by Janet Dawson
“You can talk face-to-face,” Max said. “Rod’s in town on company business.”
“The board meeting,” Lindsey said. “Interesting column in the Chronicle business section last week.”
“It should be an equally interesting board meeting,” Max said. “I’ll have Rod call you.”
“I’d appreciate that. He can reach me at these numbers.” Lindsey handed him her card.
23
Inside the travel store, Rod looked at colorful guidebooks designed to lure travelers to the beaches of Rio de Janeiro, the lush jungles of Costa Rica, the antiquities of Yucatán.
He glanced out the window and saw Max with a woman whose dark hair was streaked with gray. Lindsey, after all these years, a link to that time in Berkeley, when things were simple, before life got complicated.
Lindsey and Max walked in different directions. Rod caught up with Max at Neetos, where they queued up and checked the menu board over the counter. “What did Lindsey want?”
“Background information on the coffee business in El Salvador, for a book she’s writing. Or so she says. I’m curious about her reasons.”
“Why? Your suspicious nature?”
“My suspicious nature has served me well through the years.” Max stepped up to the counter. “A Reuben sandwich, fries, and a Coke.” He turned to Rod. “What’ll it be?”
“A Caesar salad, with grilled chicken.”
Max snorted in derision. “Oh, live a little. Don’t leave me out here in cholesterol city all by myself.”
Rod grinned. “All right. Two Reubens, then. I’ll have coleslaw and iced tea.”
They found a vacant table. Rod squeezed lemon juice into his tea. “Why are you curious about Lindsey’s reasons?”
“I don’t think she was being completely straight with me. She interviewed an immigrant who was working in El Salvador in ’eighty-nine, on a coffee plantation in Chalatenango department. That’s where the Aragón estate is located She wants to talk with someone at Dunlin who was there at the same time. That would be Hal, Chuck Caldwell, several others—and you. Talk with Lindsey. Find out if there’s more to this. Here’s her card.”
Max put the card on the table. The server showed up with their Reubens. The contents oozed between the dark rye bread slices. Max picked up his sandwich and bit off a mouthful.
“Now let’s talk about tomorrow’s meeting,” Max said. “Getting you elected to the board is the first salvo. Dealing with Claire is the battle. It’s going to be a tough fight. Claire is trying to take over this company, and she won’t give up after one skirmish. We need every bit of leverage we can use against her.”
Rod looked down at his plate and felt queasy. Too much food. He forced himself to take a bite. “You’re confident I’ll get elected.”
“I am.” Max wiped greasy hands on his napkin. “Hal’s in our corner. I planted the seed and watered it. You’ve got my vote, Hal’s, and Annabel’s proxy. Caldwell’s vote makes it four to Claire’s three. I’ll talk with Caldwell again, point out your abilities and qualifications, and remind him that you’ve been with the company far longer than this guy, Graham, whom Claire wants to put on the board. Experience and expertise should win the day.” Max upended the ketchup bottle over his fries. “That’s just the beginning. Once you’re on the board, Claire will still be a problem. We’ll have to neutralize her. I’d like to get rid of her, but that will take some time.”
“Get rid of her how?” Rod asked. The phrase had a certain finality to it. But surely that was just Rod’s own flight of fancy. Or wishful thinking on Max’s part.
“Dump her from the board. Oust her. What do you think I mean? Assassination?” Max popped a couple of French fries into his mouth and wiped a smear of red from his lips. “Don’t think I haven’t considered it, usually after I’ve had a few drinks.”
“I’m relieved to hear you’re not homicidal,” Rod said, only half-joking. Max had probably countenanced all sorts of deeds in his years with the company.
“By the time I’m finished with Claire,” Max said, with a wolfish smile, “she’ll be history. The directors will boot her ass off the board, out of the company, too, if I have my way. Then I can work on getting rid of Rebecca. Maybe the old broad will save me the trouble and die. Now spare me the politically correct crap. I’m a sexist old toad. I call a spade a spade. Everybody knows it. That’s part of my charm.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call it charm, Max. But you’re an original.”
