The Anything Goes Girl (A Brenda Contay Novel Of Suspense Book 1)

by Barry Knister

  Morris looked at her again. “Goodbye Senate, goodbye White House,” he said. “‘Let’s take another look at that super-flat playing field for the little guy, Russ—’ You can see the op-ed pieces coming.”

  “So, what do you do?”

  “Well, shit, I don’t know.”

  “Think.”

  “You’d have to unload the liability, GENE 2. If you knew a story like that was going to come out, you couldn’t be connected to it. But just dumping it wouldn’t work. Everybody’d see what you were doing. Selling the holding just before you kicked off your campaign.” Morris forgot his neck and looked sharply at her. “Aw, Christ—”

  “I’ll see if I can get some Tylenol,” Renee said and went out into the hall.

  Morris leaned stiffly back in his chair. “But, if there was a takeover attempt.”

  “What, Morris?”

  “You’re protecting Neff,” he said. “That’s the big story everyone’s keying on. You start selling assets—this subsidiary, that. Oil and gas leases, rights to pollute. GENE 2 is part of your strategy, just one piece in the mosaic. Everyone understands this makes sense. Declaring the extra dividend, raising cash. The poison pill.”

  “All of which is going on as you declare your candidacy,” she said.

  “Plus, because you’re Mister Clean, you set up a blind trust of all your wealth. To look like the perfect citizen. When the story about GENE 2 finally gets out, it has nothing to do with you. You might even get mileage out of it. You never knew about those poor islanders. What a shame. Time for business to start regulating itself to protect the public.”

  In other words, a root canal. It was a nice moment. For a few seconds, Brenda could see Morris was hot on the trail, completely with her. But then he realized he had let his guard down. Renee came in with two Tylenol and got him a glass of water. He took the pills and swallowed with difficulty.

  “So,” he said, handing back the glass, “where’s my perfume?”

  “You’ll get it,” she said. “Still think Kiley & Friedman will fire you?”

  “No question.”

  “Let’s make a call,” she said.

  They went down to the first-floor conference room. Renee shut the door and helped Morris sit at the table. Brenda sat opposite. She pulled the phone in front of her and called information. “I need the number for the Phoenix Sun newspaper, in Phoenix, Arizona.” She wrote down the number, tapped it out, and waited.

  “Phoenix Sun.”

  “City desk.”

  Seconds passed before someone answered. “This is Brenda Contay, calling from W-DIG in Michigan. I’m wondering whether your paper knows of any event or function that’s been scheduled for Russ Minot. Anything on the calendar?”

  “He’s cutting the ribbon at the new Free Enterprise Institute,” the voice said. “That’s next Thursday.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Well, of course there’s the Labor Day rally. That’s September seventh.”

  “With a parade, or what?” she asked.

  “No, this isn’t the parade. It’s something put on by the Draft Russ Committee. It’s being held at the fairgrounds.”

  “Do you know what’s supposed to take place?”

  “Well, it’s the Draft Russ Committee. I think you can figure it out.”

  Labor Day, she thought. Perfect for the Little Guy vote.

  “Thank you.” Brenda hung up. In eight days—a week from Monday—Russ Minot would appear at the Phoenix rally. His speech would make the evening news on all the networks. Sometime in the days following, Minot would no doubt be making guest appearances on TV.

  The three of them sat a moment at the conference table. “You were right,” Renee said at last. “All this was planned months ago. Before you went to Pirim. Giving you everything on GENE 2 is supposed to keep you busy until Labor Day.”

  Brenda looked across the table at her brother. “When does the sale take place?”

  “Tuesday or Wednesday of next week,” he said. “Nice timing.”

  “Very nice. When is Mom’s ship due back?”

  “Thursday. Don’t ask me to stay here and help you,” he said. “If I’m not—”

  “No, go back tonight. They always have seats on the weekend.”

  Renee stood up. “Patterson,” she said. “The files are open upstairs, I better go hide them.”

  Twenty minutes later, a cab turned into the drive. Brenda walked her brother down the ramp and opened the door for him. He turned stiffly before getting in.

