Dark Places In the Heart

by Jill Barnett

  Victor just looked at him. He hadn’t done the right research.

  “This deal—my deal—will save the company two million dollars.” Jud held up two fingers. “Two million dollars.”

  “I can’t believe my own flesh and blood could be so fucking stupid. Just what did they teach you in six years of college?”

  “Enough to figure out how to cut a deal with one of the biggest suppliers in the world.”

  Victor laughed at him.

  “We’ve never dealt with Marvetti before.” Jud tapped his chest. “I got us in. Me.”

  “You actually think I can’t make a deal with anyone I want?”

  His grandson had no quick comeback. The kid wasn’t stupid, just green. Jud’s voice was quiet when he said, “I checked the company records. There’s no record of any deal with Marvetti.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “Because we didn’t have an in.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Joe Syverson said there was a rumor that Marvetti hated you.”

  “I wouldn’t do business with him when I was small potatoes, and I sure as hell won’t do it now. You should have asked me, not Syverson.”

  “The last time I asked you a question, you said you weren’t going to wet-nurse me through my job. You told me to learn to think for myself.”

  “‘Think’ is the definitive word, Jud.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “For Christ’s sake, stop glaring at me and calm down. Tell me how this deal of yours came about.”

  “I ran into Richard Denton at the club a few months back.” Jud began to pace in front of Victor’s desk. “He asked me to have drinks with his foursome. Marvetti’s sales manager was one of the group.”

  “So they came after you.”

  “No.” Jud spun around and faced him. “That’s not what happened. I had to work my butt off for this deal. I did everything but kiss his ass.”

  The kid never saw it coming, Victor thought. “Was Fitzpatrick there?”

  “Yes.”

  Victor looked up at Jud. “So you think men like Denton and Fitzpatrick are going to welcome you into their inner business circle just like”—Victor snapped his fingers—“that? Why would they do that? Because you went to Stanford? Because they like your looks? Because you drive a hot little MG, wear cashmere sweaters, and can shoot three under par on the back nine? Or do you think it just might be because you’re my grandson?” Victor leaned forward, his palms flat on the desktop. “You’re a snot-nosed kid just out of college.”

  Jud’s head snapped back as if Victor had punched him.

  “You’re twenty-five years old and you have a helluva lot to learn.” Victor took a long deep breath and sat back in his chair. “First rule of business: Examine the offer. Don’t look first at what kind of deal they’re giving you. Look at what’s in it for them.”

  “I know what’s in it for them. A multimillion-dollar deal with BanCo. That’s what I can give them,” Jud said, wounded pride in his voice.

  Victor understood pride in all its forms. “You’re exactly right.”

  Jud looked confused. He ran on ego instead of instinct, something he had yet to develop.

  “If a smart businessman wants something and can’t get it, he looks to his opponent’s weakest spot.” Victor paused, then said, “In my case, you’re it.”

  Jud spoke through a tight jaw. “Just what do you want from me?”

  “I want you to do your job. When you start a deal, you make damn sure you know everything there is to know about who you’re dealing with. Especially their motives. You find out their shoe size, their kids’ names, their goddamn blood type. Know how much they paid the IRS last year. Know every fucking thing there is to know before you ever negotiate anything.”

  “What’s wrong with Marvetti? Why won’t you deal with them?”

  “I’m not going to do your job. You need to use your head, dammit. I want you to understand that—”

  “You want me to be perfect!”

  “No. I don’t believe in miracles.” Victor would have bet Jud wanted to hit him right then. He took a deep breath. “What I want is for you to learn to work the same way I do. I want you to think like I do.”

  “Why in the hell would I want to be like you?” Victor stood up.

  “You cocky young fool. You have no idea of the mistakes ahead of you.”

  “Yes I do. I’m looking at my biggest mistake, old man. I thought I could be part of this company. You’re the one who’s mistaken if you think I ever want to be anything like you!”

  “Then you’re stupid, and I’ve never thought that of you, Jud. You wanted to learn this business. Then watch me and goddamn learn it!”

