The Dinosaur Club

by William Heffernan

  24

  “I’M NOT SUGGESTING WE FIRE HIM. I’M SUGGESTING WE demote him and reassign him as a district manager at one of our Midwest or West Coast offices.”

  Bennett studied Waters’s face for some hint of agreement. When he had come to Waters with news of the M.I.T. tests, the reaction had been shock and anger, with something close to fear just below the surface. Now his suggestion seemed to have added a hint of contempt.

  He tried to push his argument. Samantha’s threat of a lawsuit still hung heavily in his mind. But if Fallon was demoted by Waters, and if the reason was unrelated to her, then that threat would evaporate. “I think the man will resign if that happens,” he added. “I don’t think he’d have any other viable choice. Especially if the directive came from you, rather than me,” he said.

  Waters placed both hands on his face and rubbed once. When he looked at Bennett again there was a glare in his eyes.

  “Sometimes I wonder if you ever really listen to me, Carter.” His jaw tightened; then he continued. “I explained it once before. Jack Fallon has friends on the board. Not many, but some. And those people not only know him, they respect him. If he raises questions about product reliability they’ll listen, and our plans will be delayed. Not stopped. But delayed. And I don’t want that.”

  Bennett gritted his teeth. He understood the man’s concern—his real concern—and it had nothing to do with their plan to downsize the company.

  “Then what do you suggest?” he asked.

  “I suggest you let me handle it. I’ll take care of Jack Fallon.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “You say this test wire was handed over more than a week ago, correct?”

  Bennett twisted in his chair. “That’s right.”

  “Then I think we can assume that either the tests have not yet been run or Fallon hasn’t gotten any results. Otherwise he would have acted. That means we have some time. Not much, but some.”

  Bennett noted that Waters had ignored one other possibility—that the tests had come back negative. But then he knew that wasn’t possible.

  Waters stood behind his desk. It was a signal of dismissal, and Bennett rose as well.

  “I’m only suggesting what I think best for the company,” Bennett added.

  Waters leaned forward, his fists now resting on his desk. “But it’s not, Carter. That’s the goddamned point.”

  When Bennett had left, Waters fell back into his chair. He felt a slight tremor in his hands. Fallon has gone too far. He’s left you with no other choice.

  He reached out for his private phone, one that was not connected to the company telephone system. He glanced at his watch. It was ten o’clock; four in the afternoon in Germany. He punched out the overseas codes and the number.

  “I have a problem,” he said, when his party came on the line. “A serious one.” He quickly explained what had happened, then added, “You once told me you had someone here in the States who could deal with this sort of thing.”

  He listened again, his face suddenly turning bright red. “No, I don’t want the man killed, for chrissake. I’m not a murderer. I want him out of action for three or four months. That’s all the time I need.”

  He listened again, then said, “Please get your man here quickly. I can’t afford any delays. I’ll explain what’s needed when he gets here.”

  Waters replaced the phone. His head dropped back against his chair; he closed his eyes. He could feel the tremor in his hands again, even stronger now.

  I’m sorry, Jack, he thought, but you haven’t left me any other option.

  The automobile accident had occurred at one in the morning. Jim Malloy’s company car had been traveling on the interstate just south of Baltimore. It had veered off the road and struck a bridge abutment. He was alone, and he was driving fast—at least eighty miles an hour, the police had said.

  Fallon stared at the E-mail message on his desk. Carol had found it an hour ago. It had been sent from Jim’s home, from his personal computer, and it had been written at seven the previous night, six hours before he had died.

  Carol entered his office, carrying coffee in Fallon’s personal mug. She never got him coffee. It was a firmly held conviction—she was a colleague, not a servant. Fallon had never found any reason to disagree.

  “Thanks,” he said, as he accepted the offering. “Were you able to reach Betty Malloy?”

  “Yes. She’s very grateful.” Carol’s eyes were still red, and her voice was thick and hoarse from crying. Fallon had sent Ben Constantini to Baltimore to do whatever was needed to get Jim’s body released, then find a local funeral director who could handle the transportation back to New York.

