by Chris Knopf
“Please,” I said to both of them.
They still didn’t budge.
“Well, shit,” said Sullivan, finally, “if you’re gonna use the magic word,” and walked off toward the house.
Jackie started to follow him, shaking her head.
“Be careful,” I said.
She turned around and walked backwards as she spoke.
“You should get out of here. We’ll meet later.”
“I’ll call in a few hours.”
She walked a few more steps, then turned around again, pointing her finger at me.
“You’re gonna owe me for the rest of your life.”
I knew she’d do it, though I felt bad about messing with her principles. When I was her age I always let principle overpower common sense. It’s what you do when you’re young and dumb. Before all the consequences of bitter experience pile up. And you become like Milton Hornsby, unable to outpace the hurts, sins and miscalculations you’ve let loose on the world, until they literally hound you to death—calling, writing, leaving messages on your answering machine.
There was some sort of big celebration going on at the Polish church, so the parking lot at the Senior Center was almost full. It was about 4:00 p.m. I wondered what kind of hours Barbara Filmore kept.
The million-year-old woman was at her post at the front desk.
“Welcome.”
“Thank you. Is Barbara Filmore here?”
“The director?”
“That’s the one.”
“No she’s not.”
“Not the director?”
“Not here.”
She tapped the counter above her desk a few times to cement the point.
“Who fills in for her on when she’s gone?”
“She fills in for herself. She’s just not here now.”
I let the logic of that one just float on by.
“Barbara has a friend, a guy named Bob Sobol. You see him around much?”
“Oh sure. He comes and takes her to lunch. He’s sweet on her.”
“Does Bob hang around the place much, talk to everybody?”
She motioned me to come closer.
“Likes the cards,” she whispered. “Handles ’em real slick.”
“How ’bout you? You play with him?”
She got coy.
“I just might. Been to the casinos. Know my way around a poker game.”
“I’ll remember that.”
She waved that off, but liked it.
“How long’s Barbara been seeing Bob?”
“You’re a nosy newt.”
“Just curious. How long do you think?”
“I don’t know. A long time. Two or three years, maybe more.”
Time had lost continuity for her. Too much had gone by unexamined.
“Been here playing cards ever since.”
“Every once in a while, that’s right. Helps out with activities. Have I told you about the Oktoberfest? Lots of beer.”
“Maybe I’ll check it out.”
“Lots of beer.”
“You remember Regina Broadhurst?”
“Oh sure. She’s a great old gal.”
“You know she passed away.”
She looked confused for a moment.
“I suppose I did.”
“She ever play cards with Bob?”
She looked back toward the main room of the Center where they served food and held activities. Looking for the answer.
“Oh, sure. Everybody plays with Bob. He’s a kidder.”
“You like him, too.”
“Oh sure. Everybody loves a kidder. Of course, everybody’s so nice here. There’re always nice to me, all the people.”
“That makes you a great old gal yourself.”
She stared up at me for a moment, working her jaw side to side like a cow with her cud.
“Bullshit’ll work on almost anybody, mister.”
We parted happy.
I still had a little time left in the day and was too keyed up to go back to the cottage. I thought about heading directly to the Pequot, but I wanted to keep my head clear for Jackie later on. I thought of one more stop I could make.
The Village municipal offices on Main Street were set to close in ten minutes. I ran down the stairs and got to the double glass doors just as the Records Department battleaxe was about to shut down. Keys were poised before the lock. I tapped my wrist where a watch would have been if I wore one, then pointed at the hours painted on the glass door.
“I’m really sorry,” I said to her as she opened the door a crack, “I just need one little thing. Take you two seconds.”
She opened the door the rest of the way and trudged back to her post behind the counter.
“Computer’s logged off for the night,” she said to me, to kick things off.
“Here’s what I need,” I said as I dashed off the address on a slip of scratch paper and slid it across the counter. “This file. Specifically the purchase history. Before the ’57 rezoning.”
“That’s in the dated stacks.”
“That’s right, that’s why I’m here. Just bring me the whole file. I’ll dig out what I need.”
She probably wanted to put up more of a fight, but it was late, she was tired and I’m sure I had a determined look about me. She capitulated with token resistance.
“No time to make copies.”
“I just need to take a look.”
As she walked away she said, “At four-thirty the door’s locked.”
As it turned out it took her a lot longer than that to locate the file. When she got back to the counter her battering-ram hairdo had come a little loose and dust smudges were all over her dress. I was making a lot of friends today.
“Here.” She dropped the file in front of me. “I already put the purchase history on top. Pull out what you need, I can make copies tomorrow.”
She’d chosen a new tack. Grace in defeat.
I read the top pages while she dusted herself off. I wrote a few notes on the scratch paper that was out on the counter, but I didn’t need to. I’d remember the details. I was done in a few minutes. I shut the folder and slid it back across the counter.
“Thanks for taking the trouble. No need for copies.”
“I hope it was important,” she said, somewhat heartfelt.
“Life and death,” I said.
“Aren’t they all.”
