The Dinosaur Club Page 26

  “I’m sorry, Jack. I heard raised voices.” She started to turn away, but Fallon held up a hand, stopping her.

  “It’s okay,” he said. He seemed momentarily uncertain about what to say next. An introduction seemed ludicrous, but what else was there?

  “Samantha, this is Trisha.” He turned back to his wife. “Trish, this is Samantha Moore.”

  Trisha continued to stare across the room, mouth still agape. Her eyes returned to Fallon. “Oh, Jack. How could you?”

  He stared at her. “How could I what?”

  Her lip trembled again. “How could you bring another woman into our home?”

  “Our what?”

  “Oh, Jack. This is so tawdry.”

  Fallon realized his hands were shaking. He fought to control his voice. “This is not our home, Trish. You left. Remember?” He drew a breath, still struggling. He wanted to shout at her; knew it was pointless. “You ran off with Howard. You had an affair with him and decided he was what you wanted. I accepted that, and went on with my life. I’m still going on with my life, and there is nothing tawdry about it. I’m in love with this woman. She makes me happy. And I haven’t been happy in a long time. It’s that simple.” He paused for breath; shook his head again. “Look, I’m sorry things didn’t work out with Howard, but that’s not my problem. So good-bye, Trish.”

  Trisha took an involuntary step back, shocked. Then her face filled with rage. “If you think … you’re going to carry on … with this woman … in my home …”

  “It’s not your home. You left.”

  Trisha stamped her foot. “The children and I are staying,” she shouted.

  Fallon felt a hand on his arm. He turned and found Samantha standing beside him. “Jack, let me speak to you.” She glanced at Trisha. “Mrs. Fallon, please excuse us for a moment.”

  Trisha glared at her. “I want you out of here. Now,” she hissed.

  “I understand, Mrs. Fallon. Just allow me to speak with Jack, then I’ll get my things.” Samantha kept her voice soft, respectful.

  “Your things? Your things!”

  Samantha led Fallon into the living room, took hold of his hands. “Jack, listen to me. As a lawyer. Okay?”

  He was about to object, then settled for a noncommittal shake of his head.

  Samantha kept her voice low, soothingly soft. “If you stay, one of you will end up calling the police. They’ll come. There will be an ugly scene. Even if the cops side with you; agree to let you stay, it won’t mean anything. Trish will call her lawyer. They’ll go to court. And the judge will tell you either to surrender the house or to rent a comparable one for your wife and children.”

  Fallon blinked. “So I just leave? Go to a hotel? Just like that?”

  Samantha lowered her eyes momentarily. When she looked back at him she said, “I want you to stay with me. If you’re sure you don’t want Trisha back.”

  Fallon blinked again. “You really mean that?”

  “Yes.”

  He let out a long breath. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  Samantha squeezed his hands. “Pack all your things,” she said. “At least everything you’re going to need for a while. After Trisha talks to her lawyer you won’t be getting back in until the court orders her to let you get your possessions. And that could take some time.”

  Fallon packed three suitcases, along with his briefcase. Samantha helped. When they carried the first of the suitcases down to his car, neither Trisha nor his children were anywhere in sight.

  Samantha remained at the car, while Fallon got the last of the bags. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, Trisha stepped into the foyer. “I’d like your house key,” she said. Her face was rigid, and he realized she didn’t look nearly as beautiful as he had thought.

  He undipped his key from a leather key wallet and laid it on the newel post.

  Behind Trisha he could see his daughter staring at him, her face a mix of regret and anger. His son stood farther back, looking as though he wanted to be somewhere else.

  “I’m sorry you kids got dragged into this,” he said. “I’ll let you know where I am when I’m settled.”

  Trisha drew herself up, trying to salvage some dignity, he told himself.

  “Just go, Jack,” she said. She straightened even more, spoke with the conviction of all the injury that had been done to her. “Go have your younger woman. She’ll make you happy for ten years. Then she’ll break your heart.”

  They drove toward Manhattan. The Sunday night traffic was heavy with people returning from weekend escapes. Fallon took in the cars, realized he was probably unique among them. He was escaping back to the city.