“Thank God for that. The world’s too full of cookie-cutter clones, people who don’t say what they mean and are terrified of having opinions. With me, you know what you’re getting.”
“About eighty proof, I’d say. With a bite.”
“Damn straight.”
“You’re devious, too.” Rod took a bite of his sandwich. “That column in the Chronicle last Wednesday wasn’t very complimentary to Claire and her money-losing coffee bars. Did the columnist get his information from you?”
Max chuckled. “Strictly confidential, of course, and not for attribution.”
“Very underhanded of you.”
“I use every weapon in my arsenal,” Max said. “Claire doesn’t fight fair. Neither do I. She’s sticking her fingers where they don’t belong, taking over more turf, amassing more power. Caldwell’s retirement gives her an opportunity to put her protégé on the board, but it won’t stop there. She has another chance to control the board. I expect her to bring it up at the meeting tomorrow, especially when you’re elected to replace Caldwell instead of her boy. That will upset her apple cart but she’s got a backup plan.”
“Annabel?” It was the next logical choice, given the company bylaws governing incapacitated directors.
Max nodded. “Eight weeks. If a company director has been incapacitated for eight weeks, the board can replace that director. Come Saturday, it’s eight weeks since Annabel’s stroke.”
“Replacing a board member who’s incapacitated isn’t a given,” Rod said. “I reviewed the bylaws. It’s simply something that could be done at the board’s discretion. It was one thing to replace Farnsworth after his car accident earlier this year. His injuries were life-threatening and he did die. But I don’t think anyone will convince Hal to replace Annabel. There’s every chance she’ll recover. Besides, it was her father’s company, a big psychological factor that argues against replacing Annabel.”
“Claire will argue it was her father’s company at one time. Rebecca will back her up. Those two are a poisonous pair.”
“How is Annabel?” Rod asked.
Max shrugged. “Lots of therapy, physical and speech. Hal’s concerned about her mental state, says she seems disoriented and depressed. Not surprising. She’s got aphasia, due to the stroke, so when she talks it’s hard to understand her. That must be frustrating for her. It will take time, but she’ll recover. Annabel’s one tough lady.”
Rod took another bite of his sandwich. “You wanted me to check out the rumors about the company selling some of its real estate. Apparently the Chronicle columnist heard the same rumors.”
Max nodded. “He asked me about it, when I was giving him the lowdown on Claire and her coffee bar debacle. I gave him a no-comment on the real estate angle. He went ahead and tossed that into his column. Of course he wouldn’t tell me where he picked up the rumors. It’s all one way with reporters. Did you find out anything?”
“I checked with a friend of mine who works in commercial real estate. Strictly confidential, of course, and not for attribution.” Rod smiled. “That boutique hotel company definitely wants to buy the headquarters building. They’re offering a big pile of money.”
Max shook his head. “They made an offer last fall. The board shot ’em down. The vote was five to two, with Claire and Rebecca in favor, everyone else opposed.”
“They’re hoping the board will change its mind.”
“Not a chance,” Max declared. “There’s a lot of history in that building, company history and
personal history. We’re not selling. Not while I’m on the board. I don’t care how much money the hotel chain is offering. Why are they still sniffing around?”
“Because Claire, or someone supposedly representing her, has been talking to them,” Rod said. “The hotel chain thinks their offer is still on the table.”
Max savaged the rest of his sandwich. “If Claire gets a majority, she’ll have carte blanche to do any damn thing she pleases. But she doesn’t have the votes yet. The board rejected that hotel offer. Claire’s talking out of turn. She has no authorization to sell company assets, whether it’s the headquarters building or the warehouse. Any idea who her representative is?”
“I wondered if it might be Marissa Tybalt, the new general counsel. You said she was in Claire’s corner. But it would be a conflict of interest.”
“Not that I wouldn’t put it past either of them. It could be Rebecca.”