After leaving the Records Department I drove out to Dune Road so I could watch the magic-hour light warm up the sand and blacken the sea. The air was already a lot cooler for this time of the evening and the leaves were falling in a steady cascade, littering the world with red, orange, yellow and brown.
I was at the stop sign at the bottom of Halsey Neck and was about to turn right on Dune when the trained bear drove by in his black BMW.
He was talking on a cell phone. I turned left instead to follow, but let him get well ahead of me before following in earnest. He was moving fast, but I could easily keep the shiny black mass in view. He was heading down Meadow Lane toward the south part of the Village. A pickup truck pulled out ahead of me and got between us. That provided some cover so I could snug up the gap.
I lit a cigarette and wondered how inconspicuous I could be in a ’67 Pontiac Grand Prix.
The bear drove parallel to the ocean until he entered the southernmost reaches of the estate district. The pickup had the good manners to follow the same route all the way to Gin Lane before pulling into a driveway. I slipped back until a vintage Mercedes convertible took the pickup’s place. We turned left and caravanned up South Main Street, and into the center of the Village.
I lost the Mercedes at Job’s Lane, but kept a bead on the BMW till it turned off Main Street into the big Village parking area behind the storefronts. I passed by the entrance and sped around to another one off Nugent Street. There was a real chance I’d lose him in the big lot, but I didn’t want to rush in blind. I drove in slowly, scanning for the black seven-se
ries sedan.
It was already parked and the bear was climbing out. He still had the cell phone stuck in his ear. He wore the same black leather duster and motorcycle boots I’d recently seen up close.
He leaned on the open driver’s side door while he talked on the phone. I parked a few rows over and shut off the engine. As he talked he looked steadily at the back side of the shops and offices that fronted on Main Street. I got out of the Grand Prix to get a better view. I moved a little closer and stood behind a tall Range Rover. The bear was still looking up at the back of the buildings. My eyes left him when I tried to follow his line of sight. When I looked back, he was out of the BMW, holding the cell phone with one hand and waving with the other.
I came around the Range Rover to clear my view of the buildings and searched for movement. That’s when I saw Amanda Battiston standing with Bob Sobol on a rear balcony off the second story of the Southampton branch of Harbor Trust, waving back at the bear, holding a cell phone of her own up to her ear.
EIGHT
EMBARRASSMENT IS A complicated human emotion. Probably because it’s an aggregate of other emotions— shame, guilt, anger, regret—that assemble in temporary alliances to suit the particulars of the moment.
It’s also one of the few emotions truly scalable to large organizations. Like fanaticism, or hubris, embarrassment’s progenitor.
Most corporate leaders would rather be boiled in oil than embarrassed. For them, it’s an exposure of weakness, an admission of fallibility. To themselves and to the world at large.
Mason Thigpen’s staffer and two outside counsel joined me in the conference room with the two security guys who’d escorted me from the board meeting. The lawyers entering the room were fully focused on the company’s desperate desire to avoid embarrassment. This was complicated by another emotion, belonging to Mason himself, best described as vengeful wrath. Which is why the task was consigned to surrogates.
Mason’s staffer, Barry Mildrew, was young and bright, and a former middle linebacker at Boston College. I didn’t know him well, but he seemed all right. I can’t remember much about the other two lawyers, except they were uncomfortable with humor and sweated even in the climate-controlled atmosphere.
“How’re you feeling?” asked Barry as he sat across from me.
“Not bad. Yourself?”
“I’m fine, Sam.”
He waited for me to say something. When I didn’t, he said, “So, what do you think?”
“I think you’re here to work something out.”
“I’m here to talk about you, Sam. You’re my concern at the moment.”
“That’s good of you, Barry.”
“I want to do what’s best for you. And the company, of course.”
“Of course.”
He put a manila folder on the table, but kept it closed.
“We have a couple options.”
“But before we share our thinking with you,” said one of the other lawyers, “we’d like to hear your thoughts.”
“My thoughts? I have lots of thoughts every day. You want general or specific?”
“Anything you want,” said Barry, interrupting whatever the outside counsel was about to say.
“Anybody want coffee?” I asked the group. “I can go get some.”
Their discomfort was palpable.
“Maybe Lou could bring us some,” I said, pointing to one of the security guys. Everyone looked relieved.
“Sure,” said Lou. “Place your orders.”
After Lou had a chance to write down what we wanted and go off to get the coffee, Barry tried again.
“So, your thoughts.”
“I’m thinking I should have asked for double cream.”
“Tell Mr. Acquillo what we’re thinking,” said one of the outside guys. That annoyed Barry, but he pressed on.
“Our choices are limited here, but as I said, we do have them.”
“Pending a medical report,” said an outside counsel.
Barry kept his eyes on me. I knew then the other two guys were there to bird-dog Barry, not me.
“Actually, Ben,” said Barry, “that’s not a stipulation. Mason is willing to drop the entire matter. As are Mr. Donovan and the rest of the board.”
“If,” I said.
Barry smiled again.
“Come on, Sam, you and I wouldn’t be in business if we didn’t horse trade. There’s always an if.”
