The Dinosaur Club

by William Heffernan

  Chambers narrowed his eyes in thought, then removed his glasses and placed one stem in his mouth. “The recent sales record leaps to mind. But then the reprimand would have to come from someone senior or equal to Fallon. Your office, or perhaps Mr. Waters himself; otherwise it would lack any real force.”

  Bennett shook his head. “I don’t want Waters involved at this point. Or at any point, if possible. And, for the time being, I want to remain above the fray. What about this trip to Plattsburgh, and the little test they wanted to run?”

  Chambers considered it. “It could work,” he said at length. “The account involved was one of Green’s, so it could be assumed the request came from him. The only problem I see is that Fallon—his immediate superior—was there with him, obviously condoning it.”

  “Even better,” Bennett said. “By reprimanding Green we indirectly reprimand Fallon.”

  “What do we achieve?” Chambers asked. “In concrete terms, I mean.”

  Bennett shook his head, a reprimand in itself. “We’re not trying to achieve anything concrete. We don’t have to. Not now. Not in future. What we want is demoralization. If we reprimand Green, his entire sales staff will get twitchy. They’ll begin to wonder when management will turn on them.” He smiled. “The handwriting on the wall, so to speak. And if any reprimand is also an implied reproach of Fallon, even better. Then all his subordinate managers will get the jumps.” He leaned forward, clasped his hands together—prayerlike.

  “So what we want is a great deal of handwriting on the wall.” Bennett unclasped his hands and put imaginary quotes around the words. “We want people looking for work elsewhere. They’re not fools. They all know it’s easier to get another job when you’re employed. They also understand that prospective companies prefer to go with winners rather than someone who’s already been cast off.” He offered up a grin. “Although nobody’s terribly interested in old winners anymore.” The remark produced the expected chuckles, but he waved a hand, dismissing it. “In any event it may also prod some to take early retirement, if that option is available. And that alone will serve our purpose. It will lower the number of people who will have to be bought off, and it will also diminish the numbers who might join in any class-action battle. And if those numbers are low enough, that whole issue becomes moot.” Bennett’s hands went back together. “And that, gentlemen, is the bottom line. It’s what this whole exercise is about.”

  Chambers gave the table two solid pats. “I’ll have a letter of reprimand out no later than tomorrow morning.” He grinned. “Then we can sit back and listen to Jack Fallon howl.” He hesitated. “What about Jim Malloy? He was at the aborted test as well. We could hit him with a letter, keep his pot boiling.”

  Bennett shook his head. “Leave Malloy alone for now. Taking away his assistant sent a pretty clear message. I have a particular endgame in mind for Malloy.”

  Chambers raised his eyebrows. “Yes?”

  Bennett picked up a fork and toyed with his napkin. “Malloy’s the weak link in the division. When we need someone to crack, he’ll be the guy.” He stared across at Gavin. “Did Willis tell you he’s a reformed boozer?”

  “No. But I recall hearing something about that.” Gavin offered up the supporting words a bit too quickly.

  “I found it in his personnel records.” Chambers said.

  “About five years ago, he got what was supposed to be a private warning from Fallon,” Bennett said. “But word got out via the clerical grapevine, and Willis’s predecessor picked up on it and stuck a note in Malloy’s file. You boys should learn to talk to your assistants occasionally. Those women know everything that goes on in this company.” He tapped the fork lightly on the table. “Just mark my words. Malloy’s the one. We can crack him open whenever we choose.”

  Bennett watched the others nod mute agreement, then turned on them. He was still toying with the fork. Now he jabbed it straight down at the table. “Now, as far as these newsletters and memos go, I want some results. I want to know who’s behind it. I want to be able to prove it. And I want it quickly.”

  There was momentary silence, then Chambers waded it. “That could be difficult. It’s going out by computer. It’s not as though someone’s delivering them desk to desk.”