“I thought of that,” Rod said. “Rebecca does whatever Claire wants her to do. As for the other real estate, the warehouse would also fetch a good price. Lots of development going on in that part of town, old commercial and industrial buildings being converted to residential use, with lofts and condos going in. Again, it appears that Claire, or her representative, has been talking with a developer about converting the warehouse into lofts.”
Max glowered. “Again without the board’s okay.”
“It gets worse,” Rod told him. “Or better, from your perspective, since you’re looking for ammunition to use against Claire. I checked out the developer, the same one who’s been active converting warehouses and plants to lofts all up and down the Oakland waterfront. If my informant is correct, Claire owns a piece of his company.”
“Big conflict of interest,” Max said. “Can we prove it?”
“I’m working on it,” Rod said. “But the board meeting is tomorrow morning. I may not have anything substantive by then.”
Max shoved his plate aside, wiping his hands on his napkin. “Once you’re officially a director, we’ll tackle this real estate situation and nail Claire to the wall.”
“Caldwell’s retirement is effective June first,” Rod said. “A month away. I’ll need to go back to Houston and tie up whatever loose ends I can, personal and business.”
“Personal?” Max grinned. “I thought you were wedded to the job.”
“Seems like it. But I do have a personal life, an apartment I’ll have to give up, in addition to packing up and moving back to San Francisco.” Rod frowned. “I’ve got to find a place to live here.”
“Store your stuff and live in a hotel for a while.” Max drank the rest of his Coke.
“Hotels get old,” Rod said.
“You lived in North Beach before, didn’t you?”
Rod nodded, remembering. “A one-bedroom flat, above an Italian deli, near Washington Square. It was cheap. And I liked the neighborhood.”
“You’ve come up in the world,” Max said. “Rents are sky-high these days, but you can afford to live anywhere you want. I’m on Nob Hill. Bought a condo years ago, because it’s close to the office. I ride the California Street cable car to work.” Max glanced at his watch. “I’d better get back to the office. Keep looking into what Claire is doing under the table. See if you can find something tangible that proves it. Call Lindsey and set up a meeting.”
They walked together to the intersection of California and Montgomery streets and Max entered the Dunlin Building. Rod had always liked the Art Deco touches of a bygone era. It would be a shame to sell it. The building had been synonymous with the Dunlin Corporation for nearly fifty years, a landmark in the Financial District. If Max had his way, Rod would be working there in a few weeks. Living in San Francisco again—well, he’d always loved the city.
The clanging bell of the California Street cable car shook him out of his reverie. He walked north on Montgomery to the intersection where Columbus Avenue angled off to the northwest, into Chinatown and finally North Beach. The boundaries of the districts were fluid, and China was definitely encroaching on Italy. Trays of pork buns and dumplings beckoned from dim sum cafés. When he crossed Broadway, the flavors changed. In the trattorias and coffee shops people lingered over espresso and biscotti. On this sunny spring day a shop selling gelato did a brisk business.
He was there before he realized where he was headed, standing on the sidewalk outside a delicatessen on Union Street. The Powell Street cable car bell clanged as the car moved through the intersection. Inside the deli was a refrigerated case of the cannoli he’d once loved. He could almost taste the crisp light shells filled with creamy ricotta, studded with fruit and chocolate chips.
His eyes moved up to the open window of the apartment where he’d lived so many years ago. Still there, though everything else had changed. That window box hadn’t been there before. It held geraniums—white, pink, red. A young woman with long dark hair appeared and tipped a watering can over the flowers.
Music poured from the apartment, the urgent thrum of guitars, the underlying bass, the rhythm of the accompanying drums. He recognized the opening bars immediately, even before the sweet piping soprano sang the first words. The young woman at the apartment window wasn’t even born when that song came out. He took Lindsey’s card from his pocket as Joni Mitchell sang about falling in love too fast.
24
Berkeley, California, February 1974
Music poured from the house. The two women on the porch, alto and soprano, chimed in as Joni Mitchell sang about falling in love too fast.
Though it was February, the weather had turned balmy. Spring flirted with the Bay Area as the first crocuses pushed through the soil to sunlight. Tulips and daffodils promised to follow, ignoring the possibility that March would roar like a lion, blustering with wind, rain and cold.
