At the foot of the stairs, Bloomington, Steiglitz, and Pearl shook hands with the pilot and chief flight attendant, murmured their appreciation for a smooth flight, and hurried toward a limousine, where a uniformed driver stood stiffly beside the open rear door. Each gave the driver a perfunctory greeting and climbed in.
At that hour of the morning, on a holiday weekend, the city that never sleeps seemed fast asleep. The limousine arrived at the headquarters of Pilgrim Boone after a soft, twenty-minute purr.
A shockingly shrunken Lawton Pilgrim greeted the West Coast visitors in person at the elevator. No one was at work on the executive floor. The air was solemn, exacerbated by the grim expressions of the men and the low, grave tones in which they spoke. There would be no record that the meeting that was about to begin had taken place.
“He came with his lawyer,” Lawton said to Bloomington as they shook hands.”I didn’t tell him why we were meeting, but he probably figured that
I said something to you and he wants to make sure he’s protected, depending on what comes out at the meeting himself.”
Bloomington swore. “So he’s got a lawyer. We’ll nail his ass anyway. Let’s go.”
Lawton led the men down the silent hallway into his office, from where he led them through a barely discernible door in the wood paneling that opened into a small, windowless conference room that Lawton reserved for his most private of private meetings. The room smelled like freshly polished mahogany. Grant Featherhorn stood up as Pilgrim and the three visitors walked in. So did the distinguished-looking middle-aged man beside him, whom Bloomington and his attorneys recognized as Chasbert Parker, one of the country’s most highly rated criminal defense lawyer.
The lawyers shook hands with each other. Bloomington ignored Featherhorn and nodded to Parker, whose services he had been forced to enlist on more than one occasion in the past. “Let’s get this over and done with,” he barked as everyone took his seat at the conference table. Bloomington and his attorneys sat directly across from Featherhorn and Parker. Lawton Pilgrim sat at the head of the table.
Bloomington sat forward, planted his elbows on the table, and glared at Featherhorn. “Here’s the deal, you sonofabitch. Take my offer, and you stay out of jail. Don’t take it, and so help me you’ll rot in the crappiest jail this country has. The charges would be murder, drug running, fraud, and anything else my attorneys could come up with. And I don’t have to tell you how very capable they are in that regard.”
Featherhorn steepled his fingers under his chin and gazed at the ceiling. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth. His lawyer sat forward. “With all due respect, Mr. Bloomington, what offer are we talking about? You have no case against my client. The recording you have is not admissible in any court and you know it,” he said coolly.
Bloomington sat back and studied the lawyer, squinting. He shifted his gaze to Featherhorn, whose smile had broadened as Parker spoke, then shifted it back to Parker. Finally he spoke, in a voice that was ominous in its softness. “Chaz, you don’t want to go down that road. Your client has fifteen minutes to sign the papers my lawyers are about to give you. My granddaughter is celebrating her thirteenth birthday today back in L.A., and I promised her I’d be at her party. I intend to keep my promise to my granddaughter.”
As if on cue, Steiglitz and Pearl snapped open their briefcases and each withdrew a bound file about half an inch thick. Pearl slid his file to Parker. Steiglitz slid his to Lawton. At the same time, Lawton picked up the unmarked black-and-gold folder that sat on the table before him and slid it toward Parker. Bloomington shot Lawton a look of surprise but said nothing. Lawton’s folder landed neatly next to Pearl’s.
Parker’s face was expressionless as he drew the two files closer to him. Silence blanketed the room as he sped-read Pearl’s first, and then Lawton’s. Vertical lines appeared on his forehead as he read the first document. They sank into a deep furrow as he read the second.
Sensing his lawyer’s growing discomfort, Featherhorn brought his gaze down from the ceiling and straightened himself in his chair. A spasmodic twitch attacked one side of his mouth as the silence stretched out. Each time the twitch attacked, it pulled his resolutely smug smile into a Joker’s rictus, giving him a visage of utter insanity.
Glancing up from the file Steiglitz had given him, Lawton Pilgrim caught sight of Grant’s face, and struggled to suppress a laugh. He coughed and reached for the bottle of water in front of him. The conference table seated six and he had set a bottle at each place when he arrived at seven. Bloomington had been insistent when he ordered the meeting with Grant. “There’s to be no coffee, no tea, no fruit, no kumbaya bagels, rolls, Danishes—nothing! I will not be billed for feeding that bastard. Besides, I plan to be out of there in half an hour at most,” he had said.
When Lawton coughed a third time, Bloomington glanced at him with concern. He had been stunned by Lawton’s appearance and intended to ask him about his health before he left for California. This was a man he played golf with, a man who, time and again, had shown that he was as strong as an ox. Where did this skeleton come from?
Lawton caught Bloomington’s worried eye and shook his head and grinned. Bloomington nodded and returned his gaze to Parker.
Parker closed the second file and once again sat back in his chair. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, opened his eyes again. The creases disappeared from his forehead.
“Five minutes,” Bloomington snapped.
Parker seemed not to hear him. He opened both files again, turned to the last page of each one, and placed the two pages, side by side, in front of Featherhorn. His movements were slow, deliberate, his expression fathomless.
