The Solomon Organization

by Andrew Neiderman

  “I mean you had no other choice. She fixed it that way. She tried to castrate you. I’m confident the committee will arrive at that conclusion.”

  Scott heard the doors close.

  Scott took a deep breath and stood back while the elevator dropped them quickly. With the blindfold on, he felt as if he were being lowered into a dark pit.

  Finally, after five more minutes of wearing it in the car, Philip lifted it off and Scott saw they were turning off Fourth Street and heading back to the freeway.

  In more ways than one, he had no idea where he had been.

  3

  Scott closed the file on his desk and inserted it into his desk drawer. Sadly, that was the most substantial thing he had done all day. He checked the time and then gazed absentmindedly out the showroom window at late Saturday afternoon traffic flowing up and down Westwood Boulevard. Saturdays were usually a lot busier and a lot more exciting for him, even after a night out on the town.

  After his meeting with the Solomon Organization, he and Philip Dante had stopped for a drink. He certainly needed it; the whole experience had been bizarre. Now that he thought about it, it even seemed quite ridiculous. He felt foolish for going along. To top it off, Dante spent most of the time talking about life and disability insurance, trying to convince him that his needs were changing. Scott wondered if this wasn’t all part of some elaborate scam to sell people policies. In the end, he was glad to get home, even to the solitary confinement of his claustrophobic apartment.

  He spent the rest of the evening dozing on and off on his sofa watching television until two in the morning. He couldn’t drum up enough enthusiasm to venture out. Pursuing women or having a good time seemed incongruous at the moment. He felt like someone in a period of mourning who had to restrain from pleasure until a decent amount of time had passed. None of his so-called buddies called anyway, just like none of them had come to stand by him in the courtroom. Even Carl Stevens, his closest friend in Los Angeles, was suddenly occupied with family matters.

  Family matters…Scott smirked. Carl was the one who had brought him to the Blue Moon in Santa Monica where he got his cocaine and engaged in a few of his extramarital affairs. But everyone was treating him like a pariah now, as if associating with him was bad luck.

  Maybe it was, Scott thought sorrowfully. Now that he sat here behind his desk thinking about what he had once had and how good things had been, he felt like a man who had just come out of a terrific tailspin, dumbfounded as to how it had all happened. It just had. One day awhile back, he woke up feeling sorry for himself, feeling he had fallen into a rut. He thought he was climbing out of it by putting a little added spice into his life, but all he had done was deepen the groove.

  Depressed, he sat there mesmerized by the traffic. He was in such a daze, he didn’t hear Mr. Miller step up to his desk.

  The sixty-seven-year-old man resembled a retired pro halfback and looked ten years younger than he was. He had a ruddy complexion and a full head of silver-white hair that was like a neon sign announcing vibrant health. He still attended his gym religiously and paid tribute to the narcissistic god of deltoids, biceps, and pectorals. A man full of strength and verve, he detested weakness, especially emotional and moral weakness. Scott respected Stanley Miller, and at least in the beginning, he appreciated his fatherly advice.

  Scott’s own father had died before Scott had reached his tenth birthday, and his brother Steve had tried to take on some paternal responsibility in his place. Maybe that was why his brother always seemed so much older.

  “What happened with Cy Baum this morning?” Stanley Miller demanded. Scott snapped out of his trance.

  “What? Oh, he said he might keep his car another year.”

  Miller grimaced.

  “He’s been trading in every three years like clockwork, Scott. Didn’t you point out the modifications in his model? If the ash tray changed, he’d trade his car in, for Christ sakes.”

  Scott shrugged.

  “I told him, but he seemed to talk himself out of it the longer he was here looking.”

  Miller shook his head.

  “The Scott Lester I first hired would never have let him get away,” he said. “How much longer’s it going to be before you get your life in order so you can give me a hundred percent again, Scott?”

  “Hey, Mr. Miller…” Scott raised his arms. “She’s put me through hell.”

