The Dinosaur Club Page 18

  Samantha felt the chill of his displeasure. “That will be fine,” she said. “I’ll have everything together by then.”

  “Good. I’ll see you Friday.”

  Samantha replaced the phone and stared at it. She had become quite comfortable turning down Carter’s invitations. It was not, she now realized, something he accepted with grace. But it was also something he had better get used to, she told herself. At least where any personal relationship was concerned.

  Wally was waiting in Fallon’s office when he returned.

  “The Sprint production run was moved up. It’s set for late tomorrow morning,” he said. “I had my assistant book an early flight for you, me, and Malloy.”

  Fallon noted a questioning rise to his own assistant’s eyebrows, offered only a conspiratorial wink, then continued into his office with Wally trailing behind. “You sound like a cat headed for a dog convention,” Fallon said.

  “I just feel like my job is hanging on the results of this goddamned test,” Wally said. “It scares me shitless.”

  “Your job is hanging on Carter Bennett’s whim,” Fallon said. “The test won’t mean anything.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Wally said. “That makes me feel a helluva lot better.”

  Fallon picked up a paper bag from a credenza behind his desk. “Did you talk to the troops about showing up at the company gym?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I did. There was a lot of grumbling—in fact, some of them think you’ve lost your goddamned mind—but everybody’s willing to show up. I guess that tells you how desperate we all are.”

  Fallon tossed him the paper bag. “Tell each of them to wear these,” he said. “I want to make a statement.”

  Wally opened the bag and pulled out a T-shirt, held it up for viewing. He looked back at Fallon. “They’re right,” he said. “You have lost your mind.”

  Fallon grinned at him. “See that they get them,” he said. “And tell them to wear them, and to meet us at the gym Wednesday after work.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Wally said. “Now I’m not only gonna get my butt tossed out the door, but I gotta spend my last days of gainful employment with a nutcase.”

  10

  FALLON’S OVERNIGHT BAG SAT BY THE FRONT DOOR OF the apartment. Just beyond the bag, the well-appointed furnishings were marked by a trail of clothing that wound an erratic path toward the bedroom. A jacket and tie lay crumpled in the foyer, not far from a pair of women’s shoes. Several steps away, in the living room, a shirt and blouse had been discarded near a wall, the arm of the shirt having come to rest against a well-lined bookcase, one sleeve inexplicably pointing up as if reaching for a specific tome. Farther still, a bra, low-cut and tiered in lace, dangled from the arm of an antique Windsor chair, its strap almost touching a solitary, highly polished man’s shoe, and nearby, at the base of a large sectional sofa, a pair of women’s panties and a man’s boxer shorts lay entwined, partially obscuring the second shoe.

  They had arrived at Samantha’s apartment after dinner, and clothing had begun to fall away as the door closed. It had been impetuous and urgent and had surprised them. Throughout dinner each had felt budding desire; but the unexpected degree of heat, the hunger, just seemed to erupt as they entered the apartment. They had kissed, and carnality had suddenly taken hold, and they had gone at each other in a staggering, fumbling frenzy. Now, in Samantha’s bed lust continued as mouths and hands moved with a wanton will, exploring and caressing every erotic treasure; first with pressing compulsion, then slowly, pleasurably, until they could stand it no longer, and they joined, blotting out all feeling but that one final rapturous delectation.

  They fell back, satisfied, yet greedily wanting more. Samantha nestled in the hollow of Fallon’s shoulder, her fingers toying with the hair on his chest, lasciviously straying to the line that ran from navel to pubis.

  Fallon stroked her back, allowing his hand to slowly drop to the sharp curve of her buttocks. He felt himself stir under the covers. “You certainly know how to end a day,” he said.

  Samantha smiled into his shoulder. “Who said it was over?” She felt his hand move to the side of her breast and smiled again.

  During dinner he had told her of the trip he would take the next day, the tests he would observe at the fiber-optics plant. He hadn’t spoken about his meeting with his attorney, and she hadn’t pressed. Now she wanted to know, and she wondered what, if anything, that meant.

