Chapter THIRTEEN
Mike Warrington watched his boss. Wayne tried to be subtle, but Mike had known him too long and too well not to see how his eyes surreptitiously followed the waitress after she delivered a Jack on the rocks to Mike and the check to Wayne. She couldn’t have been more than a few years older than both their daughters.
“Times have changed, old friend,” Mike said.
“Who are you calling old?” Wayne asked, smiling. He took his wallet from his inside jacket pocket as he inspected the check.
“Wasn’t all that long ago that you’d be testing lines. Like, ‘How long have you worked here? Got a boyfriend? What time do you get off work?’ ”
Wayne offered up a rueful chuckle.
“Last time I tried one of those, I had hair.”
Mike forced a small laugh. He recognized Wayne’s line for what it was: an engineered, self-deprecating nugget intended to say to others, You’re talking with someone comfortable in his own skin, a man who doesn’t feel the need to impress, a leader who understands the power of poking fun at himself. It was quips like those—used frequently with customers, strategically with superiors, and occasionally with colleagues and subordinates—that helped Wayne get to where he was: senior vice president, sales, North America. Mike was one of ten of his direct reports and dozens of indirect reports. But it was not a line, Mike felt, that Wayne should have used with him. Mike heard it as, I may think about that stuff, but I don’t talk about it like a frat boy. I’ve grown up. You might want to give that a try.
Mike had not wanted to get into sales. In fact, he had been determined to avoid any calling or occupation that smacked of following in the old man’s footsteps. He had managed to get high numbers in the draft lottery and so didn’t have to even consider joining the service. His father encouraged Mike to get into sales—Sky’s the limit when you’re on commission—and so he promptly took the first non-sales job he was offered, which was with a large regional bank. Soon afterward, however, eyes bleary from columns of numbers and head filled with incomprehensible jargon about equity and float and discrete compounding, he found himself thinking the military might have been a better choice. Then he began scouring the classifieds.
He and Wayne started as sales reps on the same day. For the first months—almost a year—they teamed up to to makes cold calls to small to midsize machine shops scattered throughout Ohio, Michigan, Indiana, and Illinois. Wayne had more than just hair back then. He had drive. He was the one who pushed them, at the end of the day, to call on one more metalworker. He was the one who shamed Mike—Do you want the business or don’t you?—into entertaining boorish prospects each night at steak joints and pasta palaces. Whatever it takes, Wayne would say. A customer wanted to get hammered? Wayne would pick out the lounge, get stinking with him, and still be ready for an eight o’clock meeting the next morning. A customer liked strip clubs? Wayne made sure he had plenty of singles for G-strings. And on those rare occasions when they weren’t entertaining customers, Wayne put his schmoozing skills to work, usually successfully, on receptionists, waitresses, store clerks—even, once, a tollbooth attendant.
As Wayne had just pointed out, it was all a very long time ago. Still, that year had been a valuable one for Mike. As Wayne moved up, he helped Mike move up. He always returned Mike’s calls—at first, out of loyalty to that year in the trenches; later, Mike came to believe, mainly because Wayne knew how much dirt Mike had on him. Mike didn’t mind the shift. In fact, he encouraged it. Through friendly reminders of past exploits, Mike made sure Wayne remembered there was always the possibility that Mike might someday—at a corporate affair, perhaps, or an event that included wives—mention (accidentally, of course) one of Wayne’s early-career indiscretions.
And so Mike was curious to know what tone and approach Wayne would take when he finished totaling up the bill and signing the check and finally raised the subject that led to this increasingly rare get-together of old sales hounds. Wayne was taking a long time to add things up.
“Less hair, maybe,” Mike said, trying to make his voice smile. He put his glass of whiskey to his lips. “But you still have all the other requisite equipment, don’t you? We’re not that old yet, are we?”
The waitress appeared. Wayne handed her the signed receipt and thanked her. This time when she moved away from the table, Wayne’s eyes focused on Mike.