  “Put yourself there,” Stanley Miller replied. “I wouldn’t talk to you like this if I didn’t consider you my second son, Scott, but I must tell you I’m disappointed. You were my golden-haired boy, straight-down-the-road Americana: ambitious, good-looking, married to a pretty woman who cared about you, a beautiful child…everything going your way, and then you go and think with your dick.”

  “I…”

  “Look, maybe I shouldn’t put my two cents in. My wife says it’s none of my business what you do with your personal life, but it is if your personal life hurts the business. I’m putting you on notice, Scott. Get your act together.”

  He shook his head and walked back toward his office. Scott saw Wayne watching from his office door. By looking away quickly, Stanley Miller’s son demonstrated either his unwillingness or his inability to run any interference when it came to his father. Scott was on his own. He felt the gloom sink in deeper and settle itself like a pound of lead in his stomach.

  He felt this might be literally true when he went to stand, for it took more effort to bring himself to his feet, and his arms trembled as he pushed himself up. He looked toward Wayne’s office again, but Wayne had closed his door and was already on the telephone. Maybe talking to a prospective new sales manager, Scott thought sadly. First, he was losing his real family, and now he was losing his surrogate father and brother.

  He lowered and then raised his eyes quickly when a familiar limousine pulled up in front of the dealership. The back door opened and Philip Dante stepped out dressed in a fashionably cut charcoal gray pin-striped suit and tie. He started toward the front entrance and then stopped and gestured emphatically for Scott to come out.

  Scott looked toward Mr. Miller’s office. He didn’t see him, so he started out. He had only fifteen minutes left anyway, he thought, and no one was breaking down the door to buy a new car today.

  “What’s happening?” Scott asked after he stepped into the late afternoon sunshine. He put on his sunglasses quickly to block the glint off the hood of the shiny, luxurious automobile.

  “Celebration time,” Philip said. “Come on.”

  “Celebration?” Scott looked back again and this time saw Mr. Miller standing in his doorway looking out at them. His face was etched in a scowl.

  “The committee,” Philip said, approaching. “They’ve made a decision in your favor. You impressed them, buddy.” Philip came closer. “In fact, you did better than I did. It took them longer to make a decision on my behalf.”

  “What happens now?” Scott asked.

  “They’ll rectify the situation.”

  “How?”

  “Whatever method they choose is best. You don’t have to think about it. That’s the beauty of the Solomon Organization. The organization takes responsibility from here on in and you just enjoy it.”

  “I don’t know,” Scott said. He looked back at Mr. Miller. “Maybe I’d better rethink everything. I gotta know more about these guys. This is all happening so fast, I don’t know where I am or what I’m doing. Maybe…”

  “Maybe you’ve been beaten and trampled so much lately, you don’t know how to greet good news and good luck,” Philip interjected with a smile. He put his arm around Scott’s shoulders and brought his lips close to his ear to whisper, “I’ve got our celebration all planned and taken care of; it’s waiting inside the limo.”

  “Huh?”

  Philip pressed his right palm down on Scott’s head so he would bow and peer through the opened rear door. Seated within were two rather buxom, good-looking young women. One was a dark brunette and
the other was a platinum blonde, both wearing silk blouses and showing a lot of cleavage. They both smiled.

  “Where did you find them?”

  “Trade secret. You like?”

  “What’s not to like?”

  “Good. You get to choose,” Philip said. “It’s your party. In fact, if you want, you can have both.”

  “Really?” Scott smiled.

  “Yeah, really. I’ve got this great house to party in, loads of champagne and caviar…”

  “This is their limousine, right?” Scott asked, stepping back. The chauffeur just sat staring ahead. “They know about this?”

  “Uh huh. It’s just an added benefit. They sympathize with you and want you cheered up,” Philip added. “A real nice bunch of guys, you know what I mean?” He winked conspiratorially.

  “This is crazy,” Scott said, but the depression was being drawn out of his body so quickly he couldn’t stop it. It made him feel loose and young.

