The Dinosaur Club Read online

Page 31


  Malloy snorted. “Then your desk will be out in the hall. We can sit there together.”

  “We’ll all be there soon enough, Jim.”

  Malloy shook his head. “You know what I don’t understand, Jack? The cruelty. But, hell, I don’t understand any of it, even without the cruelty.” He forced the recliner’s footrest down and sat forward. “I mean, what do they do? They sit there and crunch their numbers, and they don’t like what they see. Okay, that happens all the time, and companies find ways to resolve those things. They always have. Hell, layoffs are a way of life in this country. They’ve always been part of it, and they always will be. They stink, sure, and they hurt, but at least everybody knows that someday they’ll get their jobs back. And it’s based on seniority—there’s always some tacit respect for all the years people have put in.” He ran a hand over his mouth, then took another swallow of his drink. “But not anymore. What the hell is the matter with these people, Jack? They don’t think they’re ever gonna turn fifty? They don’t think this game they’ve invented will ever apply to them?”

  “It never will, Jim. Not the guys who really make those decisions.” He laughed. It was a bitter, cold sound. “Hell, companies lose millions, and their boards hand bonuses to the CEO and all his buddies at the top. Their pensions, when they do decide to pack it in, are so heavy they drag everybody down. And then some of them are even kept on as consultants, so they can draw a salary on top of it all.”

  Malloy snorted again. “So we’re screwed ‘cause we never got that high.”

  “Yeah, that’s about it. We should have wielded the blade a little better; gotten ourselves up there, and looked down on everybody else.”

  “That’s just it, Jack. They don’t see anybody else. We’re not even there. We’re just numbers on some computer printout. They even take away our humanity. And when they buy us out, they don’t even regret doing it. They don’t even understand that it’s wrong. Laid-off people have become a corporate asset. They just want us to leave quietly and not make a fuss, not hand them any grief.”

  Fallon was overwhelmed by the man’s despair, by the blatant surrender in his voice that came through the anger. He wanted to respond, to say something that wasn’t weak and ineffectual.

  He tried. “Maybe this time they won’t get what they want, Jim. Maybe for once we’ll stick together and make them see us.” He looked into Malloy’s eyes, listened to his own words. They were as weak as he had feared, and Jim Malloy knew it.

  21

  A WEEK WENT BY WITH MALLOY SEATED IN THE HALL, AN undeclared pariah in a well-tailored suit, someone best encountered with averted eyes. It was worse than Fallon had feared, and he suggested Malloy move in with one of his salesmen, or ask two junior men to temporarily double up and use the remaining smaller office himself.

  Malloy had refused, had insisted he wouldn’t share the grief with anyone else, that Bennett would simply find some new torment if he did. Instead, he sat there each morning; doing what work he could in the well-traveled hall. He seldom returned from lunch.

  At the beginning of the second week, workmen still failed to materialize. Malloy’s office remained locked and now became the subject of whispered office humor. Fallon overheard two young salesmen sharing one such joke. He went ballistic, ordered both men out of the office, told each not to return until either his attitude changed or he had found employment elsewhere and was there to clear his desk. Both men reappeared later that day, acts of mealy-mouthed contrition spewing from their lips. “You’re apologizing to the wrong person,” Fallon snapped.

  And the joke? It was stupid and cruel, not even modestly funny. “How many workers does it take to redecorate an office? Answer: None. It only takes one executive to see the handwriting on the wall.” Fallon hoped the humor was not finding its way back to Malloy.

  It was late Wednesday afternoon when Malloy entered Fallon’s office. He was pale and drawn; his hands trembled. It was clear he had enjoyed a long, liquid lunch. He handed Fallon a letter, explaining he had just gotten it via E-mail.

  The letter was from Carter Bennett—terse and cutting and morally indignant. Reports of excessive drinking had come to his attention and would be reported to Malloy’s immediate superior for appropriate action. However, these allegations also created a potential liability for the company, which required prompt resolution. Malloy was therefore directed to turn in his company-owned vehicle until the matter was “adjudicated.”