  “How do you feel?” Samantha asked. She had been silent the first ten minutes of their trip.

  “Numb, I guess.” He smiled at her. “It all happened so damned fast.”

  Samantha hesitated. There was something she wanted to say, had to say. She drew a long breath. “You know, Jack, I think some of what Trisha said is true. I think she was frightened. And perhaps she made some bad decisions because of it. I think you have to consider that possibility—that she may be a victim of this downsizing plan, too.”

  Fallon looked out the side window. He nodded almost imperceptibly. He turned back to her, then lowered his eyes. “You’re probably right, but it doesn’t change anything.” A small smile began to form. “You know Trish said something to me when I was leaving. She told me that you’d make me happy for the next ten years, and then you’d break my heart.” He looked at her, the smile widening. “And I thought: You’re right, Trish, I should stay here. Then I could be miserable for the next ten years.”

  Samantha remained silent. Then: “Jack. Did you mean what you said back there?”

  Traffic was stalled in a long line for a distant toll booth. He looked up. “You mean about being in love with you?”

  She nodded, then whispered, “Yes.”

  “I meant it.” He smiled again. “I didn’t realize it until I said it. But as soon as I had, I knew.”

  Samantha leaned across the seat and put her arms around him. “I want a lot more than ten years,” she whispered. “I love you, too, Fallon. I think I started falling in love with you the first day I met you.”

  18

  “WHAT WE NEED RIGHT NOW IS A VISION STATEMENT.” Carter Bennett extended his hands as if trying to contain something that was too big for his office. He looked across his desk at Les Gavin and Willis Chambers.

  “What I’m talking about is a criterion for winning, something our younger employees will grasp as a leitmotif for success.” He smiled at his own phrasing.

  “It’s also important that this statement come across as a clear signal to our older employees that this leitmotif does not include them.” He gestured as if throwing out an idea that had just come to mind, although he had been considering it for days. “We might use a slogan.” Again he framed the idea in the air. “Wanted for Waters Cable: Jet fighter pilots to fly us into the twenty-first century.” Another smile. “How about this? We have coffee mugs made up that we can hand out to select people. You can read younger into that if you want, although I, of course, never said that.” This time he laughed and was quickly joined by the others. He waved off the laughter, then raised one hand as if writing in the air. “I see slogans on the cups. On one side it would say: ‘We’re High Octane Flyers.’ On the other: Accept the Values—Join the Vision.’”

  Bennett watched the others nod approval. “The message of course will be clear to the people who don’t get coffee mugs. And it will be abundantly clear to those who do. They’ll be on our side. And that’s what we want. Even among the younger people who might eventually find themselves on our list of surplused employees.” He tapped the side of his nose. “But until then, I want them thinking positively. That way, if older employees start talking organized resistance, the younger ones will hear it with an attitude that says: ‘Hey, don’t screw up my opportunity.’”

  Bennett paused and C
hambers jumped right in. “It’s brilliant,” he said. “It sends just the right message to everyone.”

  Bennett raised a finger indicating he wasn’t quite finished. “What I’ll also need is a selection guide. By that I mean a list of criteria for those who will be selected to remain with the company.” He waved a hand, dismissing objections that weren’t even close to being broached. “I realize we already know who those people will be. Generally speaking of course. But we’ll need this in case a lawsuit materializes—just to show how much careful thought went into our decisions.” He paused for effect. “For that same reason, there will, of course, be no reference to age. We’ll say that without saying it. Something like”—he paused as if coming up with the phrase at just that moment—”the ability to understand and effectively utilize new technology. Something along those lines.” He tapped his nose again. “Make it positive, not negative, and also make it as saccharine and platitudinous as possible.” He jabbed a finger at Chambers. “That will be your job, Willis. You’re exceptionally good at that.”

  The three all laughed at the comment, and Bennett stood as if ready to dismiss them.

  Gavin seized an opportunity for which he had been waiting. He jabbed a finger toward Bennett’s desk. “By the way, is that the new trophy?” he asked.

