The Alex Shanahan Series

by Lynne Heitman

  Every muscle in my body stiffened, down to the arches in my feet. I’d seen him too many times not to know that something was coming. I watched him walk the perimeter of his stage, moving slowly enough that everyone could see him as he passed. “I’m going to go one better.” When he stopped, he was staring at Big Pete, holding eye contact as if he had his hand on the back of his scruffy neck. “If I ever find out that someone who works for me planted that bomb, that they put themselves, their fellow employees, our passengers, and our equipment at risk, I’ll shut this operation down.”

  People turned to look at each other, to see if they’d heard what they thought they’d heard. As they began to absorb what he was saying, Bill waited, milking the moment for every bit of drama. “I’ll take every last job out of this city and move them to Philadelphia or Providence or Wilmington, Delaware. I don’t care.”

  He spotted the spring water dispenser, and we all watched as he went over, plucked off a paper cup, and filled it. “And if you don’t think I’ll do it, my friends, try it again.” He knocked back the water, turned, and searched the crowd.

  “Any questions?”

  “Nice of you to show up for work, Leonard.” Bill eyed Lenny as the three of us stood around the table in a small conference room in the Peak Club, our haven for first-class passengers and very frequent fliers. Lenny looked as if he’d been dragged out of bed early, which is apparently what had happened.

  “Bill, we had no idea you were coming—” he shot me a suspicious look—“did we?”

  “No one knew,” Bill snapped, “which is exactly what I wanted. My meeting in New York canceled this morning, so I decided to come up here and shake these people up. How was that?” he asked me. “Will that help you out?”

  “Tremendously,” I said evenly, playing my role in the charade. “Thank you. Do you want to meet with anyone else, maybe the next—”

  “You won’t need any more meetings. The message has been delivered.”

  I nodded. Here was a man keenly aware of his own impact.

  He reached into his briefcase for a single, wrinkled piece of paper and put it on the table in front of us. It was a copy of the awful drawing that had been delivered to me on my first evening in the station, the one of the hangman’s noose with Ellen at the end of it. “I want to know about this.”

  “Bill, you know what that is. It’s just the guys downstairs blowing off steam—”

  “No, it’s not, Lenny. What this is, Lenny, is bad for business. People who have time to draw pictures and send them to me have too much time on their hands. People who are spreading rumors are not working.”

  Lenny stuck his hands in his pockets and decided not to pursue the point.

  Bill turned back to me. “Now, what about this bomb? What have you learned?”

  “The fire department is investigating,” I said, feeling more confident. This was a subject I knew something about. “They don’t expect to find anything. We have Corporate Security and Aircraft Safety on site. We’re almost certain a ramper planted the bomb—”

  “There’s no evidence of that, Bill. We have to be careful about making accusations.”

  Bill glared at him. I expected burn marks to appear on Lenny’s ecru cotton shirt. “What we have to be careful about is that the thieves, thugs, and criminals that you hired in your day do not get it into their heads that they can threaten or intimidate any member of my management staff and get away with it. You just lost one general manager in a most unpleasant manner.” He held up the page again. “Do you really think it’s a good idea to have this stuff floating around?”

  I didn’t look at Lenny because if I had, I surely would not have been able to hide the warm satisfaction that was welling up inside me.

  “I just want to know one thing from you.” Bill had turned to me. “Do you feel safe?”

  Lenny looked at me. I looked at Bill. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re the one who has to live and work here every day. I want to know if you feel comfortable in this station, and I want you to tell me if you don’t.”

  Well now, here was a loaded question if there ever was one. Lenny was still watching me closely. If I admitted I was sometimes afraid, would I be taken out of the job? And never offered another good one again? If I didn’t, was I giving up all future rights to being scared? For the first time I noticed the music that was being piped into the room through an undersized overhead speaker—a tin can version of I Honestly Love You. It seemed as if the entire song had played through twice before I came up with my answer. “I’m fine here.”

  Bill’s eyes narrowed slightly, and I had the feeling he was trying to decide if that was my real answer or my for-show answer. The real answer was that I wasn’t always comfortable there, and I didn’t want to leave Boston. Lenny had no reaction.

  “Okay,” Bill said, plowing on to the next subject, “here’s what you do. You get that bonehead in here who runs the local. What’s his name?”

  “Victor Venora.”

  “Get him in your office and tell him exactly what I just said in the meeting. One more incident that even looks suspicious, and I will shut this operation down so fast, it will make his empty head spin.”

  “Would you really do it?” I asked.

  The expression on his face left me feeling stupid for asking.

  “You run this station, Alex, not the union. Don’t let them push you around, and don’t be afraid to be an asshole.” Simultaneously, I was nodding, looking serious, and berating myself for being so thrilled at the sound of him saying my name again. “And you, Leonard, I expect you to give her whatever support she needs to get that done.”

  As he closed his briefcase, he addressed us both. “I want to see this place turn around, and fast. If it doesn’t, I will hold both of you responsible. Do you understand?” He waited until we acknowledged what he had said. “Good. I’m going downtown to meet with some portfolio analysts. Lenny, you come with me and let her do her job.”