  “She asked if you could meet her at the funeral home at two. It’s called O’Brien’s, and it’s not far from her home. I have the address.”

  “You told her I would?”

  Carol nodded. “Wally said he and Annie Schwartz would go with you.”

  Samantha entered the office as they were speaking and took one of the visitor’s chairs. She had returned to her office when they had learned about Malloy’s death. She had wanted to contact the authorities to find out what legal problems Ben Constantini might encounter. “I’d like to go with you, too,” she said now. “It might help to have two women there, and I can answer any legal questions she might have.”

  Fallon turned back to Carol. “Tell Wally we’ll all leave around noon, and that we’ll get some lunch on the way.”

  Carol turned to go, but Fallon’s voice stopped her. “I want you to delete that E-mail message from our computer,” he said. “And make sure there are no copies lying around.” Carol nodded. She looked as though she might begin to cry again. Fallon had already asked her not to speak about the message. The look on her face told him he didn’t have to repeat the warning.

  Samantha watched Carol leave. When the door had closed behind her, she turned to Fallon. “E-mail message?” she asked.

  Fallon handed her a printed copy.

  The message was terse, almost cold, but Samantha could feel the emotion hidden in the words.

  Jack,

  Please make sure Betty gets my pension, and the insurance she’s entitled to. Don’t let them take that away from her.

  Jim

  “He sent the message last night,” Fallon said. “Six hours before the accident.” He looked away. “He was convinced they’d never stop pressing him to quit, and that he’d never get a chance at the buyout. He was certain his family would be financially devastated if that happened.”

  “But it wouldn’t have,” Samantha said. “He could have fought it and won.”

  “I know. I told him that.” Fallon turned back to face her. “Jim was covered under our executive insurance plan. It’s a one-hundred-thousand-dollar life insurance policy, with double indemnity for accidental death. Triple indemnity if the employee dies while traveling on company business.” He held out his hand, took the E-mail message back. “Jim told Wally’s assistant that he needed to be in Washington this morning to see a customer. He even had her call and make an appointment, and hotel reservations. He told Betty the same thing when he left last night.”

  Samantha closed her eyes. “Oh, God.”

  “Do you know anything about the policy?”

  Samantha nodded. “I’ve reviewed all our different coverages.” The policy Fallon referred to had a standard suicide clause—no payment if the insured took his or her own life within two years of inception. That two-year period had passed. But proof of suicide would nullify any accidental death benefits throughout the life of the policy.

  “You’re not going to tell anyone about that message, are you?”

  Fallon shook his head. “I hope you won’t either,” he said.

  Samantha let out a breath. Being a lawyer, and being around Jack Fallon, was an ethical nightmare. But it also made her feel very good about herself.

  “My computer friend told me that even deleted material can often be retrieved from a computer’s hard d
rive. He said it just sits there for a couple of months, and if you know how, you can find it and bring it back. I’ll ask him to make sure this message is really gone.”

  * * *

  They returned to Betty Malloy’s home at four o’clock. The visit to the funeral home had been indescribably grim. Late that morning, Samantha had arranged to have Jim’s body released by the coroner. The state police had found nothing to contradict an accident. The death had all the earmarks of vehicular suicide, but there had been no note, no indication of intent. Perhaps most important to Betty, there was no evidence Jim had been drinking. Perhaps most disturbing, the funeral director that Ben Constantini had found in Baltimore had recommended the casket not be opened. Betty had shown both fortitude and strength. There would be no visiting hours, she had said. Only a time before the church service when she and her children would be alone with their husband and father.

  “I’ll make some coffee,” Betty said. She went into the kitchen, Annie Schwartz and the two Malloy children trailing behind—a boy, the law school student Jim had spoken about, and a girl, still in high school. Like their mother, the children were still in deep shock and denial. Annie had taken them on as her own special project. She had helped them select the clothing they would wear to the funeral. She had done it gently, had even gotten one small smile from the girl. Fallon had been surprised by her sudden burst of motherly instinct. She had never let him, or anyone at the company, see it before.