  “I didn’t ask to be raked over the coals every time I turn around! I can’t do anything right around you!” Jud leaned on the desk.

  They were almost nose to nose. Victor straightened, then spoke in a calmer tone. “Your only problem is that you’re young. And you don’t like to admit you’re wrong.”

  “With you I’m always wrong.”

  “You’re not always wrong. You just think you know everything.”

  “Then I guess I am just like you.”

  In the utter silence that followed, Victor asked himself how many mistakes it would take to crack through this kid’s hard head. He thought Jud was like Rudy in that, and he looked at the angry young man standing before him and felt as if he’d been thrown back in time. Rudy would have run the company into the ground, but Jud was whip-smart, took chances, and he was the stronger of the boys. Unlike Cale—who was screwing his way through Loyola—a woman would never get between Jud and the business. Jud didn’t think with his fly.

  “You think I’m tough on you? Well, I am.” Victor sat again, leaning back in his chair and never taking his eyes off Jud. “I built this business by being tough, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose it because you’re too hardheaded to listen and learn.”

  “So what am I supposed to tell Marvetti? My grandfather said, ‘No deal?’ I can hear the buzz now. ‘Jud Banning is a real pussy. A puppet. He does exactly what his grandfather tells him.’ Great . . . just great.”

  “You want me to give you all the answers and I’m not going to. I didn’t have anyone to tell me what to do. Solve this yourself. Show the world the kind of a man you are.”

  “So in this hard-edged, tough business world of yours, you become a man by welshing on a deal? How in the hell will anyone ever take me seriously?”

  Victor leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and merely looked at him. He refused to lead Jud through life by the nose.

  “Damn you, Victor. This is my deal. I have to lose my respect and integrity because you don’t like Marvetti?”

  “You lost your integrity when you let his flunkies lure you into a business deal with him. Find out for yourself why. Then you come and tell me how good your deal is.”

  Anger, humiliation, and something almost elemental were in Jud’s taut features. “I want the chance to make my own mark on this company, to do things my way.”

  “Your way is wrong.” Victor didn’t move. Jud was pigheaded but Victor knew he wouldn’t cross that final line—the one that would send his butt out of the company. The silence between them was tense, and silence between people said more than words ever could. “Go on.” Victor waved a hand and looked away. “Get out of here.” He picked up a folder on his desk, but when Jud was almost out the door he called his name. “Don’t come back until you’re ready to do things the right way.”

  Jud jerked open the door. “You mean your way.”

  “Yes. I mean my way.”

  Loyola University Marymount College

  Del Rey Hills, California

  There were no doctors in the Banning family. Cale wasn’t trying to follow in some relative’s hallowed footsteps. He defied Victor’s rule of natural order, but not for the sake of defiance. When Cale was young and someone asked him what he wanted to be wh
en he grew up, his answer was always the same. While his friends vacillated between a cowboy one week and a fireman the next, he saved the life of everything from earthworms to a neighbor’s half-drowned cat. Whenever a seagull flew into the almost invisible glass windows of the Lido house, Cale would put the senseless gull in a box with a beach towel warm from the dryer, and an hour later the bird flew away.

  Those nights he would sleep without moving. He would crawl out of his bed the next morning, the sheets still tucked in, and later Maria would swear he’d slept on the floor or in Jud’s room. The truth was, he never tried to sleep in Jud’s room after that first month. Their boyhood closeness was just that, part of boyhood. Jud was his brother, but like those unsuspecting seagulls, Cale had slammed headfirst into a glass wall Victor built between them enough times to not fly there anymore.

  By the time Cale started high school, he sought his comfort from the opposite sex. At college those first few years, partying was preferable to catching some Z’s, and he had a new freedom, living away from home. Everyone slept in dorms, which was where he headed that afternoon as he left the student post office with an envelope from the University of Washington.