  He blew out the door with Lenny in tow and left me standing there. When I checked my watch, I realized how completely disoriented and out of sync I was. The whole encounter had taken a little over an hour. It wasn’t even ten o’clock in the morning.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  It was one of those yawns that brought tears to my eyes, the kind so wide and deep, it threatens to turn your face inside out. The black-and-white pictures on the closed-circuit TV monitors blended into one big, blurry gray image. Sort of how my day had gone.

  “I hear I missed all the excitement this morning,” said Kevin, coming through the door and sounding uncommonly bright. Either that or I was uncommonly dull.

  It was the beginning of his day while mine was thankfully coming to an end. “That’s what you get for bidding nights.”

  “Indeed, but had I known, seeing Himself in person would have been worth bounding out of bed early.”

  “No one knew. He just materialized in the ready room like a bolt of lightning. It was vintage Scanlon.”

  “So I heard. The whole place is a-twitter.” He chuckled as he hung up his coat, walked over, and stood next to me. “Did he really say he was going to shut us down?”

  “Unequivocally.”

  “I hope the message got through. I don’t want to be unemployed.” He surveyed the wall of electronic windows to the ramp, then reached up and wiped a smudge off one of the screens. “What are we looking at here?”

  “Are these cameras set up to record?”

  “No.”

  “Were they ever?”

  “They were never intended for that.” His rolling chair squealed as he settled in and immediately started cracking his knuckles, one by one. “You’re not thinking of surveilling the ramp, are you?”

  “No, but why not? Other stations do it.”

  “Obviously, you haven’t heard about Dickie Flynn’s fiasco.”

  I walked over and leaned against his work counter as he began his ritual, the kind we all go through to get ourselves
prepared for another day of work. “Dickie Flynn surveilled the ramp?”

  Kevin’s motions were efficient and practiced, and he talked to me without once ever interrupting his flow. “Dickie used to go through his phases, his different kind of management phases. He tried management by intimidation, but no one was ever scared of him. He tried management by consensus, but no one ever agreed with him, much less each other. At one time he got frustrated and tried management by spying.”

  “Spying?” I tried to sound only casually interested. “With video cameras?” It wasn’t easy.

  “Cameras everywhere. The bag room, the ready room, the lunchroom. What he never quite accepted was the fact that you can’t have secret surveillance in a twenty-four-hour-a-day operation, which was the fatal flaw in his scheme.”

  “People knew about the cameras.”

  “Of course they did. He even tried moving them every few days, but within hours the union would have the locations posted on bulletin boards all over the field. He finally gave up the ghost after one night when someone swapped all of the tapes with several—how shall I put this delicately—adult entertainment features.”

  “Porno tapes?” I straightened up so abruptly, I drew a quizzical look from him.

  “From what I understand, the full range. Something for everyone—heterosexual, homosexual, bestiality …”

  As he talked, I stared down at the toes of my boots, glassy-eyed, and let the outside world drift away as the pieces began to coalesce in my head. The monitors drew me back, and I studied each one closely as figures moved across the black-and-white screens setting up gates and working the flights. The pictures were clear and the cameras high-quality, but far enough away that I couldn’t distinguish faces.

  “…yes, indeed, shocking stuff,” he was saying, “but not so shocking they didn’t all gather in the ready room for a matinee, mind you—”

  “Kevin, are you saying someone brought a bunch of porno videos to the airport one night and swapped them out for surveillance videos?”

  “It would appear so.”

  “Which means it’s likely that Dickie’s surveillance videos came right out of the machines… and straight into the porno boxes.” I was talking more for my own benefit now and feeling less and less fatigued.

  “I can’t say, but I would imagine so.”

  The sound of my beeper was usually an intrusion, but particularly so when it erupted at that moment. I didn’t recognize the number.

  “Kevin, did they ever find out who stole the tapes?”

  “Surely you jest?”

  “Were these good-quality cameras he used? Like these?”

  “Dickie never spared any expense when it came to spending the company’s money.”

  I checked my watch. Four o’clock. “Can I borrow your ramp coat?”

  “I would be honored.”

  “Thanks.” The phone rang, and when he picked up I grabbed the coat and a set of truck keys from a hook on the wall and made for the door. Dickie Flynn had sent Ellen a surveillance video. A surveillance video. I couldn’t wait to tell Dan. If I was lucky, I could still catch him at his meeting across the ramp at the post office. As I rushed down the corridor, my beeper went off again.

  Whoever it was didn’t want to wait.

  Chapter Thirty

  The maître d’ at Locke-Ober was a small-boned man with a black suit and a face as stiff as his starched white cuffs. The gold name tag on his jacket read Philip.

  “Good evening,” I said.

  He glanced past me into the empty foyer. Locke-Ober had not even admitted women until 1970, so he was no doubt searching for my husband. Finding no escort, he defaulted to me. “May I help you?”

  “Yes, thank you. I’m meeting someone for dinner.” Although the way my stomach was flipping around, it was going to be hard to eat.

  He hovered over his reservation book. “What is the gentleman’s name, please?”

  “The party’s name is William Scanlon.” Jeez.