“We’ve heard from Stephanie Kraus,” he said.
The whiskey burned in Mike’s throat more sharply than usual. A typical Wayne move: get to the point when the other person least expects it—something he’d coached Mike on when Mike had started managing others. The first reaction, Wayne always said, tells you everything you need to know.
But Mike had been prepared. He swallowed smoothly and placed the glass down in front of him slowly. “Oh?”
“More accurately, our lawyers have heard from her lawyers.”
Mike nodded. It was important to remain calm. Or, at least, appear calm. He hadn’t expected that. He thought Stephanie might complain to Wayne, maybe even file a complaint with HR. He didn’t think she’d go straight to lawyers. And after only a few days. Even so, Mike had all his bases covered. He’d kept her on for a few months after taking away the Transcon account. He had raised everyone’s quota, not just hers. And he had stopped going to Cranston.
You don’t really think you’re going to get away with this, do you?
She could prove nothing.
Still, he wished he’d ordered a double.
“What’s on their minds?” he asked. He liked the tone and evenness of his voice. Cool. Unconcerned. No big deal.
“About two million,” Wayne said.
Mike snorted, perhaps a little too loudly. “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “She was deadweight, Wayne. Nice-looking deadweight, easy-on-the-eyes deadweight, deadweight with great tits, but still deadweight.”
Wayne shook his head. “I know it’s just you and me talking here. We go way back. I’m no prude, as you know. But you might not want to describe her that way if you have to give a deposition.”
“Won’t come to that,” Mike said, feeling his way toward his stride, suddenly the legal savant. “She only had one account that was bringing in any sort of revenue. One, Wayne. And it wasn’t even enough to keep a rep assigned to it. So I turned it over to telesales.”
“Yes, I saw the numbers,” Wayne said. “They didn’t seem to me to be all that awful.”
“They were less than everyone else’s on the team. I have to be fair. As a manager.”
“I understand,” Wayne said. He always recited that little empathetic acknowledgment whenever he was about to disagree with someone. “It’s just that it doesn’t look fair. Especially when you get a cut of future telesales and she doesn’t, since you took the account away from her. And now you’ve fired her.”
Wayne was starting to irritate him, as Stephanie had, although she had been more direct. Fair? Give me a f*cking break. You’re nothing but a parasite. You can’t cut it in sales anymore, so you’re making a living off the commissions others generate. How fair is that, a*shole?
After all and as always, Wayne had apparently gathered and mastered the pertinent facts and figures. Mike could see him ordering Judy, his assistant, to bring in the records. He had no doubt spent hours poring over them, looking at the situation from every conceivable angle. He wouldn’t be caught short. Wayne should’ve been a goddamned lawyer himself.
“Wayne, you’ve always told me to run my territory the way I see fit. And remember your memo about head count? Every region had to cut back—even if it meant some of our high-potential people had to go. Stephanie was my most inexperienced rep. She had a lot of potential, but she wasn’t pulling in the numbers the other guys were. I gave her every opportunity to make up for the loss of Transcon. I kept reminding her to fill the pipeline. I kept her on as long as I could. But I can’t let her affect the overall performance of the team. I had no choice.”
Blow me, she had said.
Mike saw the skepticism in Wayne’s narrowed eyes. But, so far, nothing had been said that would incriminate either of them. The figures—when presented in a certain way—could be used to justify his actions. From a legal standpoint, anyway.
“That’s it?” Wayne asked. “Everything I need to know?”
Good old Wayne. Just making sure his ass was adequately covered.
“What else would there be?” Mike asked. He couldn’t help himself. Instead of just saying, Yep, that’s it, old buddy, he had to push it. Move closer to the line.
“Just wanted to make sure,” Wayne said. He put his wallet back in the pocket of his blue suit coat and stood. The meeting was apparently over.
“I can back you on workforce reduction. But if there are any other, ah, surprises . . .”