  When Betty returned with the coffee, Annie and the children weren’t with her. “Annie took the kids to my sister-in-law’s house. She lives on the next street,” she explained. “Jim’s whole family has lived in this neighborhood their entire lives. I used to think it was crazy, that they were all in some sort of rut. But, at times like this …” Her words trailed off. She had been babbling, and seemed to recognize it. Now she stared at Fallon, almost as though Samantha and Wally weren’t there.

  “I think he killed himself, Jack. I think he did it so we’d be financially secure, because he thought he couldn’t give that to us anymore.”

  Fallon felt his stomach sink. Betty was Catholic, and he knew from his own similar upbringing that suicide carried a terrible burden for her. “It was an accident, Betty. He had an appointment in Washington. He had Wally’s assistant set it up yesterday.” He let his eyes go to Samantha. “Samantha talked to the police. They investigated. They think he fell asleep at the wheel.”

  “There was nothing to indicate anything else,” Samantha said. “They said so, and if there had been, they wouldn’t have released the body so quickly.”

  Betty sat back and stared at her hands. They lay in her lap like wounded birds. She looked up and tried to smile. “You’re good people, and I know you mean well. Thank you.” She hesitated, her eyes still on Fallon. “Why did they have to do it, Jack? Why did they have to do it that way?” She drew a deep breath, holding back tears. “There’ve been days over the past few weeks when I thought there had to be something vicious working right there beside all of you. Some animal none of you could see, just waiting to devour you.” She closed her eyes tightly. “Oh, Jack, I just don’t understand. It would have been so much kinder if they’d sent someone with a gun.”

  The dinosaurs met in the locker room at five-thirty. Other employees drifted in. As rumors about downsizing grew stronger, more and more seemed eager to take advantage of the company’s gym. Fallon wondered if they somehow hoped their fitter bodies might save them. Or perhaps they merely wanted to seize an opportunity before it was taken away. A pleasing thought toyed at the corners of his mind. Maybe there were dinosaur clubs forming all throughout the company.

  When they went out into the gym Samantha and Annie were already there, using one of the stationary bicycles to warm up. Samantha, too, now wore a Dinosaur Club T-shirt. Fallon climbed on the bicycle beside her.

  “I had a message from my computer guy,” she said. “He thinks he may have found something and wants to stop by the apartment around seven. I’m going to leave early to meet him. Try to be there as soon as you can.”

  “Did he say what he’d found?” Fallon asked.

  “I didn’t speak to him. I just had my assistant call him back and say seven was fine.” She hesitated. “I also found out something else. Legal has been asked to get a copy of the police report on Jim’s death.”

  Fallon’s face darkened. “Why?”

  Samantha shook her head. “The request came from Willis Chambers, which means it came from Bennett. My best guess is that they want to see if he was drinking before the accident. Apparently, under the executive insurance agreement, it could be considered contributory, and could allow denial of the accidental death provision. I didn’t know this, but the insurance carrier is responsible only for the double indemnity portion. The triple indemnity—the part that covers accidental death while traveling on company business—is picked up by Waters Cable.”

  Fallon ground his teeth. “Sonofabitch,” he hissed.

  “But they won’t find anything,” Samantha said. “There’s nothing in the police report, Jack. I know. I talked to them. Legally, according to his blood alcohol level, Jim was sober when it happened.”

  Fallon glared at the wall. “That won’t stop them from holding up payment,” he said. “They can drag their feet and force Betty to hire a lawyer.”

  “Yes, they can,” Samantha said. “And I’m sure that’s the legal advice they’ll get.”

  Fallon turned his glare on her, almost as if she were to blame. She felt as if all the sins of her profession were being dumped on her. “I’ll represent Betty myself,” she said. “Pro bono. I plan to quit, anyway.” She tried a weak smile. “Before Carter fires me,” she added.

