangling by a thread. He handed the jacket to the rather dull-eyed young woman who stood behind the counter.

  “It seems your pressing machine ate the buttons on my coat,” he said. “I’d like them replaced.”

  The young woman took hold of the sleeve, studied it, then compared it to the other, as if to be certain that missing, mangled, and dangling buttons were not the intended style. Then she looked up and smiled uncertainly.

  “That’ll be two dollars per button,” she said.

  Fallon stared at her. “I don’t think you understand,” he said. “You people did this. And I would like you to correct it. Not charge me to repair a coat you damaged.”

  “You’ll have to speak to the manager,” the young woman said.

  Fallon gritted his teeth, nodded, but the woman just stood there, rooted to the floor.

  “Is he here?” Fallon asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you get him?”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  The woman returned a few minutes later with a short, sallow, equally dull-eyed man, wearing a white shirt that had one central button missing. He has his shirts done here, Fallon decided.

  “Is there a problem?” the man asked.

  Fallon looked from the man, to the woman, to the coat the man now held, and wondered if a home for the severely retarded had recently gone belly-up and spewed its patients into the world of dry cleaning.

  “The problem is in your hand,” he said, struggling to keep his voice even and controlled.

  “Well, we can fix it, but we have to charge you,” the man said.

  He was about thirty, Fallon guessed, and he fought off a sudden urge to see that the man never saw another birthday. Instead, he blew out a long breath.

  “I don’t think you understand,” Fallon said. He was close to speaking through his teeth now. “You mashed the buttons. I want you to fix them. And I don’t think I should pay for it.”

  The manager let out a beleaguered sigh. “I guess you never noticed our sign,” he said. He raised his chin, indicating something to the rear and above Fallon’s head.

  Fallon turned, found the sign high on the wall. He would have noticed it, without question—had he ever exited the store on stilts. It read: WE ARE NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR LOST OR DAMAGED BUTTONS.

  Fallon turned back and offered the man an icy smile. “Never saw it,” he said. “But I guess you never read the sign on my car. I’ve probably driven in and out of here too quickly.” The smile became wider, slightly insane now. “My sign says, ‘I throw rocks through store windows late at night.’” He leaned on the counter, bringing his face to within a foot of the manager. “Fix the goddamned coat,” he snapped. “I’ll be back for it tomorrow.”

  Two blocks away, stopped at a traffic light, Fallon leaned his head against the driver’s headrest. You have lost your mind, he told himself. You are around the bend. Just one more step on the slippery slope to Shady Pines.

  The stoplight changed, and a horn behind him immediately blasted. Fallon spun around and glared through the rear window, ready to kill. The driver was an old woman—eighty, if a day. She glared back, then defiantly raised the middle finger of one hand.

  “Oh, my God,” Fallon said. His mind began to shout at him. Go home, Fallon. Go home and lie down before you hurt yourself. He spun back to the steering wheel and drove off.

  7

  SAMANTHA ARRIVED ON THE NOON TRAIN, FALLON THERE to meet her. She was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, a red headband across her forehead, and she stood out vividly among the arriving passengers. She smiled when she saw him, and his spirits—still battered by domestic woes—immediately soared. She looked bright and beautiful, and the small suitcase she carried left only a solitary doubt in his mind: Why in hell is she here … with you?

  They ate brunch in a typical suburban restaurant—what Fallon referred to as a Fem Palace—lingering over Bloody Marys and laughing at Samantha’s story about an elderly man who had attempted to pick her up on the train. Fallon wondered how much more elderly the man was than he, certain the entire restaurant was staring suspiciously at this unlikely pairing.

  He fought it off, told himself their fourteen-year age difference was not extraordinary, then launched into his own stories about The Residence at Willow Run, the great Indianapolis 500 run there via walker and wheelchair, and about the three women and their dotty debate about Don Ho’s imagined malady. Samantha laughed and urged him to tell more stories about the place.

  “Does your mother like it there?” she asked.

  Fallon let out an exaggerated sigh. “There
is not a place on this earth that Kitty Fallon approves of,” he said.

  “Oh,” Samantha said. “You have one of those, too.”

  They lingered further over lunch, telling stories about their families and parental struggles that continued into adulthood. It left them each with a warm sense of intimacy, and when they finally left, Samantha slipped her arm into his. “So, Jack Fallon, what do you have planned for me this weekend?” she asked.