  Bennett stared at him. The disapproval was obvious. “There will be notes, I’m sure. Something incriminating left behind. We know who we think is behind it. Check their offices after work. Get into their computers. Collect their damned trash if you must.” He turned to Gavin. “I’ve seen you skulking about on weekends, Les. You know what I’m after.” He looked back at Chambers. “You both do. So just do it.”

  The others remained silent, and Bennett raised a hand toward their waiter, signaling an end to the conversation. “Let’s eat, gentlemen. I’m loaded down with meetings this afternoon.”

  When the waiter had taken their orders, Chambers decided to ease the tension, turn the conversation to something that would please Bennett.

  “How’s the paintball tourney coming?” he asked.

  Bennett smiled. “New England finals this weekend,” he said. “It’s being held at an abandoned military base in Massachusetts. I fully expect to come home the winner.”

  “Stiff competition?” Chambers asked.

  The smile widened. “Not stiff enough.” He jabbed a finger at Chambers. “You should have stuck with it. You had potential.”

  Chambers tapped his glasses. “Damned eyesight held me back.” He inclined his chin toward Gavin. “You should have gotten Les involved. He’s a tennis player. Great hand-to-eye coordination.”

  “I tried,” Bennett turned a cutting smile on Gavin. “You never heard so many excuses.”

  Gavin twisted in his seat. “I would have embarrassed you.” He thought up a quick lie. “When I was a boy I tried target shooting at summer camp. I was a disaster.”

  Bennett grinned at the confession, which also commended his own talents. “Just as well to stick with what one’s good at,” he said. “I saw you on the tennis court at our golf outing last spring. I’m not sure I could handle that serve of yours.”

  Gavin smiled at his mentor. Oh, yes, you could, he thought. I assure you, I’d see to it. “It’s not as good as it looks,” he said. His own smile widened. “Anyway, I hope you bring home that trophy. New England regional champion—that would be quite a feat.”

  Bennett winked at him. “Someday they’ll have nationals. Now that would be something.”

  From across the room, Bennett noticed a woman staring at him. She was in her late twenties, he guessed, quite attractive and exceptionally well dressed. He smiled at her.

  The faint hint of a returning smile played across her lips. Then she looked away. But the smile had been enough. All around, it was turning into a very good day, Bennett thought.

  15

  THEY SAT BEFORE THE UNLIT FIREPLACE, BRANDY glasses in hand. Fallon had moved the leather love seat out of his study to provide some furniture for the denuded living room, and Samantha was snuggled into one corner, her legs tucked beneath her. They were watching Casablanca on the small portable television he had brought down from his son’s bedroom.

  A commercial came on, and Fallon stroked her knee. “I’ve got this old hunting cabin up in the Adirondacks,” he said. “I’m thinking of going up there this weekend to see about selling it; using the money to set up a trust for my mother’s nursing-home expenses.”

  “I didn’t know you hunted,” Samantha said.

  “I don’t,” Fallon answered. “At least not since I went with my dad as a kid.” He looked away toward the empty hole of the fireplace. “I haven’t touched a weapon of any kind since I got back from Vietnam.” He dismissed the comment, the memories that flooded in, and turned back to her. “Why don’t you come with me? It’s beautiful up there.”

  “I’d love to. Is it livable?” she asked.

  “It’s rustic and a bit rough, but I go up several times a year. It’s kept up. You might even say it’s ci
vilized.”

  Samantha gave him a doubtful smile. “Indoor plumbing?”

  He laughed. “Oh, yeah. Trisha and my daughter insisted on that years ago. It cost me an arm and a leg, but it has a septic system, and a well.”

  “Bears and mountain lions?”

  He laughed again. He decided he had never before known a woman who could make him laugh at least once each day. “No mountain lions,” he said. “They’re a bit farther west.”

  “You sort of skipped over bears,” she said.

  “They’ve been seen,” he said. “Black bears—the smaller kind. In fact, my dad shot one years ago. The skin’s on the cabin’s living-room floor. But, alive, you usually only see their backsides going over a hill, if you see them at all. They avoid people.” He inclined his head to one side. “Smart animals.”