  Almost on cue, Bennett entered the gym. He had already changed. Given the growing tension, he now avoided the gym’s locker room and used the executive washroom instead.

  Samantha and Fallon were only a few feet to the left of the gym entrance. Wally and George Valasquez were working at a bench-press station to its right. They formed a gauntlet through which Bennett had to pass.

  Bennett glared at Fallon, then Samantha, his eyes burning with open hatred.

  “Hey, killer. How’s it going? What’s the body count today?”

  The words stopped Bennett in his tracks. He turned his glare on George Valasquez.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” He stared down the length of his nose, viewing George like some fly he had found in his soup.

  “You know what it means, you prick.” George had started to rise from the bench, and Wally stepped around him quickly, placing himself in George’s path. Fallon slid off his bicycle, and came around the other side. The other dinosaurs, sensing the confrontation, had begun to move across the room.

  Bennett didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps didn’t care. He continued to stare at George with contempt. “If you’re trying to affix blame for the actions of some drunk …”

  Wally spun around, ready to launch himself at the man. “You sonofabitch,” he snarled. He heaved himself forward, but Fallon looped an arm around his neck and pulled him back.

  Bennett cocked a fist, and Fallon’s anger flashed. He pushed Wally aside and moved quickly inside any swing Bennett might attempt. His hands shot up, grabbing Bennett’s shirt beneath his chin, twisting it, and driving him back against the wall.

  Bennett struggled, but Fallon had twenty-five pounds on him, and his weight was forward, his face only inches away from Bennett’s.

  “You better get out of here, Carter. And you better do it fast,” Fallon growled. “Before you have six people pounding the living hell out of you.”

  Bennett’s eyes darted toward the others, then back to Fallon. Samantha had come up beside him.

  “Seven people,” she snapped.

  Bennett’s eyes suddenly became fearful, and he looked back at Fallon. “Let go of me,” he said. But there was no command in his voice. The words came out sounding like a plea.

  Fallon released him
, and he spun away and hurried out the door.

  It was raining when Fallon left the Chrysler Building and he quickly gave up any hope of finding a cab. Instead, he ran across Lexington Avenue and into the east entrance of Grand Central Station. The IRT subway would put him only two and a half blocks from Samantha’s apartment on East Seventy-sixth Street. It wasn’t the best of choices, but he felt pressed to get there rather than miss the unexpected meeting with her computer wizard.

  As he descended into the bowels of Grand Central, Fallon realized he hadn’t ridden a subway in almost ten years. But it was as good a time as any to get reacquainted. When the company tossed his aging butt into the street, and when Trisha’s lawyer plucked what was left, traveling with the unwashed might be the only mode of transportation he could afford.

  But despite his trepidation, the ride was surprisingly pleasant. He had missed the rush hour, and the train seemed far less grungy than those he remembered from the past. Perhaps the city’s boast of a cleaner, safer subway system hadn’t been all hype and bluster after all.

  When he climbed out of the exit at East Seventy-seventh Street, he found that the rain had intensified. But one of the city’s other wonders had miraculously appeared. Straight ahead, only a half dozen steps away, stood a man selling cheap, collapsible, two-dollar umbrellas for only five bucks a pop. Fallon had often pondered the appearance of these men throughout the city. He had decided that they, together with their umbrellas, lived somewhere below ground, and that they simply materialized whenever two or more raindrops struck the pavement above their heads.

  Five dollars lighter, and umbrella in hand, Fallon turned the corner and headed down East Seventy-sixth Street. He had gone no more than a dozen steps when the rain abruptly stopped.

  “This is not your day,” he hissed to himself, as he folded and collapsed the umbrella into its eighteen-inch length.

  Fallon had taken only a dozen more steps when he felt a prickling at the back of his neck. He turned his head just in time to see an arm descending toward his head.