The Dinosaur Club Page 22

  “She has a following?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Montague said. The expectation of disbelief appeared on his face again. “Frankly, it’s why I asked you to come to the rear door. The staff was concerned the sudden appearance of the, uh … Virgin’s son”—he offered a weak, apologetic smile—”might create a bit of a stir.” He looked nervously at his feet. “There have even been some cures.”

  “What?”

  “They’re psychological, of course. But several residents have refused to use their walkers. Someone has even called the Archdiocese in Manhattan claiming a miracle. We’re terrified, of course, that someone will call the press.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Fallon feared he would be asked to take his mother home.

  “Well, we were hoping you could speak with her, convince her she’s your mother—Kitty Fallon—not Mary of Nazareth.” He twisted nervously. “I’m afraid all of our efforts have met with rebellious behavior.”

  “From my mother?”

  “Oh, no. She’s quite the proper lady—as always. She simply holds out her hands and looks beatific.” He imitated the gesture. It reminded Fallon of statues he had seen in church. “It’s her followers,” Montague said. “The other day, when I tried to lead her back to her room, an elderly gentleman began chasing me in his wheelchair, screaming that I was Pontius Pilate.”

  Fallon stared at him in disbelief. Behind him the aging male duck had fallen on its face and was floundering in the grass. “How many followers are there?” he asked, trying not to be distracted. He could hear the old mallard quacking in frustration. The female duck waddled away with the crust of bread.

  Montague tried to smile, failed. He seemed bereft of hope, embarrassed by it. Floundering like the old duck, Fallon thought.

  “How many?” Fallon asked again.

  “Only a few dozen, but the numbers seem to be growing each day,” Montague said. “There were twelve saying the rosary yesterday, but those were only the Catholics. A few Protestants have joined in—in fact, we’ve had two who’ve declared themselves prophets. And one Jewish gentleman has become an apostle of the Virgin. He’s even inquired about converting.” He let out a sigh.

  “Converting to what?” Fallon asked.

  “We’re not sure,” Montague said. “We don’t think he is either.” He hesitated, looked at Fallon with skeptical hope. “Do you have any idea why your mother might choose to become the Virgin Mary? If we knew, it might give us some clue about how to deal with it. We may ask your permission to bring in … uh … a psychiatrist to evaluate her.”

  Fallon shook his head. “I never thought my mother was very religious.” He thought a moment. They were lucky she hadn’t become John the Baptist, he decided. Then she might be dunking her fellow inmates in the duck pond.

  He offered a befuddled shrug. It had to be some kind of scam his mother had devised. He was still terrified he’d be asked to pack her bags and take her home. “I’m at as much of a loss as you are,” he said. “But I’ll certainly speak with her. I’m sure we can clear this up.”

  Montague brightened up visibly at the thought. “Oh, God, I hope so.” He seemed suddenly embarrassed at having invoked the deity. He stood, as did Fallon. “Just one thing,” he said. “Would you mind wearing one of the white coats our orderlies use?”

  Fallon stared at him.

  “I just think it best you’re as inconspicuous as possible,” he explained.

  Fallon followed Montague through a labyrinth of hallways that isolated food and service areas from the residential portions of the complex. Fallon was dressed in a white lab coat that had the name, Dwight, stitched over the right breast. When they reached a doorway at the other end of the complex, Montague stopped and raised a finger to his lips.

  “We’re just outside her room,” he whispered. “Let me take a peek first.”

  He inched the door open, peeked into another hall, then closed the door quickly. He beckoned Fallon to him, then leaned toward his ear. “There’s a line of residents outside her door.”

  Fallon stared at him.

  “She also holds some private apparitions,” he explained.

  “Does she charge?” Fallon asked.

  Montague stared at him in horror. “God, we never thought to ask,” he said.

  They entered the residential hallway just outside Kitty Fallon’s room. A line of elderly men and women, some propped on walkers, stood waiting outside the door. An ancient man in a wheelchair sat to one side like a palace guard. He glared at Montague as he approached.

  “What do you want, Pilate?” he snapped.