  Samantha remained silent. There was nothing she could say.

  “Do you think I’ll run into any legal problems selling the place? I mean with the divorce and all?”

  “Is it solely in your name?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “And you say your father left it to you as a final bequest?”

  Another nod.

  “If you use it solely for your mother’s benefit, with none to yourself—I mean if it’s clear you’re not selling it to hide any assets from your wife—then I don’t think you’ll have a problem. Trisha may object, of course, but the courts tend to ignore faits accomplis if there’s no intention to deceive or defraud. And since circumstances have changed, it could be argued that your father would have wanted the property put to his surviving wife’s benefit.”

  “I can’t imagine Trisha objecting,” he said.

  Samantha held back any negative comment. Spouses, she knew, had a tendency to grab all they could in a divorce. But he’d find that out in time. Or his lawyer would explain. “Her attorney may want to use it as a bargaining chip,” she said. “He may ask that it be set up so that, in the event of your mother’s death, anything left in the fund goes to Trisha, or at least becomes community property.”

  “If my mother knew that she’d refuse to die—out of spite.”

  “You could, of course, structure the trust to allow her to dispose of any remaining assets in her will. I think the court might insist it not be returned to you, but it would be a tough argument that it not go to your children, or some charity.”

  Jesus, Fallon thought, then added aloud, “She’d probably have a shrine built. To Our Lady of Willow Run.” He explained, “The place where she lives is called The Residence at Willow Run.”

  Samantha fought back a smile with only partial success. “Anyway, expect some kind of resistance from the other side. It’s a lawyerly thing. But, again, I don’t think it will be successful. You should talk to your own attorney, but I think you’re safe in going ahead. Selling it will take time, anyway.”

  “I hate to ask Grisham anything,” Fallon said. “It’s a hundred and fifty bucks an hour every time he opens his mouth.”

  “Think of what it might save you overall,” she said. Samantha grinned at the expression on his face. “I know,” she said. “I’m one of them.”

  A familiar voice drew Fallon sharply back to the television. He stared at the image. “Jesus Christ,” he said.

  “What is it?” Samantha asked.

  Fallon raised his chin toward the set. There, a man in a glistening white lab coat was talking about gum disease. “That’s Howard,” Fallon said. “Hawking his bloody HMO. I forgot he advertised on this channel.”

  Samantha stared at the image. Howard looked to be about fifty, she thought. He had a high, deep widow’s peak and a precisely trimmed mustache under a moderately large nose. He spoke through a smile that seemed to glisten at the camera. Caps, she decided. Very expensive ones.

  “That’s Howard?” she said.

  “That’s him,” Fallon said.

  Howard rambled on about a free cleaning with a first visit, as a list of his four offices appeared beneath him. His lab coat looked as though it had been starched, and a wildly patterned but clearly expensive necktie flashed beneath his chin. Samantha made some mental comparisons to Fallon; tried to imagine climbing into bed with the man and immediately dismissed the idea. Trisha was an idiot, she decided.

  The telephone interrupted, and Fallon went to a phone that sat on the floor next to the staircase. The table that had once held it was now somewhere in Manhattan.

  His daughter’s voice greeted him; cheerful, upbeat. God, a dual assault. First Howard, now his daughter. He wondered if his son was on an extension—a triple assault. He felt guilty thinking it.

  “Hi, Dad,” his son’s voice chimed in. Fallon pressed his thumb and index finger into his eyes.

  “Hi, guys. What’s up? Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine, Dad.” It was Liz, taking charge again. “The summer session ends Friday, so we’ll be heading back Sunday or Monday. We both have to pack, and I have to clean up the apartment and everything.”

  “It’ll be good to see you guys.” He thought of his plans to be away for the weekend. But he’d be back late Sunday. He’d just have to drop Samantha in Manhattan first. The last thing he wanted was another confrontation with his children.

  “There’s a business thing I have to take care of on Sunday”—he decided to leave the subject matter up in the air—”but I’ll be back later in the evening.”