  “Tell me about the meeting with your lawyer,” she began.

  He told her what Grisham had advised earlier, and what he had done. He paused and she could feel him take a deep breath, forcing effort. “Since then, my esteemed lawyer has talked to Trisha’s esteemed lawyer,” he began. “The dance of the bloodsuckers has begun.”

  Samantha grinned at the term. “All lawyers aren’t bloodsuckers,” she said.

  “They’re certainly all carnivorous,” he said. He grinned at the ceiling. “You just proved that.”

  She poked his stomach. “And vicious, too,” she added. “Now tell me what your bloodsucker said.”

  Fallon laughed, wondered why. None of it was funny. He drew another deep breath. “It seems that Arthur C. Grisham—my bloodsucker—has begun negotiating my future solvency with one William Greenstreet, the vampire who represents Trisha and whose fee, of course, Trisha expects me to pay in full, since I’m getting the benefit of his acknowledged wisdom.”

  “And what is Attorney Greenstreet proposing?”

  “Much,” Fallon said. “But for starters, he suggests I pay Trisha’s share of the condo’s monthly maintenance fee….”

  “She has a share?”

  “Oh, yes,” Fallon said. “It appears that Howard—a man who obviously should have forsaken teeth and gone to law school—believes that my former beloved should not suffer the indignity of feeling like a kept woman.”

  “How sensitive.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And how much is her share?”

  “Far more than I’ll ever be able to afford. Unless, of course, I sell my house and move to the YMCA.” Fallon let out a soft, mirthless laugh. “Of course, my soon-to-be-ex wife’s esteemed counsel also suggests that I put the house on the market immediately so Trisha can have her share to pay her half of the condo’s purchase price. He claims Howard loaned her the money for the closing.”

  “That’s cute,” Samantha said. “Sounds like Howard is getting nailed at the other end, and wants you to pick up part of the tab.”

  “That was the view of Arthur C. Grisham,” Fallon said. “He figures old Howard will get hit for about a mil in personal assets, and about a hundred thousand a year in spousal maintenance.”

  “Did Trisha’s lawyer mention maintenance for her?”

  “Oh, yes. He feels she should get about seventy-five thousand per, which is half my base salary.” Fallon let out another soft, mirthless laugh. “I was thinking how much simpler it would be if I just moved in with Howard’s wife. Then we could turn it all over to an accountant and cut out the lawyers completely.”

  Samantha jabbed his stomach again. “Don’t you dare,” she said.

  Fallon offered up a mock grunt. “Don’t like to see lawyers knocked off the gravy train, huh?”

  “That’s not what I mean.” Samantha rose up on one elbow and stared down at him. “I have no intention of giving up your considerable conjugal talents. Just remember that I’m a lawyer, too, and there is a certain legal tenet that deals with alienation of affection.”

  Fallon offered her a mock grin. “Everybody wants something,” he said.

  Samantha jabbed him again. “You have no idea how much,” she said.

  Charlie Waters stared at the traffic that raced along Fifth Avenue, a satisfied smile toying with the corners of his mouth. The table he shared with Carter Bennett was set before a floor-to-ceiling window in the West Lounge of the Metropolitan Club, the sanctum to which they had retired following dinner in the club’s upstairs dining room. Seated there now, surrounded b
y the protective opulence of the room’s gilded ceilings and fine antique appointments, Waters felt the quiet arrogance that the golden age “captains of industry” like Frick and Morgan and Henry Ford must have known—men who had been allowed to look out on the daily drudgeries and tribulations of common folk, certain that those same miseries would never be visited upon them. Quiet contentment spread through him, and he appeared to noticeably swell, filled with the sense of it.

  Bennett sipped his brandy and studied Waters—the puffy red face displaying all the self-gratifying pleasures that had accumulated over the years. “You seem quite relaxed,” he said. “I almost hate to bring up business.”

  Bennett’s briefcase sat on the floor next to his chair, and a collection of papers lay in his lap. Club rules prohibited business papers in the dining room and other public areas, but the lounge was otherwise empty and Carter knew the rules could be bent, providing no complaints were made.