  “Thanks, Morris.”

  “You owe me,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “Her ship’s due back Thursday. The neighbors will be on her before she opens the door. I left a message on her machine. I said you were fine, she shouldn’t worry. You better cover for me.”

  “I will.” It was amazing, really. Someone was planning a strategy to steal the presidency, and Morris was worried about their mother.

  Stiffly he climbed into the car. “I would’ve come, but you told me not to.”

  “That’s what I told you.”

  “But I came anyway. To be sure.”

  “Exactly, Morris, I was on your mind. You had trouble sleeping. Even with your own accident, the suffering and serious risk of further injury, you flew in to check on me. I’ll tell her.”

  “Say I called every day. Say you’re jogging.”

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  Back in her room, Brenda found Renee studying one of the files. “I got here just before Florence Nightingale showed up,” she said. “She was on her way home. She said your producer called.”

  “He can wait. Let’s go through all this.”

  For the next hour, they handed letters and photos back and forth, read out loud from corporate newsletters and performance reviews. Documents soon covered both beds, the nightstand, the wheelchair.

  “Those seminars,” Renee said. “The retreats and promotions. It’s like a formula.”

  “I was thinking software,” Brenda said. “A computer program for grooming true-believers.”

  “Minot’s Marines. I wonder who came up with that?” Renee held up a Marine group shot. They were outside a ski lodge, all of them wearing Neff sweatshirts.

  “Young comers who registered on Minot’s radar,” Brenda said. “I like the ‘Remember When’ monthly feature about some Marine’s first meeting with Mister Big.”

  As for Betsy McIntosh, at eighteen she’d come to the States from Glasgow, Scotland. She had worked first as an au pair girl for Russ Minot’s son, looking after his two children. Minot had taken an interest and put her through Arizona State. After top honors in her MBA program, she’d been fast-tracked at GENE 2. At thirty-one, she was now the youngest-ever public relations director for a Neff holding. Everything she now was, all the distance between her success and her working-class past in Scotland, she owed to Minot.

  “Don’t take chances,” Renee said. “This is loaded. You’re dealing with very bad people.”

  Brenda had never told Renee about Lindbergh. What she now knew made him all the more evil to her. Soulless.

  “I have just one advantage,” she said. “McIntosh doesn’t know we’ve made the connection between the sale of GENE 2 and the rally on Labor Day. And there’s one other thing. She thinks we’re competitors. In her mind, we’re alike.”

  “So, if you seem to take her offer, she’ll believe it,” Renee said. “Because it’s what she’d do in your place.” She thought for a moment, folded her arms and nodded. “But something’s needed. To reinforce the impression you’ve taken the bait. Someone should go to Phoenix to do research. They must know about me by now.”

  “Forget it.”

  “No, think about it, Brenda. My going makes sense. If someone you’re close to—”

  “Ren—”

  “No, that’s it. I’m someone you’re sending to research the story. Someone you trust. You’re preparing an in-depth special, just the way they want you to. It’s go
ing to take weeks. While you recover, the station’s setting things up for you and Lou Stock. And Brenda Contay’s college roommate is in Phoenix, diligently collating hundreds of pages.”

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  Tapping Patterson’s number into the pay phone, Lindbergh now waited, looking out at the dim dining room of the Radisson Hotel. Candles and flowers on the tables, waiters in dinner jackets. McIntosh was on the far side, seated in their banquette. She was still on her cell phone, talking to Phoenix.

  The nurse’s husband answered. “W-DIG calling for Jennifer Patterson.”

  Eyes still on McIntosh, he cradled the phone and got out his pocket notebook. He had not known she was in Southfield until she called his car that afternoon. Dinner had gone well, until she called her office in Phoenix and spoke with her secretary.

  He studied her now as she spoke—face hard, meal untouched, kicking ass. She had asked him to leave the table.

  The nurse came on. “Yeah, hi, what’ve you got for me…the brother came from New York—” Lindbergh wrote it down. “Okay… Okay…. Slow down. Called the Phoenix paper, yeah… What kind of rally? Labor Day, in Phoenix, okay… No, that’s good, thanks, ‘bye.”