  “Business on Sunday?” His daughter sounded skeptical, perhaps even suspicious.

  “Divorce business,” he said. Technically it wasn’t a lie, he decided. The words were greeted with momentary silence.

  “Dad, there is one thing.” Liz again.

  “Tell me.”

  “Well, you remember how you promised to send us to Europe as a graduation present?”

  Fallon’s stomach sank.

  “I remember …” He was prepared to say more, but her words cut him off.

  “Well, Mike and I were talking, and, with the divorce and all, nobody seems to know what everybody’s finances will be like then.”

  Fallon’s spirits rose slightly.

  “Well, there’s this great foreign exchange program for the spring semester. It’s in France, with opportunities to travel on to Spain and Italy. Even Greece.”

  Fallon’s stomach plummeted again.

  “And we were thinking that maybe instead of a graduation present, we could do that. Go to Europe this spring.” Liz paused only for breath, then prattled on. “We’d get credit, of course, and it wouldn’t be much more expensive than what you’d planned anyway.”

  Silence. Expectant on his children’s side, stony on his.

  Fallon drew a breath. “Liz, honey. Mike. I would love to say: Great, pack your bags. But I can’t commit to anything right now. I mean, I can, but it’s liable to fall apart before anything happens. Things are just too up in the air—with everything.”

  Silence. Then Mike. “But Mom said you have the money now. It’s later—after the divorce—that it might become a problem.”

  Fallon envisioned Trisha saying just that. His temper flared and he snapped back: “Your mother is …” He hesitated, caught his breath, and changed the words that had rushed to mind. Then added, “She’s just wrong.” He drew another breath, calming himself, then decided to tick off a few realities. “Look. The expenses are already building on this divorce. My job has become even less secure than it was when we last talked. Some problems have arisen at your grandmother’s nursing home that will require some long-term financial planning if she’s going to stay there. And your tuition is due again in a few weeks. Then again in the spring, and again the following fall. Those are priorities I have to plan on before I commit to anything else. Any trips to Europe right now are out of the question. Maybe, when you graduate, they won’t be. But right now, I can’t even commit to that.”

  “Well, this is like tuition, Dad.” Mike’s words were insistent, oblivious to everything he had just said. It made Fallon’s hackl
es rise.

  “No, it’s not, Mike. It’s an extra. A lovely extra that I wish we could afford. But we can’t. Right now you’ve got to settle for your regular tuition and living expenses with no frills attached.”

  “I thought you wanted us to get student loans for our living expenses.” His daughter’s voice snapped out at him, filled with sarcasm.

  Fallon was dumbfounded. He drew another breath. “That wasn’t my plan, Liz.” He measured his words, trying for as much calm as possible. “I suggested you look around for some part-time jobs to cover that. You mentioned getting student loans, which, if you recall, I argued against. And am still against.”

  More silence. Finally, Liz continued, her voice angry now. “It seems you’re going back on everything you’ve promised us,” she snapped. “I don’t think that’s fair.”

  “I don’t think I am, Liz. I very much want to send you kids to Europe as a reward for graduating. If it’s possible, when that time comes, it will happen. But it’s not possible this spring.”

  “And maybe not ever,” she snapped.

  “That’s a reality of life, Liz. If I had dropped dead during your senior year, things would have changed, too. There are no stone tablets. If circumstances allow me to keep that promise when you graduate, I’ll be tickled pink. If not, I’ll tell you I’m sorry, and I will be.”

  He could almost hear his daughter’s grinding teeth. “What’s wrong with Grandmother?” she asked. Her voice still held a bitter edge.

  Fallon was momentarily uncertain how to explain it. Did he say: “Nothing, she’s just as wacko as she always was. Except now her madness requires money to keep her from being tossed into the street.”

  He decided against reality this time. Trisha’s parents had died when the children were too young to remember them. So had his own father. The only grandparent they had ever known had been his mother. They probably thought all grandparents were as crazy as bedbugs.