  Carter Bennett acknowledged the accolade with a grin. “It is, indeed.” He nodded toward his desk. The New England Paintball Association championship trophy sat on one corner. Gavin and Chambers studied it in open admiration.

  “Our own Paintball Wizard,” Gavin said, playing off the old rock-and-roll song. He ran a finger along the hand-painted figure that stood atop the prize. It depicted a man in battle dress, body crouched, both hands extended in a combat pistol stance. “Really neat,” he added. “Was it an easy win?”

  “They’re all easy.” Bennett smirked, then dropped into a crouch that imitated the figure on the trophy. He extended his clasped hands simulating a pistol. “They went down like ducks in a barrel,” he said.

  The door swung open, and Charlie Waters entered the office. Bennett momentarily froze, still in a combat crouch. Chambers and Gavin stiffened. Waters looked from one to the other, then back at Bennett.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. Did I interrupt something?”

  Bennett’s face flushed, as he fought for composure. Had Waters not been there he would have slammed the heel of his hand repeatedly into his forehead.

  He forced a laugh. “Sorry. We must look ridiculous. I was just regaling these gentlemen with stories of last weekend’s paintball tournament,” he said.

  Waters eyed the trophy on the desk. “I see you won. Well, congratulations, Carter.” His eyes moved to Bennett’s credenza, where numerous other trophies stood, each somewhat smaller than the newest arrival. “Was this the big one, then?” Waters asked.

  “The New England championship, sir,” Bennett offered. He replayed the scene Waters had walked in on; wished the floor would open up and take him. “Next year they’re talking about a national championship,” he added, more to deflect what Waters had seen than to say anything of real interest.

  “My God, what’s next?” Waters shook his head, putting on an act of concern. “Can’t spare you for the Olympics, Carter.”

  Bennett flushed again.

  Waters glanced pointedly at Chambers and Gavin. It was an unspoken but clear dismissal. Both men started for the door, offering final congratulations for Bennett’s victory.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Waters said, when the others had gone. “But I wanted to fill you in on a meeting I had with Jack Fallon last week.”

  Bennett felt immediate concern. A meeting last week, one he had been told nothing about until now. It didn’t bode well. He took a visitor’s chair, while Waters took another. Bennett knew better than to place the desk between them, put himself in a superior position.

  Waters gave Bennett a brief account of the meeting. “I’m particularly anxious about these tests he’s determined to run. It does us no good to have our problems bandied about. Not now. Not when we’re looking toward a big boost on the Street.”

  “I agree,” Bennett said. He understood Waters’s concerns. More than the man thought he did.

  “And I’m also distressed that Jack seemed unwilling to commit to a team approach on this downsizing matter. He seemed resistant, even when I assured him no final decisions had been made.”

  So he didn’t buy your lie, Bennett thought. But the man would have to be a complete fool to have done so. “There’s a solution, of course,” he said.

  “And what’s that?” Waters asked.

  Bennett extended his hands, then brought them together again, feigning reluctance over what he was about to say. “We get rid of Fallon. Dump him before he can cause any trouble.”

  Waters shook his head. The vehemence of the gesture surprised Bennett. He had made the wrong move and now had to regroup. “That’s as a last resort, of course. We may still be able to bring him around.”

  “We have to,” Waters said. “The man’s a fighter. He doesn’t take things lying down. And while we’d win any fight in the long run, it’s not something we can afford to engage in right now.” His eyes bored in on Bennett. “We need smooth sailing, Carter. We don’t want to raise any unnecessary hackles on the board. And Jack knows some of them quite well. And they respect him.”

  “What do you suggest?” Bennett was the full supplicant now.

  “I had someone do some checking this weekend,” Waters said. “Jack has some personal problems that may make him susceptible to reason if we couch an offer the right way. He’s headed into a potentially costly divorce.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Bennett interrupted, seeking to score some points.