  Montague stiffened, then smiled. “We must go inside. Just for a moment. The Virgin needs her medication.”

  Montague eased himself to the door. A low hissing rumbled throughout the queue.

  “No line jumping,” one elderly woman snapped. She swung a cane at Montague’s back, barely missing his head. He opened the door and stepped quickly inside. Fallon followed, ducking low to avoid any follow-up strike.

  Fallon leaned back against the door and drew a breath. His mouth fell open. Kitty Fallon’s room blazed with light. The curtains were drawn and no fewer than thirty candles sent out a luminous, beatific glow. His mother stood before the closed curtains. She was dressed in a flowing blue robe with a matching veil covering her head. Her arms were extended from her sides, palms open and forward, thumb and index finger joined. Jesus, Fallon thought. The Mother of God!

  A small woman knelt before her, head bowed. Fallon recognized her at once. She was one of the women he had seen in the sitting area on his last visit—the one who supposedly drank. Fallon stared at her; wondered if she was there seeking a cure for Don Ho.

  Montague went to the kneeling woman, and gently guided her to her feet. “You must leave now,” he whispered. “The Virgin needs her rest.”

  The woman’s head snapped around. “What does she need to rest for? She’s been dead for two thousand years. What the hell’s the matter with you? I need my prayers answered.”

  “You can come back later. I promise you,” Montague soothed. He led the grumbling woman past Fallon. Their eyes met. Montague’s were imploring. Fallon’s were filled with disbelief.

  The door shut behind him. Kitty Fallon leaned to one side, assuring herself they were alone. Then she lowered her arms and slumped into a nearby chair.

  She looked Fallon over from head to toe, an open inspection, seeking some fault. “What are you doing here?” she finally asked. “It’s not the first or third Sunday.”

  “They sent for me,” Fallon said. His eyes roamed the glowing candles. “Because of this.”

  She continued to stare at him. “Sit down, John,” she snapped. “Don’t stand there with your mouth open like some lump.”

  Fallon sat on the edge of her bed, irrationally wishing she’d call him Jack just once in his life. His eyes took in the room again, and he made an all-encompassing gesture with his hands. “What is this, Mom? What the hell’s going on?”

  Kitty Fallon lowered her veil to her shoulders and patted her perfectly coiffed gray hair. Her powdered cheeks were pinched and severe, and she looked neither blessed nor virginal—at least not by choice, Fallon thought. She glared across the room and snapped out a reply. “I’m making sure they can’t throw me out. And that’s just what they’ll do when you tell them you’re broke.” She continued to glare at him, rebuking him. “I’m not going to be sent to some hellhole just because you can’t hold on to a job, John.”

  Fallon wanted to snap back that he’d held on to the same job for nearly a quarter of a century. He resisted the pointlessness of it. “How is this … this … religious madness going to help you?”

  “Medicaid!” She glared again. “The government won’t let them send me anyplace if I’m loony tunes. I know. I’ve checked the rules.”

  “But you’re not on Medicaid,” Fallon said.

  “I will be as soon as you’re fired. I’ve already made application.”

&nb
sp; “But you have too much of your own money,” Fallon argued. “You don’t qualify.”

  “I’ve taken care of that,” Kitty snapped back. “I’ve liquidated everything and put it in trust for my grandchildren. I don’t have a dime to my name. But my Medicaid application will take a couple of months, so try to hang on to your job for that long.”

  Fallon bristled, then surrendered. He shook his head. “You’re causing chaos here,” he said. He watched his mother smirk. “It’s not right,” he added.

  “I’m providing a religious experience. I’m not hurting anyone.”

  A Maxwell House coffee can caught Fallon’s eye. It was on a table near her chair. He got up and stared into it. It was half filled with money, a few coins but mostly dollar bills. He stared down at his mother. “Are you charging these people?” he asked.

  Kitty Fallon looked momentarily embarrassed. “They make donations,” she snapped. “I can’t afford to pay for all these ridiculous candles.”

  Fallon sank back on the bed and began rubbing his eyes. “Mom, it’s got to stop. Please. I’ll find a way to keep paying your expenses.”