  A cool afternoon breeze swept in from the Pacific, pushing the smog farther inland and away from the campus perched on a bluff above the western fringes of the LA basin. Students sat on benches and lounged across lawns surrounded with the clean smell of mown grass and beds of rosebushes with flowers the size of an open hand. As on most days, older priests and nuns played bocce at one end of the green, a spot called the Sunken Garden, and some students tossed around a Frisbee at the other end. A banner painted with a bulldog behind bars and the cry Pound the Zags! hung between two huge magnolia trees in the middle of the mall, because tonight—the last night before spring break—was the night when Loyola challenged Gonzaga for the number one position in their division.

  Cale’s mind wasn’t on the big game when he left Saint Robert’s Hall and headed straight for the senior apartments, a three-story stucco-and-wood building that could have easily melted into any block of apartments in any part of LA. Four seniors shared each two-bedroom unit, but the place was empty when he tossed his books on an orange Formica table, grabbed a cold Coors, and headed for his room, which smelled like old socks, wet towels, and pizza. He sat down on the bed, staring down at the white envelope for a long time before he opened it and unfolded the letter.

  March 24, 1970

  Dear Mr. Banning:

  We regret to inform you that you do not meet our requirements for admission into the University of Washington School of Medicine.

  Blah . . . blah . . . blah . . . He crushed the letter into a ball and rested his head on his fists. Every letter was the same. The rejections from the first-tier schools had come rapid-fire fast—Harvard, Stanford, Johns Hopkins. The rest came week after week, like some unending boxing match he was destined to lose.

  The door flew open with a bang and his roommate and teammate shuffled in, singing off-key Creedence Clearwater. “Down on the corner, out in the street, Willie and the tall boys are playin’, on the home court tonight.”

  William Dorsey was the grandson of a Big Band leader whose musical talent was not passed on to subsequent generations, but whose showmanship was. Will loved a cheering crowd, whether it was on the basketball court or in the dorm back in their freshman year when he was the guy who could chug a six-pack of Colt 45 malt liquor in under three minutes and not throw up. He was a basketball star. Six foot six, a loose walker, all rubber arms and legs, and on the court he was magic in motion. His jump shot was tops; he could score more points in two minutes than any other player in the division; and it was no surprise when he was unanimously voted captain of the Lions. Scouts had been around him at almost every game.

  Will kicked the door closed and stopped to blow a ritual kiss at a color eight-by-ten photo of Jeannine Byer, a knockout blonde, a Mount Saint Mary’s nursing student. He gave Cale a quick glance, then stopped. “Who died?”

  “Me.” Cale held up the crumpled letter.

  “Another one? Which school?”

  “U Dub.”

  “Ah, hell, man. You didn’t wanna go there anyway. It rains all the time.” Will dropped his books on the floor, picked up a metal wastebasket, and balanced it on his head. “Here.” He pointed to the basket. “That letter belongs in here. Those sorry bastards. One throw. Come on, man. Go for it!”

  Cale pitched the letter into the air; it arced across the room and dropped inside the basket with a soft ping.

  Will lifted Cale’s Coors can to his mouth like a mike. He blew into it, making a hollow sound. Mimicking Howard Cosell, he said, “We have an-nuther goal scored by Cale Banning tonight. He is well on his way to breaking all . . . ex-zisting records for med school rejection! But there’s hope! This erudite fuckup of Loyola has not exhausted all his options. Canada? Mexico? The third world countries? Or if all else failed Mis-ter Cale Banning can apply to Uncle-Sam-Wants-U, where he will swiftly be transferred to the renowned University of Da Nang!”

  “Funny.” Cale threw a wet towel at him. “University of Da Nang, my ass.”

  “Hell, if I were sending men into the jungle, I wouldn’t want dropouts leading the way.” Will swept a couple of eight-track tapes off the bed, fell back flat on the mattress, and crossed his big feet. He was wearing squeaky huarache sandals he’d bought for a buck on a weekend trip down to Tijuana over Thanksgiving break. “When I was dreaming of the draft, I was thinking NBA, not U.S. Army.” He folded his hands behind his head and lay staring up at the ceiling before he raised his head off the pillow and looked at Cale. “Your MCATs aren’t doing it?”