  “Good,” Waters said. “I’m glad to hear you’re on top of things.” His eyes narrowed—the predator now. “He’s also got two kids in college, and an aging mother in a nursing home. My informant tells me he may be facing some difficulties on that last front that could escalate his costs.” He seemed to consider what he had said. “Jack’s financially stable. Hell, he even owns a thousand shares of our stock. But he’s not that stable. And what he does have will probably end up in his wife’s pocket, or certainly the lawyers’.”

  Waters raised a finger. “He also knows his head is potentially on the block. He’s figured out what we’re planning, and he certainly knows he’s not immune. What we have to do is offer a large carrot, and bring him into the fold.”

  Waters noted the displeasure on Bennett’s face. “You disagree?” he asked.

  “Not in principle,” Bennett said. “But I don’t trust Fallon. He’s not a team player. He doesn’t belong.”

  “Absolutely right,” Waters said. “The man lives by values that no longer apply. But he’s temporarily dangerous, and he has to be neutral-ized. After we’ve accomplished what we want …” He let the sentence die with a shrug.

  Bennett smiled. Then you ax him, he thought. And you do it when the buyout package has gone by the board. It had a lovely touch to it. He nodded. “I’m sure I can pull it off,” he said.

  “And in the meantime, I want you to escalate your plan to force resignations,” Waters added. “The more we get, the less chance we have of any organized resistance. Fallon or no Fallon.”

  “I just finished talking to Chambers and Gavin about doing just that.” He smiled at Waters. “If Fallon comes on board, perhaps we can even get him to do some of the hatchet work for us.” The thought of actually handing Fallon one of his envisioned coffee mugs suddenly pleased him. Perhaps even do it in front of the other members of his so-called Dinosaur Club.

  Waters raised another cautioning finger, as if reading his thoughts. “Don’t push Jack too hard, Carter. Lead him. You’re an exceptionally bright young man. But, sometimes, youth lacks patience and perception.”

  Bennett nodded. He could afford to appear chastened by the old bastard. “What do you suggest? Carrotwise?”

  Waters pursed his lips, ple
ased with his own superior cognition. “I think a nice fat raise would be a good start. What do you think, Carter?”

  Bennett flashed a dazzlingly white smile. “I’d like to tell him myself. I think the man has certainly earned it,” he said.

  Fallon answered Bennett’s summons at four that afternoon. He noted that Bennett’s office was about the same size as his own—denoting their relative rank within the company—but that Bennett’s, in addition to being closer to Charlie’s, was much more elaborately furnished. His penchant for austerity did not extend to personal creature comforts, Fallon decided.

  Bennett waved Fallon to a visitor’s chair that had been placed—strategically, Fallon thought—so he would be forced to gaze at some ridiculous trophy on the front corner of Bennett’s desk. Fallon obliged, taking in the crouched figure at the top—clad in fatigues, jump boots, and jungle hat, and poised for battle in a two-handed shooting stance. His eyes dropped to the brass plate affixed beneath. It identified Carter Bennett as that year’s New England Regional Paintball Champion.

  “Just won that this weekend,” Bennett said, noting Fallon’s interest. “Ever thought of giving it a try? Paintball, I mean.”

  “No, I don’t think I ever have.” Fallon’s features remained serene, noncommittal.

  Bennett thought he heard a faint note of derision in Fallon’s voice and decided to spike it. “I know you had some military experience back in Vietnam. But I think you’d find this interesting.” He grinned. “Of course, you don’t get any troop support. It’s strictly mano a mano. And I can tell you, those paint cartridges hurt like hell when you get hit.”

  Yeah, those AK-47 rounds smarted a bit, too, Fallon thought. He forced a smile. “I don’t think so, Carter. I did all the crawling around I wanted thirty years ago. I’m sort of a peaceable old dinosaur now.” He threw in the last, part for fun, part to leave no doubt where he stood.

  Bennett seemed unfazed. He leaned forward, his face filled with sincerity. The pose reminded Fallon of his assistant, Les Gavin. “That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about, Jack. I think you have a misperception about the company’s plans for the future. I want to be sure you know that everyone in the company considers you a big part of that future.”