  She stared at him. “I don’t believe you.”

  14

  CHARLIE WATERS PACED HIS OFFICE, HIS FACE REDDER than normal.

  “What do you think it means?” he asked.

  “I have no idea,” Bennett said. “But I don’t like it either.”

  “You think Jack Fallon’s behind it?”

  Bennett raised his eyebrows, inclined his head to one side. “He was wearing one, and he runs the division. It makes sense. As far as this newsletter goes, and the phony E-mail memos, well, this so-called Dinosaur Club is the only hint of resistance we’ve encountered.”

  “The Dinosaur Club,” Waters said. “Goddamned T-shirts. I don’t like the smell of that. It could mean they’ve banded together to fight us.”

  “There’s nothing to fight,” Bennett said. “Not yet. And by the time there is, quite a few of them won’t be around.”

  “Damn right they won’t,” Waters shot back. He stopped in front of his desk. He was in shirtsleeves, his regimental necktie lying on top of his protruding paunch. Behind him smaller buildings dotted a path to the East River. He placed his hands on his hips, head lowered, deep in thought. “Maybe we should bring Fallon in on this,” he said. “Just remove any personal insecurity he’s feeling.”

  Bennett twisted in his chair. The idea irritated him. Once they started making exceptions there would be no end. “I’d rather not,” he said. He decided some qualification was needed to soothe Waters’s concerns, along with his ego. “At least not now.” He smiled. “I’m sure I can handle him.”

  Waters jabbed a finger at him. “Don’t underestimate the man. He’s not a pushover. Read his damned war record if you think so.”

  Bennett wanted to tell Waters what he could do with Fallon’s war record, but he simply tried to sound confident. “I assure you, I won’t take him lightly,” Bennett said.

  Waters returned to his desk, sat, and continued to study the younger man. Bennett was bright and ruthless, and he had his finger on the pulse of the market. He wondered if he’d really be a match for Jack Fallon. He thought about it, decided if he had to lay a bet he’d go with Bennett. Waters glanced at a note on his desk. Fallon’s assistant had called that morning, again seeking an appointment for her boss. He decided he’d see Fallon, just to see what was up his sleeve. He thought about having Bennett there as well but decided against it. Better to evaluate the situation without Carter’s input.

  “All right, let’s let things sit as they are,” he said. “But find out who’s behind this damned newsletter and these memos, and put a stop to it. And keep an eye on this goddamned Dinosaur Club. We don’t want any ugly surprises this late in the game.”

  Bennett offered Waters another self-assured smile. “I’ll keep everything under tight rein,” he said.

  “How was your mother?” Samantha asked.

  Fallon had called her when he got back to his office. Now he thought of his mother’s own words. “She’s Loony Tunes,” he said. He explained the apparitions at The Residence and his mother’s demented reasoning.

  “Oh, Jack, I’m so sorry.” He could hear her fighting back laughter, and fought down his own smile.

  “I am sorry, Jack. I don’t mean to laugh. It’s just the way you said it. What did you do?”

  “I talked to Montague—he’s the director there—and tried to explain that she was concerned I wouldn’t be able to keep up her monthly maintenance costs. I assured him I would, and suggested he counsel her with that in mind.”

  “Do you think they’ll keep her there?”

  “Yeah. I’m pretty sure. She pays the full freight, and the people who do are golden to places like The Residence. Almost two thirds of their clientele are covered by Medicaid. They don’t pay anywhere near the full monthly fee, and nursing homes are precluded from turning them out. But if she keeps up this Virgin Mary nonsense, and other families start threatening to take their parents elsewhere, who knows.”

  “Do you think she’ll stop?”

  Fallon blew out a long breath. “God, I hope so. But I really don’t know. Hell, tomorrow I might get a call that she’s levitating over a burning bush.”

  Samantha suppressed a giggle. “I’m sorry, Jack. I know it’s not funny.”

  “Yes, it is. Except it really isn’t.” He shook his head, driving away the madness of it all. “Tell me how your meeting with Carter went.”

  “Let’s just say he is not amused with his formerly favorite lawyer.”