  “So what do I do, Jack? Just turn my keys in to you? You’re the judge, right?” Malloy’s voice trembled like his hands, a mixture of fear and rage—directed, in part, at Fallon himself. But it was primarily fear, Fallon thought. Malloy’s self-esteem had cracked and was ready to crumble.

  “You don’t do a damned thing,” Fallon said. “You go home with your car, and you let me handle it. Nothing’s crossed my desk, and I’m going to try to kill this crap before anything does.”

  The fissure deepened; one could see it in the man’s eyes. “What’s the use, Jack? What the hell is next? I won’t survive long enough to take any goddamned buyout.”

  Fallon felt deluged by the man’s fears. He raised his hands. “Jim, calm down. None of that’s going to happen.” He tried to put conviction in his voice, knew he had failed.

  Fallon came around his desk and took a chair next to Malloy’s. “Jim, go home. With your car. And let me deal with it. Take tomorrow off. Just give me a couple of days.”

  Malloy turned his head away. His eyes were filling with tears, and he couldn’t bear that added humiliation. He shook his head. “I can’t let this happen to my family, Jack. I just can’t.”

  “It’s not going to happen, Jim. It’s not.”

  Malloy shook his head again, but said nothing.

  “Jack, what could I do? I have an obligation to this company. We all do.” Bennett sat behind his desk, forced regret in his voice.

  “You could have come to me, Carter. Let me deal with this ridiculous allegation.”

  Bennett extended his hands, palms up, then allowed them to fall back to his desk. “Jack, I think my letter makes it clear I intended to do exactly that. These allegations, as you call them, initially came from Les Gavin, who should be in a position to know.”

  Fallon stared at him. “Then why the hell didn’t Gavin say anything to me?”

  “I told him to, and I’m sure he will. And I don’t think the allegation is ridiculous. I did some other checking myself. It’s not exactly a secret. I even walked by the man’s desk. Hell, Jack, I could smell the liquor from three feet.” He offered up another helpless gesture. “What do we do? Wait until someone’s hurt, and the company is faced with a major liability?”

  “I’ll deal with it, Carter,” Fallon snapped. And with that little shit Gavin, he added to himself.

  “That’s great, Jack. I was certain you would. And I regret this came to you in such a roundabout way. I’ll speak to Les about that. I’m sure he was just hoping it would all go away.” He paused a beat. “But I have to be firm about the company car,” he added. “I don’t really have a choice about that.”

  Fallon stared him down. “It’s my division, Carter,” he said. “I’ll deal with it.”

  Carter smiled. “Jack, I couldn’t ask for anything more,” he said.

  “Jack, I just made a comment about Jim in passing. It was a joke, an off-the-cuff remark. I just suggested they get cracking on his office before Beefeater stock went through the roof.” Gavin cringed with false regret. “Jesus, I never expected it to blow up like this.” Gavin shook his head. He was contrite, horrified, and Fallon wanted to strangle him where he sat.

  “Frankly, when I saw Carter was all juiced up about it, I decided to just ignore it. I still thought it would all blow over if and when it got to you. I never expected Carter to take any independent action. Jesus, Jack, I’m just beside myself about this.”

  Fallon stared across his desk, pinning Gavin where he sat. “So it was all a little joke?”


  “That’s right, Jack. I mean …”

  Fallon cut him off. “You have no independent evidence that suggests Jim Malloy is a drunk who shouldn’t be trusted with a company car. Right?”

  Gavin stuttered over his next words. “Well, Jack … well … I mean …”

  Fallon lashed out at him. “Spit it out, Lester. Do you or don’t you have any solid, independent knowledge that Jim Malloy is a drunk? Because if you do, I expect you to give it to me, and be ready to back it up.”

  More stuttering. “Well … no, Jack. I mean … 1 mean I haven’t been following him around. I’ve … I’ve seen him … when I thought he had maybe a couple too many drinks…. But …”

  “I’ve seen you that way, Les. Are you a drunk?”