Their pictures didn’t do them justice. They were both quite pretty, Rod thought. Dark-haired Lindsey was the down-to-earth peasant next to Annabel, the patrician, with her chestnut-brown hair and hazel eyes.
“You’re new,” Annabel said. “I haven’t seen you before.”
“Don’t make assumptions,” Lindsey said. “Maybe he stopped to ask for directions.” She was in T-shirt and cutoffs, a large square bandage on her left knee. She carried a bag of potting soil across the sunny porch and began transplanting geraniums into a large clay pot.
Annabel smiled. “Shouldn’t there be a password or a secret handshake?”
“Mr. Brinker sent me,” Rod said. “I guess that’s the password.”
“Oh, yes, the password is definitely Brinker. I’m Annabel, this is Lindsey. But you know that. You’ve been thoroughly briefed.”
Yes, he had. He’d read through Brinker’s files. He knew which apartments the women lived in, what they were studying at the university, and their class schedules. He knew that Claire drove a red Mustang, while Gretchen didn’t have a car, relying on buses and a bicycle. The green VW bug was Lindsey’s. The blue AMC Gremlin with the denim seatcovers, parked in the driveway to his left, belonged to Annabel. Lindsey had gotten that injury to her knee Monday night during the Hearst kidnapping.
The four young women who lived in the house knew about the guards, because their cooperation was essential to make the security arrangements work. Rod’s job was to hang out in the neighborhood, keeping an eye on the house from the rooms Brinker had rented in the ramshackle rooming house next door, discreetly, inconspicuously, but there, ever-vigilant. The other part was to accompany Annabel Dunlin or Claire Megarris wherever they went.
Rod was conscious of his scruffy, unkempt appearance. He was usually more presentable, especially in the presence of two such attractive young women. Now dark stubble covered the lower half of his face. He hadn’t even bothered to rake his fingers through his hair after getting out of bed this morning. Tight faded jeans and a tie-dyed T-shirt in a rainbow of bright colors encased his lean frame, and a pair of scuffed leather boots completed the ensemble. Brinker wanted him to blend in. After his walk arou
nd campus, down Telegraph Avenue and through People’s Park, he concluded that he did.
“My name’s Rod Llewellyn,” he said.
Annabel repeated the name as though she liked the taste. A breeze stirred the wind chimes hanging from a hook above Annabel’s living room window. They were drinking coffee, Annabel from a green mug, Lindsey from a blue one. Annabel sat on a rattan chair, one of four that looked as though they’d spent several seasons on the porch. The low table held a wooden tray with two mugs, orange and yellow, a sugar bowl and creamer, a Thermos, and a square pan of brownies, several missing.
“Would you like some coffee?” Annabel asked. “Claire and Gretchen must be sleeping in this morning. No sign of either of them, and it’s almost noon.”
“No, thanks,” he said. “I’m just here to have a look around the place.”
Lindsey refilled her mug. “I heard Gretchen come in about nine.”
“Claire was probably out till all hours.” The front door opened and Annabel looked over her shoulder. “Speak of the devil. Here’s one of the stragglers.”
Rod identified the newcomer—Claire Megarris, with her short blond hair. Her sleeveless knit shirt clung to her body, showing off breasts unencumbered by a bra. The shirt was tucked into the elastic waistband of a pair of shiny red-and-white nylon athletic shorts, and her long slim legs stretched to bare feet. Fingernails and toenails were painted bright red.
“Late night?” Annabel asked.
“You’re wearing Stanford colors,” Lindsey said, referring to Cal’s archrival in Palo Alto.
“They’re Stanford shorts. Track and field, sweetie. I took ’em off a skinny little guy with a great big javelin.” Claire threw back her head and laughed. Then she fixed Rod with a direct gaze. “Who’s this?”
“Rod Llewellyn,” Annabel said. “Mr. Brinker hired him to keep an eye on us. Mr. Llewellyn, my cousin, Claire Megarris.”