  “Maybe we should celebrate our mutually successful day,” Fallon said. “How about dinner at my house tonight? We could grab a train right after the Dinosaur Club finishes up at the gym. I’ll pick up some wine, and we’ll drink to my mother’s madness and Carter’s lack of amusement.”

  “That sounds great.” He heard her suppress another giggle.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What? Tell me?”

  “Well, I was just thinking. You could just get a bottle of water.” More laughter was suppressed. “Then you could change it.”

  Carter Bennett surveyed the well-appointed room. A look of mild satisfaction crossed his face as he took in the men and women holding power lunches that day. The majority were his age or slightly younger, as they always were now. When he had first entered the business world such was not the case. Men of fifty-plus ruled. Oh, there were still a few of the ancients scattered about, but they were fast becoming extinct. This visual proof pleased him. It told him his philosophy, as always, was on the cutting edge of business wisdom.

  Bennett turned his attention to the day’s lunchmates—Les Gavin and Willis Chambers. His luncheon invitations—summonses really—had been accepted greedily as they always were.

  They were seated at a round table in the Oak Room of the Plaza Hotel. The dark, wood-paneled walls gave the room a subdued sense of wealth and permanence, a feeling of who belonged and who did not. Like many other tables theirs held a large bottle of Pellegrino water at its center. Drinking at lunch, save for the occasional glass of white wine, had become passé. Power, not pollution, had become the rule. Here, uniformed waiters moved unobtrusively. No one was rushed. Power required both time and patience from all concerned. Bennett smiled at the ambiance, then turned a cunning eye on Les Gavin.

  “What do you know about this Dinosaur Club nonsense and any connection it may have to these newsletters and memos we have circulating through the office?”

  Gavin was caught off guard and fumbled for an answer. “Uh … Nothing, really. I’ve seen the newsletter and the memos, of course, and, uh, I heard Green and Malloy kidding each other about dinosaur T-shirts. But I, uh, thought it was just some sort of inside joke.”

  “Any reason to believe the three things are connected?”

  Gavin looked bewildered, making it obvious the idea had never occurred to him. He tried to recover. “Nothing de
finite. But it does look suspicious, doesn’t it?”

  Bennett sat back and hooked his thumbs into the vest of his three-piece suit. “Indeed it does,” he said. “And if it’s more, it’s something we should know about.” He leaned forward and stared into Gavin’s eyes. “None of us wants any unpleasant surprises down the road.”

  “I’ll do my best to find out,” Gavin said. “But I’m not exactly buddy-buddy with those old fossils.” He offered an exculpatory grimace. “I don’t think they trust me.” He let out a small snort, as if expecting laughter from the others.

  Bennett gave him a smile. There was a touch of benevolence to it, but nothing more. He wanted Gavin to know he expected results. Gavin was the type who floundered under too much personal pressure. He needed the occasional there-there to keep plugging along. But he also needed the whip.

  “Payback time will come, Les. You could very well be the one to hand all of them their walking papers.”

  Gavin grinned at the idea. “Nothing would please me more,” he said. “I keep hoping that Fallon will hit the bricks first.” The grin widened. “Just so the others will be left to me.”

  Bennett picked up a glass of designer water and sipped. “Could happen, Les. I know how badly they’ve all treated you. Of course, it might be even more satisfying if Fallon was forced to do it for us. But either way, the man’s history.” He replaced the glass, studied it for a moment, then raised his eyes back to Gavin. “But right now, I need you to find out what’s going on. Surprises are not acceptable”—he paused for effect—”and they aren’t something I’ll be inclined to forgive.”

  The gauntlet dropped, he spread his hands. “Gentlemen, we’re the people who are going to turn this company around. Let’s not fall asleep at the switch.” He turned quickly to Chambers. Willis had seemed to take some pleasure in Gavin’s rebuke, but Bennett’s final words had put him on edge. It was exactly what Bennett wanted.

  “I think Wally Green should be next on our list,” Bennett said. “I caught him sneering at me at the company gym last night. Let’s start with some sort of reprimand. Any suggestions?”