He tossed the empty drug bottle into the bin beneath the desk and took a final swig of scotch before putting it back. Just as he sat down, his secretary buzzed on the intercom. The image of her abundant cleavage drifted in front of his eyes like two un-tethered helium balloons. “What is it?” he said.
“David Epstein’s on line one for you.”
Goddamn it, he had told her he was busy. No interruptions. Wendy would have understood. Now there was a damn fine secretary. Damn fine woman too. Not keeping her at the firm was the only thing he truly regretted. These young women nowadays didn’t understand what a boss needed. He should have sacked Sarah ages ago, although he had to admit she was a hell of a lot better than the previous one. Frumpy bitch was nothing but trouble from the day she started. Stirred up all sorts of legal mess the company didn’t need, and was still stirring. Damn shame they didn’t make secretaries like they used to. In fact, you weren’t even allowed to call them secretaries anymore, were you? Personal Assistants, PA’s, or some or other bullshit term for someone who didn’t type or do anything of the “personal” nature Wendy used to provide.
The red light on Button-1 kept flashing. “What does Epstein want now?”
Sarah’s voice fluttered across the intercom: “Didn’t say. You know he won’t leave a message. He’ll only talk to you.”
Louis rolled his eyes and said, “Okay. Okay. I’ll take it.” He picked up the handset and punched the flashing red button. “This had better be good,” he said to Epstein. “I don’t wanna hear the contract hasn’t been signed.”
There was a pause on the line from the LA office. Either it was a bad connection or Epstein had taken fright. “That’s what I want to talk to you about,” Epstein said eventually. Louis had been about to growl at him to speak up. “Collins wants another week to think about it.”
“Think about what?” Louis thumbed his sternum. “He’s had six goddamn months! We need that signature! We’re hedged to our teeth over here. If he doesn’t do it today, there won’t be any goddamned contract to sign. D’you hear what I’m saying?”
Epstein paused again. “I’ve been my persuasive best. The guy just won’t put pen on paper. I think he’s holding out for a higher offer.”
“What kind of bullshit is that? We’ve already doubled our original bid. We’re the only ones interested in his goddamned business and we’re not offering one more cent than what’s already been agreed. Tell him he can take it or leave it.”
“Do you really mean that? I thought…”
Louis rolled his eyes and gritted his teeth. “No, I don’t really mean that,” he said. “Of course we’re not going to let him go. We’re in too deep.” Still massaging his chest as he had, Louis could feel the thumping of his heart against his thumb. Then, remembering his favorite line from The Godfather, said: “Make him an offer he can’t refuse.”
Epstein paused again. “What does that mean?”
“Just do what you’re paid to do. Get the signature on the contract.”
Louis slammed the handset down and clasped his hands behind his neck. Tilting back in his manager’s chair, he released the pent up air with a long exaggerated sigh. Hells bells, he thought, the garbage was really piling up today. It was never ending.
Still, he had faced worst and gotten through in one piece, hadn’t he? He was a goddamn survivor. History had proven that.
CHAPTER TWO
Coup-d’etat
HIS memory of the attempted coup-d’etat was a little hazy, what, nearly two decades ago now. He couldn’t remember exactly who was in attendance or where they were sitting, he couldn’t even remember all of their names, but he certainly remembered Johnny Winterbottom and the guy who had almost choked to death on the ice cube. He could actually picture the scene in the boardroom, now that he thought about it. The blinds were drawn, just as he liked it, the bare white walls reflecting the artificial light as though they were glowing with radioactive energy. Suits and ties occupied all thirteen seats around the table (no skirts or “power suits” back then, not on his board of control), except for one, the one next to Johnny at the other end of the table, the only vacant bay in the parking lot. He hadn’t known it then, but that empty seat had saved him.
“We’ve… got something else on the agenda,” Johnny Winterbottom had said that Friday back in ‘84.
Louis had already stood, tired and cranky at the end of another long week of eight-till-late. “This isn’t protocol. The meeting’s over,” he said, then hit upon the most likely reason for the delay. “Is it the damn unions again? I thought we’d fixed that last month. Does that greedy bastard Peterson want more money?”
A couple of vice presidents shuffled in their seats and fidgeted with their ties, eyes fixed to the new mahogany desktop. “Not… exactly,” Johnny said.
There was something in the way the young lawyer was trying to appease him that Louis immediately disliked, as if he had a poisoned water cooler he wanted the CEO to drink from. Go on, try it, his look was saying. It’s kind of refreshing. You’ll like it. It was the look of a lizard trying to coax a fly onto its forked tongue.
One of the VP’s on Johnny’s immediate left, Louis’ right, cleared his throat and took a sip from a glass of water. It was the Irish kid he had employed on Johnny’s advice a few years back; a clever mathematician who had already made an impact by halving company tax, but had all the social skills of a frightened guinea pig. He took a long swig and then began to gag on something, turning red in the face as if someone had snuck from behind and started throttling him. Nobody moved to slap him on the back or do anything to help. Nobody did anything except stare. The kid brought his hand to his throat, gagging and gasping for air, and Louis could actually see his temple veins beginning to throb like engorging bloodworms. Then, just when his face was turning deeper crimson, he spat the offending item across the table. An ice cube slid across the mahogany and landed in the empty seat directly opposite, the seat normally occupied by the financial advisor from Morgan Divott. All the VPs watched the ice cube hit the leather upholstery, stunned into frigid silence.
Louis, too, watched the ice cube’s route. He wasn’t thinking the tax whiz lucky not to choke on a frozen piece of H2O; rather he was thinking it completely unlike Herbert Grimsby to miss the board meeting. The closet faggot was usually the first to plunk his scrawny ass in his seat. That’s what Louis had initially liked about the guy; eagerness, promptness, willingness (not his cutesy-wootsy ass), qualities he wanted – no, demanded – from someone in control of the company funds. Why he wasn’t in attendance, he didn’t know. Neither did anyone else. Not at that moment, anyway.
All the VPs around the table turned and faced Louis, including the kid who had spat the ice cube across the table. His color had mostly returned, but his mouth was gaping and his eyes were bulging, not quite believing what he had done in front of the boss.
“What, not exactly?” Louis said to the lizard at the end of the table.
Johnny’s expression hadn’t changed. In fact, now that the atmosphere inside the hothouse had chilled to something like the ice-cube, he didn’t like the expressions on most of his subordinates. They looked like members of a jury not sure which way the evidence was pointing, evidence that could send him all the way to the gallows. It was like that movie, Twelve Angry Men, his VP’s turning on him like the jury who wanted to hang the kid. Something was up. Something rotten. He could smell its stench like Peterson could smell a bribe.
No, he reckoned, it’s not Twelve Angry Men. It’s The Dirty Dozen.
“Are you going to tell me what this is all about?” he said to Johnny, and glared at the rest of them. They all averted his gaze, apart from Johnny, who maintained his stare but still couldn’t say what was on his mind. Except he didn’t have