He uncapped his twenty-four-carat, gold-plated pen and handed it to Featherhorn, backside first. “Sign!” he commanded.
38
The official announcement to the people of Guyana that their country was going to have a modern air transport system for travel into the interior was broadcast across the nation on radio and television.
President Sankar himself spoke for a full hour, telling the country that the new system would be a major boost to the economy. It would efficiently move Guyanese, foreign tourists, investors, and cargo.”With this air transport infrastructure in place, and with all the wealth of the interior waiting to be exploited, Guyana will soon be on its way to becoming the economic engine of the Caribbean,” he said.
Sankar’s speech was followed by a five-minute expression of gratitude to the government and people of Guyana from Arthur Bloomington, chairman and CEO of Savoy Aerospace. Bloomington himself had led the delegation from his company for the official signing of the contract. “The agreement I signed today in Georgetown is a covenant between my company and the people of this great country,” he declared expansively.
Minister MacPherson, whom some had begun to call upon to resign for “egotistically” delaying a decision on a proposal to truly usher Guyana into the twenty-first-century—at least as far as transportation was concerned, a newspaper columnist had remarked caustically at a press conference—was extolled for his role in exposing the architects of a sinister plan to use Guyana as a transshipment center for illegal drugs.
Sankar also heaped praise upon Nelson Roopnaraine and Compton Dalrymple, calling them “faithful sons of Guyana who turned their back on big money from one of America’s most prestigious firms when they discovered that person or persons in that firm were playing fast and loose with the integrity of our beloved country.
“Their expertise and proven loyalty have rightfully earned them their new role as the government’s official private-sector liaison with Savoy Aerospace on this important project,” Sankar declared.
At a celebratory reception that night at the president’s official residence, Bloomington and MacPherson slipped away for a walk in the gardens of the heavily guarded compound.
The night, hot and fragrant with jasmine, was splashed with silvery light from a lopsided moon. The sky was tossed
with a riot of stars that sparkled like tiny blue-white diamonds. Night bees sang.
In deference to protocol, Bloomington waited for the minister to speak first.
“I am relieved that this sordid affair with Grant Featherhorn is behind us, as I am sure you are, too, Mr. Bloomington,” MacPherson began.
“It was a very close call for all of us, Mr. Minister. I want you to know that I am eternally grateful for the role you played, at great risk and sacrifice, in assuring the successful conclusion to our bid,” Bloomington said. MacPherson heard the sincerity in his voice and was warmed by it. It was not often that these foreign CEOs took time to say thanks to people like him. Most of the time they were too busy running behind the president. Bloomington continued. “Well-placed individuals in Washington assure me that Alejandro Bernat is under such close scrutiny that no one dares to do business with him. His operation is effectively shut down.”
“Ah, yes. But at such great cost. Good, innocent people have died in the process. I lost a very dear friend,” MacPherson replied.
“Yes, I know of that, Mr. Minister. And let me hasten to express my deepest condolences on the death of Andrew Goodings.” He let a few moments of silence go by out of respect for the minister’s grief, and then continued delicately. “But, thanks to the prudence of Mr. Goodings, we now have much to look forward to. Your government’s partnership with Savoy Aerospace will bring tremendous progress, as the president himself said in his speech.”
MacPherson halted and turned to Bloomington. “Progress for whom, Mr. Bloomington? As defined by whom? I am still not sure that air is the most important transportation concern for us right now. For poor countries like ours, rail makes much more sense. Andrew tried to tell me that long ago. I didn’t have the opportunity to tell him that I understood why he was so adamant about it.”
“Then may I ask why you recommended the go-ahead for us?”
“I’m a politician, Mr. Bloomington. A politician calculates his best chances of political survival and acts accordingly. The advocates of air, including our biggest merchants and tourism companies, succeeded in garnering support with the power of gale-force winds. So I decided to, as we say in Guyana, hang my mouth where the soup was dropping. I can be a guardian of the people’s interest far more effectively if I survive in office, don’t you agree, Mr. Bloomington? There’s no telling when the next unsavory opportunist will rear his head.”
Bloomington grunted in agreement.
They walked on, in ruminative silence. MacPherson was the first to break it.
“What a tragedy for Pilgrim Boone. I imagine it will take years for the firm to rebuild its reputation, if at all that is possible.”
“Oh, it’s very possible. With Lawton and Featherhorn gone, the remaining partners will change the name of the firm and keep right on doing business. Don’t ever cry for us, Mr. Minister. We always find a way to survive.”
“Mmmmm. Just like real politicians. Well, then, we understand each other perfectly, don’t we?”
“Perfectly,” Bloomington replied with contented a smile.
“What will become of Featherhorn?” MacPherson was genuinely curious. Bloomington shrugged. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about Grant Featherhorn, Mr. Minister. His name will be dirt on the Street for a few years, thanks to certain strategically placed tidbits of information by nameless persons, and he’ll lie low and ride it out. He’ll surface to publish a sanitized but best-selling memoir for sure, and then proceed to live a quietly comfortable life, wrapped in the family religion, doing good deeds, and appearing on an eclectic lecture circuit for hefty speaking fees. There might even be a movie based on his book, or on someone else’s book about him. Americans are fascinated by scoundrels, Mr. Minister, especially publicly penitent ones. Nobody bothers to dig around to see if that penitence is sincere or not. Eventually, the Street will forgive him. Many will turn to him for advice—for a fee, of course—because he’s really a very smart man and they could profit from his brains. Nevertheless, the drug enforcement community will keep a permanent watch on him and because of that he’ll never be restored to his former glory. But he’ll be just fine.”