  “You never hate to bring up business, Carter. You’re like a machine.” Waters chuckled at his small joke, then raised his own brandy snifter in salute. “And I do feel relaxed. This is a lovely club. Thank you for inviting me.” He continued to stare at the passing traffic and the southern tip of Central Park just beyond. At the edge of his vision the Plaza Hotel sat like a shining icon of affluence, its classic facade illuminated, casting its rich glow on the line of limousines gathered before the main entrance. It was a sight that filled Waters with well-being. After years of early struggle, life was now everything he had hoped for—and held the promise of becoming even more.

  “Stanford White designed this building, you know,” Bennett offered. He had decided to play on Waters’s self-contentedness. “The club’s founders—primarily J. Pierpont Morgan and Cornelius Vanderbilt—personally gave him the commission.” Bennett smiled across the table, warming to his story, knowing it would please Waters. “According to legend,” he continued, “Morgan proposed a business friend for membership in the old Union Club. This was back in the 1880s, and the Union Club was the club in those days. Morgan and Vanderbilt and everyone of consequence belonged. But surprisingly, the friend was blackballed for some unknown reason. Morgan, of course, was outraged. Then the same thing happened to William Seward Webb, who had married into the Vanderbilt family.” He saw a small rise to Waters’s eyebrows and knew he had him hooked. “Well, that sparked a bit of a rebellion, led by Morgan and Vanderbilt, and it was quickly joined by the Goelets, the Iselins, and the Roosevelts.” He watched Waters suck in the names of those prominent New York families of old, and he leaned back in his chair, ready to deliver his punch line. “Morgan, it’s said, was determined to punish the Union Club’s old guard, so he summoned Stanford White to his presence and told him: ‘Build me a club fit for gentlemen. Damn the expense.’” Bennett spread his hands. “And that’s how the Metropolitan Club was born. Morgan and his friends spent close to a million dollars—somewhere between fifteen and twenty million in today’s money. And, of course, the Union Club was never quite the same again in terms of prestige and power.”

  Waters chuckled softly, and nodded approval. “That’s a wonderful tale,” he said. “Damn. Those were the days, eh? No income tax, and money to burn.”

  “And a will to have things your own way,” Bennett added.

  Waters looked back at the younger man and gave a confirming nod. “And rightly so, damn it.” His chin was jutting forward now, and together with the sweep of longish white hair, it made him appear slightly leonine. Bennett smiled at the image.

  “Today, people seem to forget the men behind the businesses that support them,” Waters pontificated. “And it seems to be surprisingly easy for them to do it.” He shook his head. “Hell, today a man works to build an enterprise, and when he succeeds, he finds that he’s providing for thousands of people—employees, stockholders, suppliers, end users. But he also discovers that it’s not enough. At least not for some people.” He pressed his lips together in displeasure, then jabbed a long, fat finger at Bennett. “Just as suddenly he discovers that other people think he should do more—that they expect him to be even more of a benefactor. Even to the point of doing things against his own interests.” He let out a dismissive snort. “These people—a bunch of damn liberal soothsayers and politicians; bureaucrats and newspaper editors and God knows who else—they want him to solve every problem that comes down the pike, no matter the damn cost. They tell him pollution is his problem, that everyone’s retirement and health care are his concern. They even throw in problems that have nothing to do with him, or his business. Alcoholism. Drug abuse. Child care, for chrissake.” He shook his head. “But what about him? What about his needs?” He leaned forward, his look now severe. “If you listen to the bleeding hearts, his needs be damned.”

  Bennett continued to smile. God, the man was such a buffoon, he thought. Sitting there red-faced and beaming. He actually viewed himself in a class with a J. Pierpont Morgan, or a Cornelius Vanderbilt. The mighty CEO—enthroned. Just like so many of the old fools running corporations today. Filled with self-satisfaction and blithely taking credit for the work of all the bright young minds whose ideas made the wheels turn.

  Bennett tapped the papers spread before them. “Except, this time, you have the will to have things your own way. And there’s not a damned thing anyone can do about it.”