“That’s what we’re in? Business?”
“Don’t you want to hear the if?” he asked. “I think you’ll find it interesting.”
“Sure.”
Ben and his sidekick were eager to get my reaction. The security guys looked implacable. They were good at that.
“We want you to stay on as president of TSS.”
“I’m not a president. I’m a divisional VP.”
“See? Interesting, huh? That’s your new title. To see us through the sale.”
I think I laughed at that point. I couldn’t help it.
“I’m getting promoted for punching our chief counsel in the nose? Now there’s a company worth working for.”
Barry was the only one who enjoyed the thought.
“In front of the whole board of directors,” he added. “But that’s not why. The president of TSS will lead the transition team, and his prime role will be selling the living hell out of the idea to the buyers, our shareholders and your people.”
“Chief cheerleader.”
“After George Donovan.”
“I guess he’s more willing to overlook Mason’s nose that Mason is.”
“Mason is a team player.”
The words conjured up an image of Mason Thigpen that would never survive outside the imagination.
“So, what’s option two?” I asked.
Barry sat back in his chair and tapped the working end of his ballpoint pen on the table.
“You take a sabbatical during the sale period and refrain from commenting on the division, the buyers, the deal or anything relating to the corporation as a whole. To anyone at anytime.”
“Keeping Mason in a forgetful mood.”
“You’ll retain your full salary and benefits. After the sale, your role will be up to the buyers.”
“Is their chief counsel bigger than ours?”
Barry let that one pass. Being much bigger than me, he could afford to.
“I’ve got a third option,” I said. “Tell Donovan to go fuck himself. Mason can do what he wants.”
Ben didn’t seem to like this option, though his partner probably did. Appealed to his blood lust. Barry stayed neutral.
“Then you go to jail,” said Barry.
“One punch? No priors? I don’t think so. Be a juicy court case, though. Press’d eat it up. Meanwhile, I’d have plenty of time to work on my memoirs. All about my life running the division you’re trying to sell. Should interest the buyers.”
Barry listened without giving up anything. He had plenty of poise, I’ll give him that.
“So,” he said, “I guess we got our horses out of the barn where we can see ’em.”
He kept smiling and tapping the pen on the table, which got to be so annoying I finally reached over and held his wrist. When I let go he stuck the pen in his pocket and folded his arms over his chest.
“Sorry. Nervous habit.”
“Understandable. But calm down. I know what we’re doing.”
That cheered him.
“Good. Let’s hear it.”
“It’s simple. I quit. I’m quitting because I’m against the sale. Why I’m against the sale is nobody’s business but mine. Not another word from me on the subject. Unless Mason puts up a stink, then all bets are off. You writing this down?” I asked Ben. He reflexively grabbed a pen and started writing.
“Put it in proper language,” I said, “but nothing fuzzy. We’re only doing this once.”
“I’ll have to go back and see how this flies,” said Barry.
“Do what you want. I re
ally don’t care. I don’t care what happens to me. I don’t care what happens to your company. I cared about my division, but that’s gone. Everything’s pretty much gone. I’ve got nothing to lose.”
Ben had stopped writing while I talked.
“Hurry up with that. I want to get the hell out of here.”
He looked at Barry who nodded his head. Ben drafted something and slid it over to Barry, but I caught it halfway. The wording was close. I borrowed a pen from one of the security guys and made a few edits. Then I gave it to Barry.
“I just simplified a little,” I told him.
Barry read it over several times.
“It’s clear, I just don’t know if they’ll agree.”
I swiped Ben’s pad and wrote out a fresh version without all the scratch-outs. Then I wrote out a copy. I signed both.
“Here’s yours, I’ll keep this. I’ll pick up my stuff on the way home. Unless you don’t want me to, in which case, you keep it.”
I looked at my watch.
“This time of day I should get there in about forty minutes.”
Then I stood up to leave. The two security guys stood up like a shot and looked over at the lawyers.
“You guys should see me out,” I said to them, then left. They followed a few seconds later. The elevator played Haydn on the way down. I tried to talk to them about baseball, but they maintained their implacability. They stayed with me all the way to my car, then watched me leave the parking garage. When I reached the street I dropped all the windows and let the steamy, malodorous air of the City bust into the car. I stopped at a bodega and bought my first pack of cigarettes in twenty years, a six pack of beer and a fifth of vodka.
I sang along with the radio on the way up to White Plains until the vodka kicked in. Then I wept like a baby. It was strange to be in a company car driving eighty miles an hour, in the middle of the day, with the windows down, smoking cigarettes and drinking warm vodka out of the bottle. Wiping tears and snot off my face with the sleeve of my pima cotton dress shirt.
All those bridge abutments along the Saw Mill River Parkway looked so alluring, but for some reason I didn’t have the courage to accept their embrace.
Since I was already in the big parking lot in the Village it was quicker to go to a bar I knew that fronted on Nugent Street than schlep all the way to the Pequot in Sag Harbor. I got there quick—it was only about a hundred feet away—and ordered a double Absolut on the rocks, no fruit.