  “Jesus, Jack …”

  “All right. Enough. I want a memo from you, Lester. I want you to go out to Carol, and dictate it right now. You don’t leave her office until you do. Understood? And in it, I want you to state exactly what you just told me—that your comment about Jim was not intended in a serious vein, and that you have no independent knowledge about any real or imagined drinking problem.” Fallon continued to pin him with his eyes. “If you do not, Lester, I will regard that as blatant insubordination. If you dictate anything else, I’ll view this conversation we just had as a flagrant attempt to withhold the truth from me.”

  “But… but… Jack …”

  “And if you change your story, and decide that Jim does have a drinking problem, I’ll expect you to support that belief with facts. Otherwise, I’ll be forced to consider it an attempt to slander a fellow executive of this company for your own personal gain. And you will then find yourself in one helluva pissing contest with me, my young friend. And win or lose that war, it will cost you dearly. I doubt that management will exactly clutch you to their bosom. They don’t like these ugly little battles, Lester. And when Jim Malloy drags you, and the company, into court for slander, they’re going to like it even less. And I will not like it when I’m forced to say that your observations were a crock of self-serving shit. Do we understand each other, Lester?”

  “I’m worried about Jim,” Fallon said. The dinosaurs were gathered just outside the locker rooms, ready to start their nightly session in the gym. Fallon had taken them aside to fill them in about the latest move against Malloy. The news had hit each of them hard.

  “You think the memo you forced out of Gavin will stop them?” Wally asked.

  “That, and the veiled threat of a lawsuit that I’m sure Lester passed along.” Fallon looked at each man. “But if Jim keeps hitting the sauce, it won’t matter. Bennett will just take a step back and start building a case against him. And it won’t be too damned hard to do.”

  “Have you heard back from Bennett?” Wally asked.

  “No,” Fallon said. “But I’m sure I will.”

  “Have you heard anything back from M.I.T.?” It was Joe Hartman. “Or from anyplace that gives us a handle on what the hell is going on?”

  “Not yet.” Fallon glanced at Annie.

  “Paulie said his boss—the big genius—hasn’t finished his test yet. But he promised me we’ll have something definitive in the next day or two.”

  Fallon looked at the others. “We’ll just have to wait. But it won’t be long.”

  “So what the hell do you want us to do, Jack?” It was Ben Constantini. He seemed frightened and nervous. But he also looked angry.

  “For now, try and help Jim. Just reach out to him. Call him at home tomorrow. I told him to take the day off to let everything settle down. Let him know what happened and that you’re all behind him. I’m afraid he’s ready to pack it in and give Bennett what he wants.”

  “Maybe he should.” It was Annie Schwartz. “I mean, how much should anyone have to take, Jack? What good will it do if he gets the damned buyout and ends up a broken-down juicer who sits in his house all day with a glass of booze in his hand.”

  Joe Hartman chimed in, “Nobody should have to take this shit. Nobody.”

  Fallon looked at Hartman, then at Annie. What she had said had hit hard. The words were almost identical to Betty Malloy’s. He shook his head. “There’s too much at stake to give in,” he said. “For Jim; for all of us. But right now, especially for Jim.”

  “Why don’t you tell him that, Jack?” It was George Valasquez.

  The words had been snide and cutting, and Fallon turned to face him. “Because I don’t think he’d believe me, George.”

  “Gee, that’s a big surprise.” He sneered. “By the way, Jack, have you seen these new coffee mugs they’ve started to hand out? I’M A HIGH OCTANE FLYER written right there on the side. I was wondering if you’ve gotten yours yet.”

  Samantha had just come out of the women’s locker room as Valasquez spoke. She was dressed in a black leotard, and each man had watched her as she started past the group. Then she stopped abruptly, rounding on them. Her eyes blazed. “Excuse me for interrupting.” She stared at George. “I couldn’t help overhearing what you just said.”

  Valasquez seemed stunned. Fallon raised a hand to take her arm, to stop her. But she pushed it aside.