  Fallon felt his face color, bringing an immediate smile to Samantha’s lips. “Do you know you’re blushing?” she asked.

  “Yes, damn it,” he said. “Next I’ll break out in pimples.”

  She squeezed his arm against hers. “Don’t,” she said. “I never date guys with pimples. Or tattoos.”

  “Thank God I don’t have any tattoos,” he said.

  She looked at him impishly. “That’s what they all say.”

  The implication was there, unspoken: A thorough inspection of his body might be required. Fallon thought about the first time he had seen her, dressed in a unitard, bending over the exercise bench in the company gym. It made his knees grow weak. He struggled for humor to ease the moment. “Maybe we could stop at the drugstore, and I could get some Clearasil,” he said.

  She bit her lip, fighting off laughter, thinking of what else he might buy there. Fallon caught the thought and blushed again.

  “Jesus,” he said. Then they both laughed.

  When they arrived at Fallon’s home another awkward moment emerged. Fallon stood in the foyer, Samantha’s suitcase in hand, trying to decide what the hell he should do with it. He knew what he wanted to do: simply place it in his room. It was honest, it fulfilled his hopes for that evening, but it was definitely presumptuous, possibly insulting. He decided to surrender to caution.

  He lifted the suitcase slightly. “Why don’t I take this upstairs and show you where the bath and everything is. Then you can unpack if you want.”

  Inside the guest room, he laid the suitcase on the bed, then opened the door to the bath. A second opened door led from the bath to his own bedroom.

  “The kids’ rooms are across the hall,” he said. “And they also have an adjoining bath. So, if you’d be more comfortable there …”

  A small smile toyed at the corners of Samantha’s mouth; then she turned to the suitcase. “No, this is fine, Jack. I’ll just unpack, and be down in a minute.”

  Fallon descended the stairs. Jesus, he thought. You’re like a kid, hoping to get laid for the first time. His mind flashed back to his first serious, lust-laden date. Sitting in a movie theater with Becky Ann Wallace—Becky Ann of the generous breasts and the pouting lower lip—his arm around her, feeling the silky smoothness of her angora sweater, imagining the hoped-for touch of the equally smooth skin cupped in her bra; his erection so hard and lasting and inconsolable that when they finally left the theater his testicles ached, making it difficult to walk.

  Then, two weeks later, alone together in the family room of her home, he had finally allowed his hand to stray to those swelling breasts, and Becky’s slender fingers had found their way to the bulge in his trousers, and he had ejaculated so quickly, only embarrassed terror had kept him rooted to the sofa. Even to this day, he would have sold his soul to escape the humiliation of that moment.

  Fallon busied himself opening a bottle of white wine; then he retreated to the patio. Samantha came down ten minutes later. Her hair was brushed and she had changed into loose-fitting slacks of yellow crimped cotton with a sleeveless matching top. The outfit was simple, comfortable, and—to Fallon—stunning, a far cry from the cliché business suits she wore in the office as a way of projecting herself as a serious professional.

  Fallon poured her a glass of wine and freshened his own. Samantha had taken to a chaise longue, legs crossed at the ankles.

  “If you’d like to take a drive later, and see some of the area, we could do that, then come back here and cook some steaks, or chicken, or whatever,” he said.

  She laid her head back; closed her eyes. Sunlight flooded her face. “The chicken sounds great, but if you don’t mind I’d just like a lazy, languorous weekend. It’s so good just being away from the heat of the city.”

  “Lazy and languorous are my best tricks,” he said. “I’ve raised it to a near art form.”

  Samantha opened one eye. “I doubt that, Jack Fallon. I’ve read up on you.”

  “You have? Where?”

  “The personnel records in our beloved Human Resources Department. There are some advantages to being deputy general counsel.” She felt a sudden rush of guilt at what she was not telling him, but put it aside for the moment.

  Fallon felt momentarily tense. He wondered if reading up on him involved the work she was doing for Bennett. But he had promised to put all that aside. “That’s not fair,” he said. “Now I have no secrets.”

  Both eyes opened this time, looking at him through a haze of sunlight. “Our personnel records aren’t that thorough,” she said. She let the innuendo slide. “Tell me about the war,” she said, changing tacks. “Even the brief summary I read made it sound pretty grim.”

