Montaro Caine A Novel

7





ALAN ROTHMAN, FITZER CORPORATION’S FINANCE MANAGER, drove across town in his black, S-class hybrid Mercedes sedan until he reached the garage of The Brougham Arms Apartments, an impressive upscale rental complex in the mid-Seventies overlooking the East River. The Brougham Arms represented an ideal location, providing both the privacy and convenience Rothman required whenever he made his ever-more-frequent visits to a certain penthouse apartment on the building’s twenty-ninth floor. Rothman left his car with the garage attendant, handed the man a crisp twenty, then walked to the self-service elevator. He moved through the garage almost as smoothly and as silently as his Mercedes.

All in all, Rothman thought as he stood alone in semidarkness waiting for the elevator doors to open, he had had an eventful and productive day. First, his CEO, Montaro Caine, had abruptly postponed two critical meetings regarding the continuing fallout from the Utah mining disaster and the persistent bad press and takeover rumors in order to have a confidential meeting with Michen Borceau at the Fitzer Lab. Then, there had been a rushed, rescheduled board meeting in which Caine had defended his increasingly rash decision-making process but refused to reveal what he had been doing at the lab or why it had necessitated postponing the meeting. Both Rothman and operations manager Carlos Wallace had argued heatedly with Caine, demanding to know what he was up to. Afterward, the two men had circulated a memo expressing outrage at Caine’s behavior. “His shooting from the hip at such a delicate time for the company is disruptive and can’t help but be damaging to all concerned,” they had written. But Wallace’s and Rothman’s anger was mostly for show; they felt that Caine was proving their point that he was no longer up to his job. Now, Rothman had to meet with his associates to reassure them that his instincts were correct.

The elevator doors opened, and Rothman stepped in. He fingered the button for his destination and rode the elevator upward. Eyes alert, he stepped out onto the twenty-seventh floor, and, making sure that he had not been observed, he opened the door to an exit stairwell. He jogged up two additional flights to the twenty-ninth floor. Perhaps this was an unnecessary precaution, a bit more James Bond than the situation warranted, but he took it nonetheless, finding his way to apartment 2901 where Verna Fontaine, a stylish, well-built blond woman in her late forties, greeted him warmly. Verna was a senior vice president at Nevan, an international cosmetics firm that had recently been acquired by Colcour, a conglomerate owned by Richard Davis, the billionaire businessman who had started in oil and wound up in everything else.

“Are they here?” Rothman asked, stepping past Verna.

“They are.” She closed the door behind him, then led him to the dining room where Richard Davis, a wiry man of sixty-two, was seated between his lieutenants, Bob Wildenmiller and Thomas Bolton. Davis was intent on a takeover of Fitzer, and he had selected and cultivated Rothman to be his man on the inside. Over the past eighteen months they had spent in their secret association, Davis had found Rothman to be bright, tough, ambitious, and hungry for power—a combination that perfectly fit Davis’s plan for the restructuring of Fitzer Corporation after it was drawn into his orbit.

“Heya, Alan,” Davis called out as Rothman entered the living room. “How are ya?”

“Fine,” Rothman returned. “And how are you?”

“Good, good.” While Verna set out a silver tray arranged with soft drinks, coffee, and cookies in the middle of the dining room table, Davis rose from his seat to shake hands with Rothman. Wildenmiller and Bolton also stood to shake Rothman’s hand, then Davis got straight to the point. “So, what the hell’s going on with our situation?” he asked.

“Everything’s on schedule, Richard,” said Rothman. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Yeah?”

“Guaranteed.”

“You seem confident of that.”

“I am.”

Davis took his seat. Bob Wildenmiller, Thomas Bolton, and Verna Fontaine did the same, while Rothman slid into a chair facing Davis.

“Caine, on the other hand, seems to have a different scenario in mind. Canceling meetings? Running off to the lab? Any idea what that’s all about, Alan?”

“Blowing smoke,” said Rothman.

“I wish I could be so sure,” said Davis. “From the way he choreographed it, it looks to me as if he wants someone to think he’s baiting a trap.”

“I agree. That’s what he wants us to think. But there’s nothing to it. Believe me, I’ve been studying this guy; he is not above dealing in appearances. I know his style.”

“Maybe,” said Davis. “But he doesn’t seem to be the kind of man who would be doing what he’s doing without a damn good reason.”

“I don’t think he’s got one, Richard.”

“Then how do you explain his actions?”

“Nervous,” said Rothman. “He’s not a born businessman; that’s what I’ve been saying all along. He’s got too much to deal with and he’s poking around in the dark. Everything’s weighing on him and he doesn’t know how to carry it all. Plus, there’s a situation with his family. Frankly, all this sounds like a death rattle to me.”

“Come now, Alan,” said Davis. “The man is a tactician. You know that better than we do. Now, what the hell is he up to?”

“I really don’t think there’s anything to worry about,” said Rothman. “But if there is, I guarantee you, I’ll find out what it is.”

Davis seemed to be satisfied with that response. He propped his elbows on the dining table, then resumed speaking. “Well,” he said, “we’re not as sure of his motives, or lack thereof, as you seem to be, so we’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and let you find out what you can. And in the meanwhile, we have concluded that cutting him off at the knees would be the best counter.” He paused for a moment, then continued. “We’ve decided it’s time to move, Alan,” he said. “First, we begin with a gradual buy-up of as much of the stock as we can before we make our intentions public.” Davis then began to outline his plan to take over Fitzer.

An hour later, when Rothman rode the elevator alone down to the garage, he was smiling. Richard Davis was in a class by himself, no doubt about that; soon, Alan Rothman thought, he would find himself in that class too, and he would stop at nothing to get there.