by J. M. Lanham
Inside, Sturgis calmed himself. He walked to the double-pane windows and looked down on the city. The buildings below seemed small and quaint, like the decorative miniatures that filled department-store windows around Christmas. Cars were little more than rolling toys clogging the streets. Asteria’s executive floor was so high that pedestrians couldn’t be singled out; instead, they moved down the sidewalks like a single tapestry, noticeable ripples here and there, but for the most part, gliding along as a single unit. Every time Sturgis encountered an issue, whether it was managing a budgetary crisis or combating corporate espionage, he retreated to the window. It was if he expected the world to stop every time his own little world came to a halt. He would look down and check, and the result would always be the same.
The world just keeps on moving.
He shook his head. “I knew some shit like this was going to happen the moment she clinched the appointment. The CIA has always been a boys’ club. Hell, runs better that way. All this new administration has ever given a shit about is politics, pure and simple. Can’t make the tough calls, or appoint someone who can make the tough decisions.”
Sturgis looked back at Kovic, shaking his finger. “Bennett wouldn’t have backed out of an agreement the moment things became politically inconvenient for him. He was old school. Ruled with an iron fist. This Lancashire woman—”
“Lancaster.”
“Whatever. Lancaster.” He tossed his hand dismissively. “She’ll never get anywhere playing the crusader. World’s an ugly place. Nothing’s black and white. You’d think these people running our government would realize that by now.”
Kovic shrugged. “Politics aside,” he said, “we’re going to have to accept the reality that our cooperation is coming to an end. Now, there has been talk of an offer for Ocula’s patent. Would have to be carried out through third-party channels, of course—”
“You’ve got to be joking.”
“The CIA’s budget is $18 billion annually, and that’s just what comes from the treasury. We’re not joking.”
“You could cut us a check for half that amount today and it still wouldn’t be worth it. And what about these rogue outliers, Kovic? Freeman, Connor, Ford . . . You’re just letting them go? Just like that?”
“Face it, Sturgis. They’ve been gone for almost six months now. If they had any solid evidence of wrongdoing taking place between Asteria and the agency, they would have come forward a long time ago. Anything they bring up at this point is obsolete, circumstantial at best.”
Sturgis faced Kovic, hands on the table, gray eyes staring intensely. “And by cutting ties with the company altogether, the agency eliminates the threat of being implicated in illegal genetic experiments in the future.”
“Now wait a minute, Sturgis. It’s been clear for months now that the new director has had plans to take the agency in a different direction. That news shouldn’t come as a shock to you.”
“Don’t tell me what should or shouldn’t come as a shock, you sawed-off little shit!” He pushed off the table and paced the room. “The only thing that’s clear here is the fact that your agency got everything it wanted from my company, and now it’s trying to shut down its only competition. I’ve been around long enough to know exactly how you sons of bitches operate.”
Kovic raised his eyebrows but kept his mouth shut. He must have known Sturgis would vent; the man was known for his boisterous temper. Fortunately for Kovic, the outbursts were usually short-lived. Sturgis regained his composure, gave his jacket a tug, and held his chin up.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “You’re one agency; not the end-all-be-all of the federal government. Ocula’s not going anywhere. The good folks at HHS love it, the FDA approved it, and the DEA’s behind it one hundred percent. If your sanctimonious director thinks all of those agencies are just going to reverse their decisions because of a little bitching and moaning from a career politician, she’s got another think coming.”
“That may be, Sturgis. Cline just wanted to give you a heads-up.”
Sturgis huffed. Sarcastically, “Thanks. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got some calls to make.”
Kovic nodded. He opened the door to leave, then stopped to look back. Sturgis was already holding the phone.
Kovic said, “I have to ask: you still believe our research was a bunch of nonsense? That the director would go through all this trouble to ban Ocula from the open market if Tanner and Doyle were wrong?”
Sturgis put his hand over the receiver and said, “What I believe in, Kovic, is the power of money. That’s all this boils down to. Rest assured, I’m going to get to the bottom of it.”
Sturgis returned to his call, and Kovic left.
Chapter 8:
Kerry’s Restaurant
The lobby of the First National Bank of Savannah was heavy on opulence, light on comfort. Roman columns formed a parameter around the vaulted main lobby, the smooth stone pillars rising past the second-floor walk-around to support a crown-heavy ceiling filled with octagon insets, bronze molding, and massive chandeliers. Dark marble floors reflected the affluent features that hung from above, doppelgangers of golden lights twinkling in the rich brown, freshly polished floors below. Every square inch of the lobby seemed built to intimidate the working man—while welcoming the wealthy with open arms.
At least, that’s what Arlo Vaughan thought as he waited for the loan officer to call him into his office. He patiently watched as the old money walked by, hard-soles clacking, casting double takes in his direction before quickly looking the other way. He even caught a bug-eyed clerk staring from the teller window. Embarrassed, she turned away fast, knocking her coffee off her desk in the process.
It was obvious more than a handful of bank patrons thought Arlo Vaughan was lost; that the blacks were supposed to bank on the other side of town. He hated to think that way, and typically ignored the childish behavior of a few. But as the minutes turned into hours; as old money came and old money went; as the heavy arms of the giant clock on the far wall ticked closer and closer to five, he was starting to think he might be on to something.
