by Davis Bunn
Gayle must have noticed his unease, because as Edlyn stepped out and strode impatiently away from the vehicle, Barry Mundrose’s secretary said, “I think you look very nice.”
He could have hugged her. “Thanks.”
“Don’t let Ms. Mundrose get to you.”
“All bark and no bite, is that what you’re saying?”
“Oh, no, not at all.” She was very grave. “Edlyn’s bite is highly poisonous.”
The Bentley’s driver hefted two Louis Vuitton cases from the trunk and followed Edlyn Mundrose inside. Trent was secretly relieved to see Gayle pull out a valise of her own. It meant she would be traveling with them. Even if she was there to serve Edlyn and not him, he liked the idea of having an ally on this first journey. Trent was fully aware that Gayle, if need be, would stand back and watch the corporate carnivores take him down. She had probably watched it happen any number of times. But she was the nicest person he had met inside the company’s HQ, and it felt good to have her along. Great, in fact.
Of course, the fact that she was stunningly beautiful did not hurt at all.
They followed Barry Mundrose’s daughter through the lobby and out the rear portal, where a pilot saluted Edlyn and took her cases from the driver. He smiled a brief welcome at Trent and Gayle, but his attention remained firmly upon Edlyn as they crossed the tarmac and climbed the stairway.
The Gulfstream was the most ostentatious demonstration of power that Trent could have imagined. It contained a kitchen, a fully equipped bar, a conference room, twelve reclining seats, three bunks, a bedroom, and a bathroom whose shower was walled with alabaster tiles. All the bathroom taps were gold plated.
They had settled into their seats and had taken off when a phone rang. Gayle answered with the ease of a woman well versed in private flight. She handed Trent the phone and said, “Stone Denning for you.”
Stone Denning was one of the most powerful directors in Hollywood. He was a notorious figure who loved a good fight almost as much as he did a wild party. He had boxed in university and liked to invite his stars to go a few rounds. When on location he always staked out a nearby ring and traveled with several pairs of gloves. The lollipops who ran the entertainment shows loved him. Stone Denning was always good for a story.
“This is Trent Cooper.”
“That means exactly what to me. Nothing.”
Trent ran through several responses, and settled on, “Thank you for the call, Mr. Denning.”
“Turn that jet around. I won’t have another corporate weasel come waste my time.”
“Not even a weasel who’s bringing you ten million dollars in extra advertising?”
Silence. “Who are you, anyway?”
“I’m the guy who’s traveling to LA to deliver a check.”
“Nothing from Mundrose comes without strings.”
“You’re right there. I have the money and the proposition.”
“Give it to me now.”
“Can’t do that, Mr. Denning. I need half an hour of face time.”
“How many other weasels are with you?”
“Just one.” On a hunch, he passed Edlyn the phone. “He wants a word.”
Barry Mundrose’s daughter did not even look up from the file in her lap. She just took the phone and said, “What.” Edlyn listened for ten seconds, then broke in with, “Do what he tells you, Stone.”
Trent took back the phone. “When and where, Mr. Denning?”
The director had grown sullen. “Bel Air Hotel bar. Six o’clock.”
Trent did not confirm because the director had already hung up. He handed the phone back to Gayle, then turned to Edlyn and asked, “Ms. Mundrose, would you like to hear me repeat my mantra?”
She might have smiled. It was hard to tell, a quick flicker directed at the papers covering the table before her. “Sure. Why not.”
“I owe you.”
This time, Trent was certain she smiled.
11
“… my whole being waits …”
WESTCHESTER COUNTY
Barrett Ministries was headquartered in the rolling hills of Westchester County, about ninety minutes from New York City. The land had been bought back in the sixties, when most of the region had been horse country. Over the years, however, Westchester County’s meadows had sprouted a new crop of mansions, and pickups had gradually been replaced by New York limos.
The feed stores were mostly gone, and what once had been farming villages now housed boutiques catering to the wealthy newcomers. The Barrett enclave remained a small exception to the rule, however. Their hundred and eighty acres filled a shallow valley with peace. The main structures contained a hotel, a conference center, a chapel built to hold seven hundred, an outside arena that could hold two thousand, and a sprawling network of offices and seminar rooms and broadcasting studios for both television and radio.
While they were still recovering from the Times Square spectacle, Ruth invited the entire group to travel back with her. She had not made a big deal of it, saying in her quietly emphatic way that they needed to gather and pray for guidance.
So John used his meeting as a test. His company was the nation’s largest shipper of fresh produce, and John was assistant manager for the Midwest depot, a high-stress occupation if there ever was one. The company’s fleet of four hundred and nineteen trucks, two-thirds of which were refrigerated, had to be accounted for on an hourly basis. Delays meant rotten produce and lost profits. Transport companies operated on hair-thin margins. Every fluctuation in gas prices, every storm, every problem with a driver or an engine, was cause for worry. Their company succeeded because they were reliable.