  “Med schools are packed. No one wants to go to Da Nang.”

  “Too many body counts on the news. Was that the last of your applications?”

  “No. I haven’t heard from San Diego, Texas, and USC.”

  “What are you going to do if they all say nada?”

  Head down, Cale rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know.”

  “I can’t believe you gave away your GPA for a forty-inch bust. Did you go to any classes last year?”

  “Some.”

  There was a long pause before Will asked, “Was she worth it?”

  Cale laughed bitterly. “No.”

  “Have you talked to your grandfather yet?”

  “Oh, yeah. Sure. I’m looking forward to that conversation.”

  Will picked up a basketball and began to toss it from hand to hand. “Victor Banning. The great and powerful Oz. I only met him once. Kept wishing I had a crucifix to hold in front of my face.”

  “One of his better qualities.”

  “He has to be able to help you. With his connections?” Will quit tossing the basketball and faced Cale. “What would happen if you had a heart-to-heart talk with him?”

  “He doesn’t have a heart.”

  “Talk to him.”

  “I’ve spent years trying to talk to my grandfather. No one talks to Victor. He talks to them. Every time I go home, I hear about how I’m throwing my future away. It’s one of the many reasons I don’t go home.” Cale looked down, then shook his head. “God, Will. How could I screw up so bad?”

  The only sound in the room was the basketball bouncing off the ceiling, then nothing but a long silent pause. Will held the basketball at chest level, looking at him. “Bad-ly,” he said, and threw the ball at Cale.

  Instinctively, Cale caught it, then laughed. “Kiss my ass, you literate jock.”

  Will grabbed the ringing phone. “Timothy Leary’s House of Hash. You smoke ’em, we coke ’em.” His gaze shifted to Cale. “Yeah, he’s here . . . somewhere. Let me see if I can find him. Oh, I think I see his foot. There! Yes! In the corner! He’s buried under . . . Wait! Wait, I need a skip-loader here.” He paused for drama, then shook his head. “Uh-oh. Too bad. Looks like he’s a goner. Make a note for his epitaph, will you? ‘Here lies Cale Banning, who, on April 3, 1970, suffoc
ated to death under the largest pile of med school rejections in the history of the modern world.’” Will held out the phone and whispered, “It’s Jud. Lucky Mr. Four-F.”

  “Hey, there, big brother.”

  “Hey, you.” Jud’s bass voice sounded exactly like their dad’s. Cale always had to take that one extra second to remember who was on the other end.

  “Will Dorsey is a nutcase,” Jud said.

  “Yeah.” Cale looked at Will. “I know. You ought to try living with him. It’s like being trapped inside a Ferlinghetti poem.”

  Will flipped him off and jogged into the bathroom. A couple of seconds later, Cale heard the shower running, then the tinny notes of a transistor radio playing a Jimi Hendrix song. “What’s going on?” Cale asked Jud.

  “I’m on a pay phone at the steamer dock, waiting to board the boat. I’m going to the island a day early.”

  Damn . . . . He’d forgotten this was the weekend they’d planned to meet at the Catalina place. “I can’t leave yet, Jud. There’s a play-off game tonight.”

  “I know. I just wanted to let you know I’m going over early. I’ve got to get out of here today.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “What isn’t wrong.” Jud sounded disgusted.

  “Victor.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t get me started. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

  They hung up. He hadn’t seen Jud in months. Cale used school as an excuse to avoid going home; it had become a comfortable habit. He used sports, studying, anything to weasel out of going to Newport. Nothing waited for him at home but Victor’s expectations. He grabbed his game gear from under the bed, slung the athletic bag over a shoulder, and hammered on the bathroom door, then opened it. Steam hit him in the face. “How long are you going to be in here?”

  “Till I’m clean.”

  Cale turned down the radio.

  “What’s going on with Mr. Perfect?” Will asked.

  “Jud’s not perfect.”