  “So what are you saying? Jack Fallon’s a hatchet man? Someone who shouldn’t be trusted? Or is he just pretending to be one? For your sakes.” She continued to glare at George. They were about the same size, but George suddenly seemed smaller. “Which is it?” she demanded. “And whichever it is, what do you think happens to him when everything’s finished—when this buyout has come and gone?” She continued to stare George down. “Does he get a raise? A medal, maybe? Or do they toss him out on the street with nothing?” She watched Valasquez twist. “Maybe you should ask yourself who’s taking the biggest risk here. And while you’re at it, while you’re being so concerned, maybe you should also stop being so damned stupid.”

  Fallon took her arm now and gently eased her away. He looked back over his shoulder, his face clearly shocked. “Do what I said, okay?” he called back.

  When they reached the other side of the gym, he leaned in close. “Jesus, don’t expose yourself like that. If Bennett heard about it…”

  “I don’t give a damn,” she snapped, cutting him off. “What he’s doing to that man, Malloy, makes me sick. What he’s doing to you makes me sick. And when I hear someone suggest you’re not doing enough—especially one of the people you’re risking everything to help, it just … it just …”

  Fallon started to laugh softly. “Boy, remind me never to make you mad,” he said. “I thought you were going to punch little Georgie out. The man just ran into the locker room to change his shorts.”

  Samantha struggled for a straight face, smiled, and then began to laugh herself. She kept her back turned so the men across the room wouldn’t notice. “And don’t you ever forget it, Fallon,” she said.

  22

  BENNETT TURNED INTO EAST SEVENTY-SECOND STREET at Madison Avenue. He had just put Eunice in a cab. They had dined at Le Provençal, and for once her spirits had been high. But why shouldn’t they be? The company’s stock had taken a substantial jump that day, and he was certain it was due to word reaching the Street that a major downsizing plan was about to be implemented.

  Bennett smiled as he walked briskly toward his apartment. It was six blocks away, but it was a beautiful, mild evening, and his own spirits were high. It was due to something Eunice had said. It had surprised him, and thinking about it, even now, made his smile widen. He had told her about Fallon’s tirade against Les Gavin, and his ridiculous attempt to save another decrepit fool. Gavin had come to him in panic, and both Fallon’s attempt and Gavin’s fear had amused him. He’d let Malloy keep his company car—for now. It had never been a serious point of contention—simply added pressure. He’d let Fallon think he’d won a round. Made a point of bowing to his wisdom. He told Eunice he might even publicly chastise Gavin. Just for a bit of added fun. Then, in a few days, he’d hit Malloy again, and the man would fold. It would be an indelible lesson that Fallon wouldn
’t quickly forget.

  Then Eunice had said the thing that had so surprised him. She had said that his description of Fallon made her think of his brother, Edwin—his father’s favorite. Like your brother, this Mr. Fallon seems to possess a great deal of front, with nothing of substance behind it, she had said.

  He had never considered that comparison, but now he thought it apt. Like his brother, Fallon was a fool, and he wondered how the man had gotten as far as he had. He knew how Edwin had. But Jack Fallon didn’t have the luxury of a wealthy and doting father.

  God knows. How do any of them get that far? By default, I expect. Bennett considered the thought. Watching Fallon’s weak little struggle against the inevitable was rather sad, actually. A slow grin crossed his face. But not that sad. You’ve never been too proud to accept an easy victory.

  But then, it was a matter of genetics. A certain class was expected to lead. They were bred for it. It was not discriminatory, or even exclusionary, simply a fact of life. He briefly wondered about the others—the Fallon-like creatures his plan would soon displace—and how many of them would find new employment. Most, he supposed. Over time. And with what was in the offing, the people who were forced out would actually be better off. Another smile crossed his lips. If they knew what was really going to happen, they’d probably thank you.

  He fought back laughter. Perhaps I should tell them, he thought. Perhaps they’d even throw me a small dinner. But perhaps not, he thought. They might doubt my egalitarianism.

  He stopped at Third Avenue. There was a liquor store on the corner, and it brought a pleasant thought to mind. He could buy a bottle of champagne and stop by Samantha’s apartment. It was only four blocks north of where he stood.

  His smile widened as he turned in to the store. Why not give yourself a little reward? And give Samantha one, too. When you were seeing each other she always liked your little surprises. And the job at hand has created a bit of a strain. This might be a good way to ease it.