Or maybe it was just his nerves talking.
Arlo wasn’t the type to dress in a suit and a tie, but today was a special occasion. For twenty years, he had called the Port of Savannah his workplace, and for the last two years, working third shift as a logistics coordinator had been his responsibility. It was a demanding role, getting to work at one of the busiest deep-water terminals in North America about the same time his colleagues were getting into their second beers.
But Arlo wasn’t one to complain. It also didn’t hurt that third-shift pay was fifty percent higher than working the nine to five. The bump in pay had helped him and his wife Kerry save up enough money to put a down payment on a dream: a creole restaurant, riverside in downtown Savannah.
They had had their eyes on the property for years. Originally built in the 1800s as four- and five-story cotton warehouses, the brick buildings lining the riverfront now served two purposes: residential condos on the top, commercial property on the bottom. Restaurants, hotels, gift shops, and pubs stretched down a cobblestone street split by trolley tracks. The pedestrian traffic alone was enough to keep businesses going year-round. In fact, local support was exactly what had kept Mary Lou’s open for over a decade.
The Vaughans had originally fallen in love with the southern-style restaurant on the corner because of the food, but after countless date nights and interactions with the staff, they’d grown to also love the owner of the eponymous eatery. Mary Lou ran her kitchen like a fine-tuned machine. Her business acumen, combined with an unwavering work ethic, had turned Mary Lou’s into one of the most popular restaurants on the river. Everyone loved it, and no one wanted to see it go.
Trouble was, Mary Lou had little choice in the matter. One night after closing, as she locked the front door, a strange pain cramped her shoulder. At first she thought it was the way she had turned the key. The deadbolt was heavy, and sh
e had to put some force into it. She shrugged it off, and turned to walk to her car.
It was the second pain that stopped her cold.
She grabbed her chest as the pain quickly sent her to her knees. She listed over and hit the street, coming to rest on the left side of her face, framing the cobblestone walk ahead of her from the most peculiar angle. It had just rained, and the streetlights caused the pebbled street to glow like river rocks at daybreak. Soon the scene began to blur, then fade. Within a minute of noticing a stiff shoulder, Mary Lou was dead.
Working six days a week had caught up to the old girl. Coupled with a pack-a-day smoking habit, it had only been a matter of time before her lifestyle took its toll. Still, her death had come as a shock to the tight-knit community, and laid a heavy blow on her financially burdened family. Her aging husband Harry had already had his share of ailments, and the medical bills were piling high. Now he had funeral costs to deal with—and absolutely no interest in keeping the doors to the restaurant open.
That was why he had approached the Vaughans. Harry knew they had dreamt of opening their own restaurant for years. Now was their chance. If they could come up with the money for the lease and the personal property, the keys were theirs. It was the opportunity of the lifetime.
The timing, however, was way off.
The Vaughans had saved up for years, but they were far away from being able to afford the overhead costs associated with setting up a restaurant. The kitchen equipment alone was enough to put them in the red. Stainless steel ovens. Industrial-size refrigerators. Tables and chairs and flat-screen TVs. Even the hoods above the ranges were a grand a piece. If Arlo was going to make this work, he was going to need a little help from First National.
He rested his hands on the briefcase in his lap and waited to be called, foot tapping, his patience wearing thin. He turned his wrist, comparing the time on his watch to the clock on the wall. Twenty till five. Bank would be closing soon.
Unbelievable, thought Arlo, Or was it? Come to think of it, he’d never met a banker he liked. He also knew banks were one of the few industries left that could still get away with dismal customer service. He imagined wealthy reps from the Top Ten Worst Industries in the U.S. sitting in a billiards room, fat asses filling Victorian chairs, laughing at the expense of everyday Americans. There was King Cable, sipping cognac and telling some whoppers. The Banking Bros. sat by the fire, counting their fees and plotting ways to add more. The Insurance Czar was the king mackerel, puffing on a fat cigar, quiet amongst a room full of loudmouths. No need for him to brag; when it came to billfolds, he knew he had ’em all beat.
The scene playing out in Arlo’s head was the last straw. If they didn’t want his business, he would take it elsewhere—simple as that. He stood to leave when a loan officer rushed out from one of the offices. He walked briskly to meet Arlo, apologizing as he closed in.
“I am so sorry, Mr. Vaughan,” the young banker said. “We’ve been behind schedule all afternoon; I’m sure you know how it goes.”
“Ah, don’t mention it.” Arlo’s demeanor quickly cooled the moment the man extended a hand.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Vaughan.”
“Pleasure’s all mine, Mr. . . .”
“Webber. Daniel Webber.”
“Well, Mr. Webber,” Arlo said, glancing at the clock, “looks like we’d better get a move on.”
“Right you are. Follow me, please.”
The two stepped into the office. Arlo noticed the sign on the door: COMMERCIAL LOAN DEPARTMENT.
His heart skipped a beat. This was it.