Mike nodded. “I understand,” he said. “I hate surprises, too.”
But as he drove home, Mike thought about that particular lie. He didn’t hate all surprises. He liked, most especially, the ones that came with unbuttoning, unzipping, unclasping.
But could those really be considered surprises? He had long ago ceased being astonished when women consented, some almost eagerly, to be with him. So the seduction itself was not novel. Maybe it was the variety he enjoyed: the varying fullness of lips, the different shape and sway of breasts, the different reactions to his touch, the responses to that first moment—the grabbers, the guiders, the aggressive, the passive, the moaners, the laughers, the shouters, the shudderers, the sighers. That was it, he decided: He liked variety, not surprises. So his mood darkened considerably when he saw Stephanie Kraus’s car parked on the street in front of his house.
He stopped halfway up the driveway to make sure it was her. After all, there were plenty of Volvos in the state of Illinois; hell, there were plenty on his own street. The summer sun was low in the sky now, casting shadows, and he couldn’t tell if someone was sitting in the driver’s seat. He pulled the car into the garage. He turned off the ignition and sat for a while, thinking what he might say to her. Nothing came to him. He’d just have to wing it. He got out of the car and walked outside, starting down the driveway at a steady, confident, no-nonsense pace. But the car was gone.
What was she up to? She had driven two and a half hours for . . . what? Mike stared at the spot where the Volvo had been parked, as if it might suddenly reappear. And now the words came to him. Can’t take things so personally, Stef. Don’t let your anger get the best of you. You can’t prove anything. My word against yours. Nothing personal. We both had some fun while it lasted, didn’t we? Why don’t we leave it at that?
Colleen’s back was to him when he entered the house through the kitchen, lugging his overnight bag and briefcase. She was scrubbing a pot. He smelled . . . hamburger? Pizza?
She glanced over her shoulder when the door closed.
“Hi, hon,” she called. She continued scrubbing.
So much for “hail the conquering hero,” Mike thought. When he was little and his dad came home from work, his mother would stop whatever she was doing—cooking, washing dishes, whatever. She’d wipe her hands on her apron, walk over, put her arms around his neck, and wouldn’t let go. No perfunctory kisses. Real kisses. Long kisses. No embarrassment when Mike and Nick came in to greet their dad. They’d see their mom, her slip showing a little as she reached up and held on. Their father would laugh and squirm and eventually their mom would go back to whatever she was doing, with a look on her face that Mike would remember years later and, only then, recognize as one of anticipation.
“How was your trip?” Colleen asked, turning back to the pot.
“Fine,” Mike said. What to do: go over and kiss her neck, maybe reach around and give her a friendly little double squeeze, or unpack? “I stopped for a drink, a meeting with Wayne.” Mike almost laughed: this time, the truth.
“How’s he doing?” Colleen asked, still scrubbing.
“A little balder. A little fatter.”
Colleen laughed. She turned off the water, grabbed a sponge, and kissed Mike on the cheek as she went to wipe down the table. “Not everyone can stay as buff as you, dear,” she said.
Was she being suggestive . . . or mocking? Mike made an effort not to pinch his midsection.
“Where are the kids?” he asked.
“Upstairs. Homework. Whatever.”
Whatever was Clare on the phone texting or talking with several friends. Whatever was Ty on his computer—maybe doing homework, probably surfing porn sites. This didn’t alarm Mike. If the technology had been available to him when he was Ty’s age, he would never have left his room. Whatever they were doing, gone were the days when they’d hide in the mudroom or the dining room or family room, waiting for him to come home and call out to them, yelling to Colleen to call the police, that someone had absconded with their children.
Absconded? Colleen would yell back, theatrically.
Absconded! Mike would reply.
He’d hear them giggling, waiting for the run-and-catch to begin.
Mike looked at Colleen as she sponged down the table. Since he’d walked in the door, he’d seen more of her backside than of her face.
“Guess I’ll go unpack,” he said.