  He hung up, still watching McIntosh. Morris Contay had flown in that afternoon. The nurse could not say what he had come for, but she’d gone down to the storeroom next to where Contay made her calls. Something about a Russ Minot rally and a courier mailer. The brother was flying back to New York this evening.

  Lindbergh pocketed the notebook, adjusted his tie and worked his way through the tables. As he neared, McIntosh glared at him, the phone clamped to her ear.

  “I want everything you sent her, tonight,” she said, holding a soup spoon in her free hand, rubbing the bowl with her thumb. “Cooperation does not mean sending personnel files…are you listening to me? If I say everything, I mean everything. Tonight. If I don’t have it all by midnight Eastern Time, you’re fired.” She pushed the button and dropped the phone on the seat.

  Lindbergh slipped in opposite, spread his napkin and took up his knife and fork. He had ordered rack of lamb, and it was very good, with potatoes au gratin and asparagus. McIntosh had ordered salad, the only thing she seemed to eat. She raised her coffee cup.

  “What’s the problem?” he asked.

  “Never mind.”

  “Tell me, get it off your chest.” The lamb would be cold now, but so tender he didn’t need his knife. He raised his fork, then saw McIntosh was staring at him with contempt. What the fuck now? He put down the fork.

  “Get it off my chest,” she said. “We’re not dealing here with deadbeat gamblers. This is not dinner chitchat, don’t tell me—” she stopped, thinking better of it.

  “Don’t tell you what?” he asked.

  “It’s called need-to-know,” she said. “What you need to know, you get told.”

  “Uh huh. What I need to know is why you didn’t say something two weeks ago about this buyout.”

  “As I explained to you in detail, it has nothing to do with your stock,” she said. “Nothing’s going to happen to it, what more do you want? Board members are buying GENE 2, how many—”

  “Hey hey hey—” He glanced around the room. She hadn’t raised her voice, but McIntosh was flushed now, neck and face red. Their waiter made eye contact and raised his eyebrows. Lindbergh shook his head, got the bottle and poured McIntosh a glass of wine. A nice pinot noir to go with the lamb.

  “If you owned GENE 2, I’d be more comfortable,” he said.

  She sat back and folded her arms. The contempt had been replaced by an expression of bored patience, like he was an idiot who needed to be taught how to hold his dick when he peed. Lindbergh felt his own face heating up and resented it, because of the good meal.

  He took a mouthful of the lamb and tried to savor the meat’s garlic flavor. Until the call to Phoenix, things had gone well. McIntosh had been glad to learn the producer Jerry would make sure Contay never aired live. And she had praised Lindbergh for going to the station.

  Then he’d brought up the call from the brother in New York, telling Contay about the sale of GENE 2. What’s it mean for my investment? he asked. There was no problem, she insisted. His money was secure, he was likely to get rich. If she weren’t involved in the negotiations, she’d invest herself.

  That’s when McIntosh had called her office and gone ape shit.

  “What’s the nurse say?” she asked.

  “The brother flew in this afternoon.”

  “What for?”

  “She thinks just a visit, they were in Contay’s room. Patterson had filing, she couldn’t get away. He’s going back tonight.”

  “What else?”

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?” he said. “Maybe I—”

  “What do you propose to do, kill my secretary? It’s a little late for that.”

  It stung him. For several seconds, he held her gaze. Maybe I should whack you, he thought.

  No. Revealed to him in his sudden hatred for her was how much he liked the way things were going. He was fitting in, learning the ropes. When he finished in Michigan, he was to fly to Seattle, to review security arrangements at the home office of a Neff-owned insurance firm. Offing McIntosh would be easy, but it was possible she had talked to others about him.

  He cleared his throat to blunt his anger and again put down the fork. Before meeting her, he had gotten a haircut and manicure in the hotel barbershop. A shoeshine. You’re an asshole, he told himself, looking at her. You think she’s going to notice? You do shit details for this number, and she has no appreciation. She will always see you one way only.