  He inclined his head; thought about it. “It was indelible,” he said. “I wish I could say forgettable, but lot of it still floats back every now and then.”

  “What do you remember most about it?” she asked.

  He answered without hesitation. “The guys who didn’t make it.” He paused; remembering. “Each time something good happens in my life, I remember that it never had a chance to happen for someone else I once knew … intimately. And all because some overfed politicians wanted to play their little games.” He seemed to sense the bitterness in his voice and paused to let it pass. “But essentially I remember the fear,” he added. “Mine and everyone else’s. But mostly mine.”

  “It didn’t sound as though you were afraid,” she said. “Not with all the citations you were given.”

  He laughed. “Only every waking minute.”

  “Why did you go?” she finally asked. “So many didn’t.” She was watching him now, intent on his answer.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” he said. Another smile, weaker this time. “It seemed like a terrific idea when I was eighteen. Just like driving a car at ninety miles an hour seems like a great idea.” He raised his hands in a futile gesture. “After I was there, then I knew it was crazy.”

  Samantha bit her lower lip; continued to stare at him, thinking about what he’d said. “But you stayed for two tours, a year longer than you had to.”

  “Yes, I did. And that’s the scariest part.” His eyes were soft now; filled with regret.

  “But why?”

  Fallon looked out at the tree-filled yard; the flower beds Trisha had cultivated so carefully. He gave a small shrug. “I think it’s the war itself. It takes hold of you and won’t let go. Because it wants to kill you, too.” He shook his head. “You see, I just don’t know. And I’ve asked myself those same questions over and over for all these years. Especially why I went in the first place. I’ve even wondered if it was like not being able to pass a bad accident without slowing down and looking. Except this time I stopped the car and got out, even though I knew it wouldn’t help; that it was pointless.”

  Samantha continued to stare at him, wondered if he was avoiding the real answer. “Do you still have your medals?” she asked at length.

  Fallon nodded. “Someplace,” he said. “I thought about sending them back, but never did.” He gave an uncertain shrug. “When I got back, had time to think about everything, I was really ashamed of what my country had done there—what I did there. But it seemed like a pointless gesture, somehow. So I never did. I guess I decided that would still be running away—from the truth of it.”

  “It sounds very sad.”

  “Yeah, I guess it does. But that’s what wars are. Sad. With a heavy touch of unendurable stupidity.” He smiled across the patio, more genuinely this time. “And that’s why governments don’t try to recruit th
irty-year-olds. They need their fodder young and naive and certain of their immortality.”

  Samantha sighed. She looked across the lawn at the rich green trees and shrubs that encircled the patio, giving it the feel of a safe island. Fallon had just told her a sadly subtle story about why children were chosen to die, and she suddenly wondered if he had ever made a mental comparison between the military and the corporate world—if he understood the equally subtle similarity between one, which callously destroyed its children, and the other, which took them, used them up, then did the same when they were fifty.

  She studied her hands for a moment. “I was just wondering why thirty-year-olds don’t take the same attitude toward the companies they work for.” She looked up at him. “Do you think they should?”

  Fallon stared at her, wondered if there was a message in the words. “Yes, I do,” he said at length. “But we agreed not to talk about that.”

  “Yes, we did,” she said.

  They spent the rest of the afternoon lazing and talking, and discovering small things about each other. It was the playful banter that always seemed an early part of the pre-mating ritual, and the mere thought that this was what they were doing made Fallon slightly nervous. Yet, at the same time, he couldn’t deny the depth of his attraction. With every smile, every small gesture of warmth from her, he found himself arguing against reason that the woman had come to his home for the weekend because the attraction was mutual—or perhaps just praying that it might be. Later, as they wandered about the yard, ostensibly looking at the beautifully maintained flower beds, Samantha slipped her arm in his and he felt a sudden rush of pleasure, and again, when she allowed a hand to rest on his a bit longer than necessary, he was seized by an impulse to draw her to him and kiss her. Only doubt stopped him. He wanted to believe each gesture was a signal, indicating a willingness for greater intimacy. He recalled those signals—or what they had been years ago when he was dating— but now there was doubt. So he demurred, awkwardly, and with regret, cursing himself for his lingering uncertainty and his unwillingness to risk rejection.