That morning, John entered the offices of the world’s largest importer of foreign-grown produce and laid out all these facts, while his heart and mind remained filled with the emotions and images of a previous day. Twice he had to stop and clear his throat, as the recalled sensations threatened to overwhelm him. The managers heard him out, then being New Yorkers they tried to whittle him down. Normally John would have sweated bullets over such negotiations. But today he just couldn’t be bothered. He told them the terms were the terms, rose to his feet, and thanked them for their time.
In the evening, his company’s senior VP phoned with the news that the group had accepted the deal, and wanted him to personally supervise their operations. John asked for an extra week’s vacation. The vice president pointed out that John’s own manager was barely recovered, and a deputy from Baltimore was handling the depot. John thanked the man for the opportunity, asked him to reconsider about the vacation, and hung up. Then he simply waited. Either it happened or it didn’t. Five minutes later, the VP called back and agreed.
John probably should have been amazed at how everyone was gathered downstairs in the lobby the next morning. Yussuf was there with Aaron, the two men having taken annual leave from the hospital. Alisha described how her company required all leave to be scheduled months in advance, but a friend had needed to shift her plans, and so here she was. Jenny Linn introduced her parents, and related how she had accepted the job offer from a New York publisher, and had ten days before she needed to report for work. They were still coming to terms with how natural it all seemed as the van drove them into Westchester County.
Even so, they were a subdued bunch that gathered on Ruth Barrett’s front porch. The broad veranda overlooked a grassy vale of springtime green. Blooming dogwoods and cherry trees marked the long drive that meandered alongside the stream. A glade of oaks and maple lined the hill that hid the ministry complex. Traffic thundered softly from beyond the hills to John’s right. Here there was sunlight and birdsong and a crisp breeze.
It was Jenny Linn who said what he was thinking. “We should do something.”
“We are,” Ruth said. A cane rested on the floor beside her padded rocker with its embroidered cushions. Something in the set of her mouth left John convinced she did not wish to discuss whatever ailment was afflicting her. “We are waiting on God.”
But he wanted it known that he agreed with Jenny’s sentiment. John pointed to the world beyond the valley. “Out there is a group aiming on robbing the world of hope. Stealing it away, like thieves in the night.”
“And what precisely do you intend on doing?”
“Whatever it is we’ve been brought together to do,” Jenny said.
“Which is exactly what we are doing.” Ruth reached to the side table holding a pitcher of lemonade and untouched glasses. She took up a much-used Bible, opened it to Acts, and read words from the first chapter.
John nodded in time to the telling, about the final meeting between the disciples and Jesus. About Jesus telling them to wait there in Jerusalem. John could scarcely hold back until she was done to say, “I know all that. And I’m telling you, we need to go out there and do something.”
“Ever since I got here,” Alisha agreed, “I’m feeling uncomfortable in my own skin.”
“Like electrodes were planted in my flesh,” Yussuf agreed.
“Only days ago we were merely a few believers who listened to God and he brought us together.” Ruth’s chair made a gentle rhythm on the varnished floor as she rocked. “Three days ago, we were burdened by God’s sorrow. Now we all share a need to go and do. I take this as a good sign. But it is not enough.”
“We need to plan,” John said.
She smiled at him, like she might at a well-intentioned but wayward child. “No, friend. We need to wait.”
“I don’t know if I can,” John said.
“What if God is waiting for us to get out there and speak?” Alisha asked.
“I shouldn’t be sitting here,” Jenny agreed. “There’s something he wants me to do.”
Richard Linn opened his mouth, but then shut it and remained silent.
Ruth said, “Please tell us what you were thinking, I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”
“Richard. I, well …” He shot his daughter a worried look.
“Tell us, Daddy.”
“I’ve spent too many hours doing just that. Telling, rather than listening.”
Jenny smiled for the first time that day. Her mother sniffed softly as Jenny took hold of her father’s hand. “Go ahead.”
“It seems to me that unless you know where God wants you to go and what he wants you to say, you’re just running on a wheel of your own making.”
“Like Fred,” Jenny said.
“I’m sorry, who?”
“My hamster when I was little.”
Alisha harrumphed a laugh. “Girl, you haven’t stopped being little yet.”
Jenny seemed to like that. “Little-er, then.”
Richard said, “My daughter would watch that little beast for hours.”
“I liked to watch him run. His legs moved so fast they were a blur.”
“And he still didn’t go anywhere,” Ruth said. She pointed to the Book in her lap. “The disciples were told to go to Jerusalem and wait. They gathered and they prayed. How hard it must have been for them to sit there, taking no action, while outside the world wanted them all dead.”
Aaron startled them by speaking for the first time that day. “There should be twelve of you.”
Alisha looked at him. “I been thinking the exact same thing.”
“It’s bothered me ever since we watched the Times Square mob,” Aaron went on. “Twelve were called. But only you five showed up. Out there are seven more that God chose, but who didn’t act.”
“And now we’re not being allowed to do just that,” John groused. “Act.”
Heather shook her head. “Climb down off your wheel, John. Ruth is right.”
“I know she is. But it doesn’t make it easy.”
“Welcome to the upper room, friends.” Ruth reached out both hands. “Now let’s join in prayer and ask God to show us the way.”