  Waters stared at the papers as though they might bite him. “Except sue us,” he said at length.

  “Possible. But unlikely,” Bennett said. Despite the bravado, Waters wanted it all done quietly, without any public fuss.

  Adjusting the papers, he smiled at Waters’s still uncertain look, then continued. “With the pressure we’ll begin to exert tomorrow—to very slowly and carefully exert—there shouldn’t be any faction left that’s large enough to offer a real threat. And as people start to leave, profitability also rises in corresponding increments.”

  He turned the papers toward Waters and began pointing out several names. “These are people not eligible for pensions. Close, but no cigar. Next to their names are the amounts of nonvested funds that will be left in their pension accounts when they leave.” He turned several sheets of the printout and pointed to a final figure. “As you can see, the total is substantial. And quite an attractive figure to anyone looking from the outside.” He let the not so subtle hint drop, and hurried on. “Add to that the people who would leave with pensions, but who in doing so would relieve us of the one and a half percent increase in cost per year”—he tapped his finger against a second figure—”and that overall saving becomes equally attractive.” Bennett raised his hands and let them drop under their own weight. “So without even taking into account the savings in salaries from these surplused employees, it’s a money pot for us. A pure and simple money pot.”

  “But I still haven’t seen the final figures on what it will cost to buy these people out,” Waters complained. “That’s the one potential fly in the ointment.”

  “A very small fly,” Bennett said. “Legal still hasn’t come up with a final proposal.” He made a displeased face, shook his head. “But as I’ve explained before, I’ve projected a worst-case scenario.”

  Bennett pulled another printout from the stack, as Waters leaned in close to study it. The figures were identical to the ones he had seen a few days earlier. He looked up. “These are fine. But I still want to see legal’s settlement proposal,” he said.

  “I’ll have it this week. Without fail,” Bennett said.

  “What the hell’s taking so long?”

  Bennett shrugged. “Samantha Moore is putting it together, and she’s an extremely careful lawyer.” He forced a smile. “Perhaps too careful, but I’m not about to fault her for that. Like you, I want this to be ironclad. And I want it pulled off without any public fuss.”

  “Just light a fire under her tail,” Waters said.

  Bennett nodded, then leaned forward. “There is one other thing we should do.”

  “What’s that?”

&nb
sp; Bennett folded his hands, prayerlike. “With our program to encourage resignations beginning, I’d like to divert pressure from Willis Chambers. I envision he’ll be our front man on this, the one issuing the directives, and I’d like to make sure no division heads who outrank him can overrule any of his decisions.”

  “What do you suggest?” Waters asked.

  “I think a simple memo like this might do the trick.” He handed Waters a single sheet of paper.

  “Won’t this also tip our hand?” Waters asked.

  “We can revise this draft, make the final memo one magnificent obfuscation,” Bennett said. “I can do it myself if you wish. I’d like to get it circulated tomorrow.”

  “Do the necessary revisions and give it to my girl, Gladys,” Waters said. “I’ll tell her to expect it. But the foggier the better.”

  “My feelings, exactly.” Bennett eyed a waiter standing by the door. “Would you care for another brandy?” he asked.

  “Yes, I think I would,” Waters said. “I think we’ve earned it, don’t you?”

  “Definitely,” Bennett said. He felt an inner swell, and punctuated the word with another smile. “Most definitely.”

  11

  JIM MALLOY PUT DOWN THE PHONE AND STARED AT FALlon and Wally Green. They were killing time in a conference room adjacent to the technical services laboratory, waiting to start tests on the just completed manufacturing run of fiber-optic wire. Malloy had just telephoned his office in New York.

  “I just found out I don’t have a secretary anymore.” His face was suddenly pale.

  “Marge quit?” Fallon asked.

  “Hey, I’m not surprised,” Wally said. “Who the hell wants to work for a Simon Legree like you?”

  Malloy shook his head. It was more confused incredulity than denial. “She didn’t quit. She was reassigned to marketing.” He stared at Wally. “As of today, you and I are sharing your secretary. Excuse me, your assistant, since that’s what the title is these days.”