  Philip’s demeanor transformed instantly as I grew in social stature right before his very eyes. Twit.

  “Indeed, Mr. Scanlon is here. He’s in the bar. I’ll let him know his guest has arrived.”

  “I’ll find him, if you’ll point me in the right direction.”

  “Certainly. The bar is right this way.” He tugged on one cuff and motioned toward the bar. “Tell Mr. Scanlon we’ll hold his table as long as he’d like.”

  That’s what I’m here for, Philip, to deliver messages for you.

  The prevailing theme in the bar was dark, dense, and heavy. Polished paneling covered the walls, thick and ponderous furniture filled the floor space, and reams of suffocating fabric absorbed all light from the windows. The air was filled with the blended odor of a dozen different cigars.

  I peered through the mahogany haze and found him at the bar, holding court. He was wearing the same gray suit from this morning with a different but equally spiffy silk tie and that electric air of self-confidence the rest of us mere mortals found so mesmerizing. Take the people in this bar. Nobody here worked for him; I doubt anyone even knew him. Yet when he laughed, they smiled. When he spoke, they leaned in to hear what he had to say. He effortlessly commanded all the attention in the room through the sheer force of his personality.

  “Alex Shanahan.” His voice cut through the dampened acoustics, calling everyone’s attention to—me. The stares were discreet, but intense enough to raise the humidity level inside my suit a few damp degrees, and he knew it. He smiled serenely as he reached for his wallet and turned toward the bar.

  Rather than stand in the doorway on display, I worked my way through the room and ended up standing right behind him. Too close, it turned out, because when he turned to leave, he almost knocked me flat.

  “Ah,” he said, reaching out to steady me, “and here you are.”

  I thought he let his hands linger. I thought he did, but couldn’t be sure. What I was sure of was the jolt that moved from his hands through my arms and all the way down my spine, almost lifting me off the floor, the stunning reminder of the powerful physical connection that had always been between us—and how little it would take to reignite the flame. He felt it, too. I saw it on his face. I saw it in his eyes, and I knew that if I’d had any true desire to keep my distance from him, I wouldn’t have come here tonight.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said, adjusting his volume down for just the two of us. “Hungry?”

  “Yes.” Not really. “They’re holding your table.”

  “Then let us go and claim it.” He gave my arm one last squeeze.

  Philip, with his maitre d’ sixth sense, was waiting for us with two menus. He personally escorted us upstairs to our table, draped a napkin across my lap, and addressed himself to Bill. “Sir, it’s nice to have you back with us.”

  “It’s always nice to be back. Ask Henry if he has any more of that cabernet I had last time. That was quite nice.” He looked at me. “And a white burgundy, also. Tell him to bring the best that he’s got.”

  “Yes sir, I’ll send him right over. Enjoy your dinner.”

  Philip melted back into the dining room while Bill leaned back, stretching his long legs out and making the table seem even smaller and more intimate. I kept my hands buried in my lap, my feet tucked under my chair.

  He touched the silver on each side of his plate, tracing the thick base of his knife and the flat end of his spoon. “It is white burgundy, isn’t it?”

  He looked at me in the dim glow of the table candle flickering between us, and a slow smile started—an open, ingenuous smile that was not for the entertainment of the masses but just for me. When he smiled that way, it changed him. When he smiled that way, it changed me.

  “You know I like burgundy,” I said. “You never forget anything.”

  He pushed his plate forward and leaned on his elbows as far toward me as the table would allow. “I haven’t forgotten anything about you. Until I picked up your message, I thought you�
��d forgotten about me.

  I studied his face: the long plane of his cheeks, the curve of his forehead, the shape of his eyes, the way they sloped down slightly on the sides in a way that kept him looking almost boyish. No, I hadn’t forgotten anything. That was the problem. No matter how hard I tried and no matter how much distance I put between us, I couldn’t forget him.

  “That was quite an entrance you made this morning.”

  “Dramatic, wasn’t it?” He brightened at the memory, like a little kid on Christmas day. He did love being Bill Scanlon. We both leaned back, making way for the wine steward, who had arrived with a silver ice bucket, two bottles, and other assorted sommelier paraphernalia.

  “You surprised me,” I said.

  He shook his head and grinned. “I don’t think so. If you hadn’t wanted to see me, you never would have called. You opened the door. All I did was walk through it.”

  “More like blew it up.”

  He laughed and so did I. It felt good to laugh with him again.

  Henry poured our wine and, after more gratuitous bowing and scraping, receded into the background.

  Bill offered a toast. “Here’s to blowing up the door … and any other barriers left between us.”

  We touched glasses. This morning when he had stared down Big Pete, his eyes had seemed almost black. But in this light they were clear amber, almost sparkling. It was like looking into a flowing stream and seeing the sun reflected off the sandy bottom. I had missed seeing myself reflected there.

  I put my glass down, searching for and finding the precise depression in the tablecloth where it had been. “Where did you get that hangman’s drawing?”

  “Someone sent it anonymously. I usually throw things like that away, but since it was your station—”

  “I know, and I’m sorry about that. I can explain—”

  “Are you seeing anyone?”