  “We’re going to have a damn good time, eh?” Philip said, holding his arm out. “After you, Mr. Lester.”

  Scott was sure Stanley Miller was still watching them so he didn’t turn around. The old man wasn’t going to like this, but the old man wasn’t going through a potential nervous breakdown. Scott edged toward the limousine.

  “Hi,” both girls said.

  “Get in,” Philip coached.

  Scott took a deep breath like someone about to dive under water, and stepped through the open door. The two women moved apart to make a space for him right between them. Philip Dante got in and closed the door. He sat across from them.

  “Hello,” Scott said, looking from one to the other. They both had beautiful eyes and great teeth. The scents they wore were not cheap. These weren’t run-of-the-mill prostitutes, he thought. They snuggled up.

  “He’s not bad,” the brunette said and giggled.

  “Better than the last one,” the blonde agreed.

  Scott felt the heat that was in his face quickly move to his loins as both girls placed hands on his thighs.

  “Let’s have our first toast in the car,” Philip said, taking a bottle of champagne out of the cabinet and then handing everyone a glass. The limousine began to pull away from Miller’s Mercedes, Sales and Service. The black chauffeur did not look back. His face was expressionless; he looked bored and unimpressed, Scott thought, like a man who had seen this time and time again.

  Philip poured the bubbling pink liquid into glasses and then filled his own.

  “To the rescue of Scott Lester,” he said, raising his glass. The girls giggled. Philip winked. “And to the Solomon Organization,” he added. Then they all drank, Scott the last to bring his glass to his lips, his hand trembling slightly until the sparkling liquid flowed down his throat and washed away any apprehension that lingered.

  Meg Lester slumped down on the sofa and pressed the neck of the telephone receiver closer to her cheek. She was prolonging the conversation, clinging to her sister’s voice as if there was something magnetic about it. The truth was she longed for her companionship more than she cared to admit. When she and Scott had first come to Los Angeles, he would always get so upset every time she mentioned her homesickness or how much she missed family. Going back would be admitting failure, and Scott had too much of an ego to do anything like that.

  Gradually but surely, their lives had improved materially. Scott landed this prestigious and affluent position with the Westwood Mercedes dealership. Not only was he making good money selling expensive automobiles, he was associating with high rollers, who gave him good financial advice from time to time, not the least the encouragement to purchase a house when the real estate market was most favorable to buyers. Almost immediately after they closed escrow, the property accelerated in value. For a while, especially in the beginning, it looked like California was really the land of gold.

  Occasionally, she would stop and wonder: Is this really what I want? Are we really happy? Whenever she brought up any of these deeper concerns, Scott or her new friends would immediately chastise her for getting “too heavy,” “thinking too hard,” “being a party pooper.”

  But one Sunday afternoon after she and Scott had driven down to Huntington Beach and found a relatively deserted section on which to sunbathe and picnic, she had expressed these concerns more forcefully and confessed that sometimes she felt they were caught up in the pursuit of happiness to the extent that they had forgotten what it was they were after.

  “What is it we want?” she asked softly. “More money? A bigger house?”

  “I don’t know,” Scott said, visibly annoyed that she hadn’t put these concerns to rest. “All I know is because we came here, we have more money and a bigger house. And besides, could we be sitting out on a beach in March back East?”

  “Not a beach, but maybe we’d take a hike up a mountain like we did that one afternoon in Saratoga, remember? All we had for lunch then was a loaf of bread, a package of cheese, and a thermos full of ice tea.”

  “Poor but happy, eh?” he said with ridiculing laughter in his voice.

  “Something like that,” she replied undaunted. He shook his head.

  “That’s not what I remember. I remember wondering about how I was going to make mortgage payments, car payments, charge-card payments, and still save money for our kids’ educations. I remember long, dreary winters staring out at leafless trees. I remember gray shadows over everything.