  “Come on, what else?”

  Lindbergh used his napkin. His appetite was gone, and he put his elbows on the table, thinking about the question. She knew what he was capable of, so she wouldn’t lie about the stock. But McIntosh knew he liked where he was, and thought she owned him.

  “That’s it,” he said.

  “You told me this nurse said Contay made phone calls.”

  “Patterson had typing. She couldn’t go down.”

  “So you have no idea about the calls.”

  Lindbergh shook his head.

  “The brother didn’t fly here just to chat up his sister and leave,” she insisted. “If he came to visit, he wouldn’t leave the same day.”

  Lindbergh shrugged.

  “I don’t like this cameraman,” she said, picking up her phone. “He does what she tells him to. I want you to talk again to her producer. Tell him to send Chambers out of town, on assignment.”

  Lindbergh emptied what was left of the wine bottle into his glass. She could figure it out for herself. Running errands, dealing with the bimbo nurse—it was insulting. Beneath him. She was in PR, but didn’t know jack shit how to get people to work for her.

  He drained his wine glass and remembered the black girl in Baton Rouge. She could’ve taught this one a lesson in manners. He slid out of the banquette and headed for the exit. McIntosh could sign the bill.

  Sunday morning, Brenda showered. For the first time since the rescue, the water did not fall sharply on her face and shoulders. She remembered the clown colors made by Moser’s tie-dyed sheets, could see them making love, but felt nothing.

  Renee came at eleven. “We need to work out what I do in Phoenix,” she said. “Let’s take a walk.”

  They rode down and exited through the back service entrance. As they crossed warm asphalt, Brenda saw no gray Lincoln. They moved toward the stand of trees that surrounded picnic tables.

  “I’m no reporter,” Renee said.

  “Neither am I. Just do what I do, be pushy. Tell them you know what happened. That I sent you because I trust you. Make them outline everything that took place in their testing program. Get their lawyers to go over the Pirim contract with you. That ought to take a day by itself. They’ll bury you with documentation, but that’s all right. You’re just there to create an impression. And watch your back with McIntosh.”r />
  “What a shark she must be,” Renee said. “Think of her working for President Minot.”

  “Yes, but she’s very sharp shark. If someone brings up the Minot rally, don’t let on it means anything to you. If they figure out we see the connection between the rally and takeover, we lose our advantage. It’s not likely, but Cal Moser may find a way to leave the island. If we get his confirmation before the end of the week, who knows?”

  “What would you do with it?”

  “McIntosh thinks she knows me,” Brenda said. “She has my medical records, school files. My Lightning Rod features. She knows I just fell in on a good thing, and ended up on TV. Then I learned about Vince Soublik, someone I slept with back in college.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Renee said.

  “One of many, I’m afraid. She thinks I saw Vince as a great Lightning Rod story, so I took off. Why else would someone go out there? In the process, I almost died. Now, she thinks I’m mad and won’t take their generous settlement. I’m a hothead, a local tabloid reporter. She thinks I’ve convinced myself there’s more in it for me if I fight them and don’t settle out of court.”

  “But you say they have Jerry in their pocket,” Renee said.

  “Because he’s afraid of losing advertising revenue from Neff companies.”

  “What about Lou Stock?”

  “Stock wouldn’t go out there without covering himself. I think McIntosh promised him a lock on the story, but only after her deadline’s secure. After GENE 2 is sold and Minot declares his candidacy, Stock will do his thing and everyone will be happy.”

  “If you’re right, I don’t see what you can do.”

  “Nothing at W-DIG,” Brenda said. “Jerry will humor me some way. He’s also worried I might talk to a competitor. If I demand they let me do a special on what happened, he’ll give it to me. We’ll go through the motions. Put together some schlock version of my ordeal. But he’ll never allow a live feed.”

  “Because you might throw the script away.”

  “He’s lazy, not stupid. But if Cal Moser is with me to confirm what I say, the other affiliates might think about it. Without Moser, there’s no chance they will.”