Arlo took a seat in front of the massive oak desk and popped open his briefcase. Inside was everything but the kitchen sink. His original birth certificate, the fifty-five-year-old document faded a yellowish brown; checking, savings, and investment records covering the last decade; a detailed list of assets, current value taken into account less depreciation. With the help of Kerry’s meticulous pen, the Vaughans had put together a flawless application package no loan officer in his or her right mind could deny.
That didn’t ease Arlo’s nerves in the least. He sat and watched as the lender turned over page after page, jotting notes on some, licking his finger to gain traction for the next page after the previous scores had dried it out.
“Uh huh,” the lender said.
Arlo leaned forward, hands crushing the armrests. “Everything all right?”
“Yes.”
“Got everything you need?”
“Mmm hmmm.” The banker uttered without looking up.
Arlo leaned back and checked his watch. Two minutes to close. He looked at the lender—the man didn’t seem the type to work late. No sooner had Arlo made the assumption, than the banker laid down his pen.
“Well, Mr. Vaughan. Looks like we’re going to have to continue this tomorrow.”
Arlo tried not to look disappointed. He asked, “So how’s it looking so far, Mr. Webber? Everything squared away?”
“We won’t know until tomorrow. It’s taking a little longer than expected to get the results back from your credit report, but I wouldn’t dwell on it too much. These things tend to happen late in the day. We’ll have a better idea of where we stand in the morning.” Webber stood and buttoned his coat. “Will you be able to come by, say, ten, ten thirty?”
“Of course, of course. No problem. I’ll make it work.” He donned a smile, but inside he was hurting. 10 a.m. was well past his bedtime; days like this made him loath the night shift.
Webber said, “Okay, then. We’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
Aldo nodded, took his briefcase, and left.
***
The drive home was a rainy one. Afternoon showers on the Georgia coast had a tendency to pop up without warning, and by the time Arlo turned down the two-lane leading to the south side of town, the sound of heavy sheets of rain hitting the single cab drowned out the radio.
Fitting, thought Arlo. He hit the wipers. They smeared across the windshield of his old pickup, the dirt and bugs and water forming a thin, clay-colored paste that was almost impossible to see through. Even better.
He rushed to roll the window down, squinting through the muck while reaching for a handful of fast-food napkins to clean the windshield with. After a few circular wipes and a soaking-wet arm, he made a spot clear enough to see through.
He tossed the soiled napkins in the floorboard and cursed the day. Arlo was usually a positive guy, one to keep his head up when the going got tough. That’s why everyone at work liked him. He didn’t complain—just got things done.
But what irked him about the loan situation was the fact that he had to borrow money to begin with. Everything he owned, he had worked hard to pay off. As it currently stood, the Vaughans owed nothing to no one. The house—while modest and dated—had long been paid off. So had Kerry’s car, and his truck, too (although the latter wasn’t saying much; Arlo had driven the same truck for nearly two decades).
The Vaughans had worked their entire adult lives to become two self-sufficient, self-made citizens with little to no debt; no bill collectors calling at 2 a.m.; no liens or foreclosure notices or threatening letters in the mail. The feeling of living debt-free was pure liberation, especially after working so hard to pay off the countless bills that burdened them early on in their marriage. Living without debt was a relief. A blessing.
And now they had to ask for money again.
He didn’t like it, but he had little choice. Harry had even said it was now or never, that other investors would be along soon, that a location like that wouldn’t last long on the open market.
Arlo hit his blinker and turned down his street. Suddenly, a dark, four-legged blur jetted out in the road in front of him.
“SHIT!” He hit the brakes.
The truck sailed across the wet asphalt as Arlo worked the wheel. He turned in the direction he was sliding and prayed he didn’t hit anything. Finally, the truck skimmed to a stop in the center of the street.
He checked his mirrors and looked for cars. No one in sight. Thank God, he thought. He could have easily killed someone, and for what? To dodge some damn cat or dog or coyote running out in front of him? He put the truck in reverse, backed into his lane, then put it in drive.
But he didn’t move.
In front of his truck, about twenty feet away, stood a black lab. The dog was looking Arlo’s way, panting heavily, but otherwise relaxed considering it had come dangerously close to being roadkill.
Arlo leaned forward on the wheel, face almost touching the inside of his windshield.
“Naw . . .”
He took his sleeve and wiped the fog off the glass.
“Samson?”
As soon as he uttered the name, the dog took off. Arlo hopped out in the rain and watched the lab run back up the street before jetting off into the woods. Then it was gone.
He stood in the rain and leaned on his truck door, baffled. His black lab Samson had died the year before, but for a moment, he was certain the old pooch had been resurrected from the dead. Big golden eyes. Slick black fur. Everything a black lab was supposed to look like, with a prominent feature that made him one of a kind.
Samson wasn’t a purebred, noticeable by the cross-shaped patch of white fir on his chest. The top rose up just under his chin, with the horizontal mark extending mid-shoulder.
There was no mistaking the mark, but Arlo knew better. He had buried Samson himself the summer before, underneath the Spanish-moss-draped oak tree in the backyard.
No way it was Samson, but damn did it look just like him.
“How ’bout that,” he pondered. Then he got back in his truck and drove home.