  “I’m not ashamed I feel good here. So I’m a hedonist. Hey, you only go around once,” he argued. “Stop worrying so much. Relax and be happy.”

  Finally, she’d taken his words to heart, and look where she was—alone in their big California home, waiting to put the finishing touches on their divorce.

  “I hope it’s all over on Monday,” she told Abby. “I couldn’t take more than another day of this. I feel like I’m stark naked in that courtroom; everything, including the kind of toothpaste we use, is admissible evidence.”

  “Come home, Meg,” Abby pleaded. “As soon as you can, come home. Do you want me to come out there to get you and Justine?”

  “I don’t need you to do that, Abby. Thanks.” She sighed. “I will come home. I can’t promise you I’ll stay, but you’re right. I need to see everyone again.” She laughed. “I’m even looking forward to Aunt Erna’s sour beet soup and sugarless almond cookies.”

  “Uncle Charley’s going in the hospital for prostate surgery,” Abby said.

  “Oh, no. Is it serious?”

  “He has a tumor. We’ll see,” Abby said cautiously. Suddenly Meg felt terribly self-centered, concentrating solely on her own problems. Everyone had problems and needed comfort and support. The old Meg would have asked after the family first and talked about herself second.

  “I always liked Uncle Charley. Will you call me as soon as you hear anything?”

  “Of course. How’s Justine today?”

  “She’s better. I got her to eat something, but I’ll probably have to do what that bitch of a school nurse suggested—get her into therapy. At least she won’t feel self-conscious about it—a few of her friends are seeing child psychologists for one reason or another. It’s almost a mark of affluence out here,” she added bitterly.

  “Why would you even think of staying there after going through something like this?” Abby said.

  “I don’t know. I’m so confused and upset, I couldn’t make a sensible decision about what to have for dinner right now. We’ll talk when this is over.”

  “And you’re here.”

  “Yes, and I’m there. Thanks, Abby. Thanks for being my big sister again.”

  “I never stopped,” Abby said. “I just couldn’t get through much before. Too much Gucci static.”

  Meg laughed.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Meg said.

  “Good. Go to sleep early. See, I remembered the difference in time. I haven’t called you at six-thirty in the morning your time for ages.”

  Meg laughed again. It fe
lt so good to do so. It seemed ages since she had.

  “Love you,” she said.

  “Me too,” Abby replied. Her voice cracked. Meg cradled the receiver quickly and took a deep breath. Her chest ached, but she was tired of crying, tired of tears and tired of feeling sorry for herself.

  Get stronger, Meg Lester, she coaxed. Get stronger. You have a child who needs to be emotionally and psychologically mended. For a while, maybe for the rest of your life, you’re going to have to be mother and father.

  She sat up quickly and took a deep breath. Then she went upstairs to check on Justine. She found she had fallen asleep, but she had kicked off her blanket with her tossing and turning. Meg fixed the blanket neatly around her daughter and then kissed her forehead and brushed the strands of hair back. She stood there for a moment looking down at her, lost in her love.

  A slight tinkling sound drew her attention to the door. It sounded like the metal louvers in the den downstairs being rattled. She listened again, but now she heard nothing but the pounding of her own heart.

  It wasn’t easy learning to live alone again, she thought. There were so many new and revived fears. Despite Sharma’s fix on female independence, Meg had to admit she liked depending on a man, liked feeling his strength and knowing he was there if she needed him. Not that Scott was much good around the house, she thought. Most of the time if an appliance went bad or there was some problem with the plumbing, it was she who had to see that it was fixed.

  But noises and shadows, strange tinkles in the night…that was different.

  Maybe he had gotten stoned or drunk and had violated their agreement as to when he would come here, she thought and went out to the top of the stairway to listen.

  “Scott?”

  She waited. Nothing.

  Scott had left his nine-millimeter pistol here and she had put it in the garage along with his other things during one of her periods of rage. That was stupid, she thought. Not that she would know what to do with it; she never even had held it before.