LOS ANGELES
When the jet landed at John Wayne airport in Burbank, two limos were pulled up on the tarmac. As the jet rolled over and the engines whined down, the drivers emerged and straightened their jackets. The pilot lowered the stairs and saluted his departing passengers. Trent followed Edlyn Mundrose down the steps and watched as she slipped into the first limo. The driver collected her bags from the pilot, climbed in behind the wheel, and took off, leaving Gayle to travel with him. Edlyn never once looked their way.
The limo was an anonymous black Lincoln. Nice enough, but after a Bentley to the airport and a private Gulfstream ride across the continent, he would have at least expected to be met by a Caddy.
Gayle fielded three phone calls as they threaded their way along the LA concrete spaghetti. She spoke quietly with her hand cradling the receiver, and Trent felt no need to listen in. His own phone rang as they exited the I-405. The detective service he had hired confirmed that his requested files would be ready in an hour. As he closed his phone, Gayle said, “I suggest we shift our reservations to the Bel Air, since that’s where Mr. Denning said we should meet. It will make a statement.”
“Only if Stone Denning bothers to check.”
“His people will make it their business to know.”
Trent nodded as if it all made sense. Welcome to Hollywood.
He thought of other young men and women who had come before him, granted an instant in the corporate spotlight. The limos, the thousand-dollar hotel rooms, the access to the throne room. He wondered at the difference between those who had made it and those who were not even memories. He knew that most people granted this chance failed. He hoped he had what it took. He knew some of them mistakenly assumed that a glimpse of the high life meant they could claim it as their own. They padded their expense accounts with all the tight pleasures of that kind of living. He knew they flamed hard and went down harder. He also knew there was no chance of that happening to him. He had few friends, and none of them so close as to turn needy if and when success struck. He allowed himself pleasures on a carefully distilled basis. He had fought too hard to get here. He wanted it too much.
But that still did not guarantee anything.
They turned onto Wilshire Boulevard, and Trent spent a few moments gaping at the tall palm trees and the polished buildings and the cinematic billboards. A pair of LA honeys waited by the Rodeo Drive traffic light, skintight jeans and the oversized sunglasses and the fancy shopping bags all part of the Hollywood dream. Their heads swiveled as they watched his limo pass. Trent smiled briefly at the thought that they were watching him. Then he turned away, consumed by his hunger to climb the ladder, rung after precious rung.
He would do anything to make it happen. Whatever it took.
Their destination was a chrome-and-glass structure on Wilshire Boulevard across from the Ferrari dealership. Trent watched an F500 emerge from the lot, roar through the next light, and smoke two black strips down a full block and a half. When he and Gayle climbed from the limo, the air tasted of burned rubber.
The sign by the building’s front door announced simply: Mundrose. They were greeted by a cheerful staffer. Trent assumed she had been alerted by one of Gayle’s phone calls. The woman led them straight to the executive elevator. The building had only five floors, and still the directors had their own lift.
They were shown to seats in the penthouse reception area. The atmosphere sparked with the tense energy of making things happen, California-style. Trent waited for the staffer to depart, then asked, “Is there anything you can tell me about what I should expect?”
Gayle was elegantly beautiful in a discreet pearl grey dress and matching pumps. “You have researched Colin Tomlin?”
Tomlin was the head of the LA advertising group and the man they were scheduled to meet. “Of course.”
She nodded, as though his response confirmed something she needed to know. She would not waste her time with someone who did not bother to prepare. “Barry acquired this management agency four years ago. He added to this an advertising firm connected to every major network and studio. Then he acquired a marketing and promotion group
. He paid over the odds for all three.”
“But their combined value is now much more,” Trent guessed.
“Correct. The former head of the agency is now president of the LA group. He makes more than the division chief, who was at the meeting in New York.” She eyed him coolly. “Do you understand what I am saying?”
“The guy on the other side of those doors thinks he should have been at the meeting.”
“Tomlin considers himself the head of his own division. He thinks the director in New York should be answering to him. Selling his group to Barry Mundrose made Colin Tomlin a very rich man. But he wants more. He wants access to the inner sanctum.”
“So to get a call from New York telling him to meet with me …”
Gayle nodded to the secretary who was headed their way. “He is not your friend. If he can knife his boss by stabbing you, he will do so.”
Colin Tomlin neither rose nor offered his hand as together they crossed the broad expanse of his office. Trent suspected the man had positioned his desk so as to make the visitor feel both uncertain and under inspection, as though approaching a throne. Trent’s research had described an incredibly vain man, born to money and title in England, product of Eton and Cambridge. Tomlin had begun his career acting in British television, but when it faltered he reinvented himself as a representative of other actors. This took him to Hollywood, where he showed a remarkable talent for using his urbane British polish to hide the unseen blade.
Tomlin was strikingly handsome for a man in his late sixties. Impeccably groomed in a striped shirt with white collar and cuffs, gold Cartier cuff links and matching watch, woven silk tie, Palm Springs tan. He watched them with cold lizard eyes as they seated themselves.