“Oh, wait. I can’t believe I forgot this. You’ll never guess who called today.”
Mike felt a jolt of adrenaline, but in the same moment reassured himself that if Stephanie had called, Colleen wouldn’t have waited to confront him. She would have been sitting at the kitchen table when he’d walked in. Waiting.
“Who?” he asked.
“Your brother,” she said.
This couldn’t be good, either, but it would be a cakewalk compared to the first scenario. Mike assumed the call was related to the letter he’d gotten—and promptly thrown, unopened, into his briefcase. Maybe he should have read it. But it had been enough to see his father’s handwriting to make him decide he’d deal with it—whatever it was that his father was writing about—later. Maybe he’d started sucking down Jack Daniels again.
“Mike? Are you listening to me?”
“Sorry. Just thinking about work.” He put his overnight bag down. “So Nick called?”
“Yeah. It’s been so long, I wasn’t sure who it was at first. And it was kind of a strange call.”
Strange call. What was strange was that Nick had called at all. He usually fobbed his messages off on Marcy. Like the one about Marilyn’s death. Awful for Nick, sure. Nick was going through a tough time, obviously. But he couldn’t call his own brother himself with the news? He had to go through Marcy? What had he ever done to Nick that was so awful? When things got tough, Nick always seemed to run to Marcy. And she always ran to Nick. What was that all about?
“Are you all right, Michael?”
“I’m fine. Why?”
“Don’t you want to know why it was kind of a strange call?”
Mike laughed to hide the wave of annoyance rising up inside him. “Why was it kind of a strange call, Col?”
Colleen picked up the pad that she kept by the wall phone. “Well, he said everything was probably okay, but that you need to call him right away about this message your father left him.”
She handed the note to Michael. 10-10. Gate 8. 2 p.m. June 17.
Mike knew—immediately—exactly what it meant. But whatever was supposed to happen on June 17—tomorrow—was obviously going to have to happen without him. He should have read the letter from his father. He hoped it was still in his briefcase.
“Michael, what’s this all about?”
He could truthfully have said he didn’t know what this was all about, but he wasn’t sure it would appease her this time around. Something in the way Colleen asked the question resurrected the niggling message from somewhere deep inside his consciousness that, after twenty-three years of marriage, she deserved to know more about his family than he was inclined to share. Mike had become so expert in cordoning off this topic that months could pass before he even entertained the notion that he was—as Colleen had long ago accused him—being selfish with this part of his life. She had learned to live with it. But now Nick, with a phone call, was threatening to f*ck it all up.
The front doorbell rang, and Mike heard a thump above him.
“I’ll get it,” Clare screamed, followed immediately by the sound of her footsteps running down the hall and down the front steps.
Mike looked at Colleen. “New boyfriend?” he asked.
“Not that I know of.”
“Maybe I should ring the doorbell when I come home,” he said.
Colleen laughed.
“Mom?” Clare called from the front door. “Someone for you.”
Colleen frowned. “No idea,” she muttered. She wiped her hands on a dish towel and patted her hair into place. “So are you going to?”
“Going to what?”
“Do what we’ve been talking about. Call your brother!”
Colleen left the kitchen, passing Clare on her way out.
“Hi, Daddy. How was your trip?”
Mike hugged his daughter. “Fine,” he said. But he wasn’t thinking about his trip. He was thinking that he needed to find that note right now.
“Excuse me, honey,” he said, letting her go. Released from her perfunctory hug, she was already out of the kitchen when he opened his briefcase and started riffling through his files.
He froze when he heard a familiar voice coming from the front hall. Not Colleen’s, he told himself, as if undertaking a complex process of elimination. Not Clare’s; she was probably already back upstairs and on the phone or online. Certainly not Ty’s voice, which was getting deeper every day.
“What are you saying?” he heard Colleen ask.
There was now no mistaking the voice that answered. Deep. Husky. The voice, he once told her after they’d made love, that could launch a thousand erections.