“I see.”
Another silence ticked by.
“Well, it’s too bad about Lawton Pilgrim. I admired him. He was a man of great vision. Great daring, too. I read his biography,” MacPherson said after a while.
Bloomington sighed. “Yes. Cancer does not discriminate.”
“No, it doesn’t. By the way, Mr. Bloomington, do you know a man named
Theron St. Cyr?”
“Never heard of him. Which reminds me, do you know a man named Tom Barry?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Ah, well.”
Theron St. Cyr sat on the edge of his bed one morning and decided it was time to live again.
Dru was gone—killed by forces no different from those that had killed Tabatha. He had found life again after Tabatha. He had lived, even loved. He would live again. This time, however, he would be more mindful of himself. Love would not be a part of his life, not the kind of love that had consumed him and left him defenseless, the kind of love that had transported him with rapture and ripped his heart to shreds.
He lifted himself from the bed and stumbled across the room. Standing before the mirror above his dresser, he contemplated the hollow-eyed, gaunt, unkempt image that eyed him back. He turned his head this way and that. Tugged at the knots in his hair. Bared his teeth. Fingered the growth on his chin. Sniffed under his arms, wrinkling his nose. He stank. The phone rang. He sighed, stumbled back to the bed and sat on the edge again, staring at the phone on the nightstand beside the bed. The ringing stopped. He heard himself give a confident greeting and invite the caller to leave a message and phone number after the beep.
“Goddamnit, Theron! When the hell are you going to join the world again? You’re the CEO of a company, partner. We need you here. We need you, man.” Faustin sounded more concerned than angry. He paused and took a deep breath. “Merde! Pick up the phone, Theron. Please. I know you’re there.” He paused again. “All right, man. I’ll be over in—”
Theron grabbed the phone. “Hey, Faustin,” he said dully. He heard Faustin’s long, deep sigh of relief.
“Christ, Theron! I’ve been calling every day. It’s good to have you back. It took you long enough, man.” Faustin’s voice shook with emotion.
“Yeah? How long?”
“A week. A whole week, Theron.”
“A week?” Theron still felt numb.
“Seven days. You never answered your phone in all that time. After the first two days I came over and let myself in. When I saw the state you were in I came every day. I listened to your rambling, your goddamn curses. But I bet you don’t even know I was there. You were in zombieland, man. Drunk all the time.”
“You’re right. I don’t remember. Sorry I put you through all that, mon cher.”
“So are you coming in?”
“Coming in?”
“Yes. Coming in. To the office. Trans-Global Solutions. Remember?”
“Oh, yeah, right. I guess I should clean up myself and head on over. I look like crap. How are things there?”
Faustin’s tone became airy and excited. Theron was awake and beginning to sound lucid. “Everything’s cool. Lots of calls—a couple from Guyana. Folks want to talk to you, guy. A bunch of new prospects came in, too. Nice work. Some of it is a bit out of our league, but the people who contacted us said they want no one but Trans-Global to do the job. I’m talking to someone who could give us the kind of expertise we would need for that kind of work. Should be coming in to see me today, in fact.”
“I was in love with Dru, Faustin,” Theron said abruptly.
Faustin sighed. He had wanted to put off dealing with the subject of Dru for as long as possible, hoping to perk Theron up first with all the exciting news at the firm. “I know, man. I know,” he said soberly.
“You want to know what I regret the most? That I
never got a chance to tell her so. I gave her the impression that I didn’t care.” Theron’s voice cracked.
Faustin decided the best thing to do was to keep him talking. At least it would keep him from drowning himself in liquor.”You think it would have made a difference to her if you had told her? You really think she has the same feelings for you?”
“I don’t know, man. All I know is that I loved her but I realized too late that it was important for me to let her know that.”
“Nothing is ever too late. Come on in, Theron. It will do you good. You’ll see.”
“Okay. But don’t hold it against me if I get sappy sometimes. I hurt bad, Faustin.”
“Take a hot shower and get dressed. I’ll bring over breakfast and we’ll come back together.”
Two hours later, Theron, shaved, combed, suited and fed, was sitting at his desk in his private office, staring at the walls and wondering if he had it in him to get back into the swing of things, or if he really wanted to do so. It still seemed too soon. His hurt was still raw.
Celine had brought him background documents on the new proposals that Faustin had spoken to him about earlier. He should have been reading them, but it was hard to concentrate. He knew he wasn’t going to crawl into a hole again. He had made a decision to carry on with his life and he would stick to that decision. But sticking to that decision didn’t mean he had stopped hurting, had stopped loving Dru. Stopped missing her. Wanting her. Her face was everywhere. He heard her voice at the oddest moments.
The Guyana Contract Page 36