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Authors: Paul Watkins

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BOOK: Little White Lies
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Before, my life had always had a purpose. There were things to do when I was active in my business. Now there was virtually nothing required of me… at least nothing that mattered a whole hell of a lot. There’s only so much golf one can play, so many books to read. movies to see. I never became suicidal or anything close to that, but I had always had a zest for life. I was fortunate to be involved in things that were interesting and challenging. Now nothing seemed important enough to make any difference… not to me or to anyone else as far as I could tell. I found I couldn’t bring myself to really care about anything anymore. Sound like depression? I was probably close if I wasn’t already there. But things always take on a bit more clarity in retrospect. Finally, I took myself to Doctor ‘Me’. I figured I knew more about me than anyone else I knew and my personal diagnosis was terminal boredom. I decided to take control of my life and turn things around… I was more than ready. Man was I ready!

That’s how this whole thing started. a slow, but steady sea change in attitude. A change that set me up for something very different… something that’s probably really stupid. Forget about hindsight… this thing doesn’t look that great going in.

It doesn’t seem possible now that it was only a few days ago when I set this train in motion. Last week, for some unknown reason, I found myself looking through the employment section of the newspaper. I can’t remember looking at want ads for any reason since the very beginning of my business career. A box ad with dark bold lines surrounding it caught my attention. ESTATE MANAGER, the advertisement said. The ad explained that the owner of a 250-acre estate was inneed of a manager to run the property… references required. The property was located approximately fifty miles north of New York City, not far from the Hudson River. about where I am now. Compensation included room, board, and a salary commensurate with experience. Not a lot to go on, but for some reason it sounded interesting. Talk about a departure!

But maybe that’s what I needed, I thought, something completely different. It would be something to do… not too involved. Running a business again, I certainly had thought about it, would be too much. I did not want to become immersed in another war for profit. I just wanted something new to occupy my mind. something to take up my days for a while until I decided what to do with the rest of my life. I needed a new direction and a challenge.

For some reason I could not get the advertisement out of my mind. One minute I would think: why not? The job can’t be that difficult. It’s a low-level management task. If anything, I’m over-qualified. Vastly over-qualified.

The next minute the thought pattern would change radically: have you lost your mind? What the hell are you thinking about? Then the really dangerous thought would creep into my skull … maybe I should just go back into business. But there’s no way for me to be in business a little bit. The reality is that any business would consume me and I simply don’t want to deal with all that right now. perhaps someday, but certainly not now.

The internal argument would continue: something like this might be just the ticket. It might even be fun. Continuing on, as I had been, was no longer an option. Change begets change, right? But then reality set in. Assuming I would try to get the job… how in the hell would I get through an interview? Forget about getting through the interview, how about getting to the interview?

The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to do it. Perhaps it was just the challenge that intrigued me, but it slowly evolved into a goal of sorts. Mulling it over, I decided that for openers I would need a resume. My real history would require more explanation than would be acceptable. What in the world would I say? What could I say? I’m bored? I retired a while back and I need something to do? I need a change?

I would never hire anyone motivated by those factors. Why should I expect someone to give me a tumble for the same reasons? But eventually I decided that with the proper background it might be possible. Heck, for the first time in a long time I was actually interested in something. Getting the job is really the important thing, I rationalized. resumes and interviews are simply things to get through… obstacles to get over or around. After that, once everything had returned to normal, I would make the best of it. After all… I would do a good job and that’s what’s most important. Well, isn’t it?

It wasn’t long before a decision bubbled to the surface. Okay, let’s go for it! I thought. And there’s no time like the present. Start the process before Ichicken out. Get on with it! I knew if I dallied I would lose interest, and the opportunity, if that’s what it was, would pass me by. I picked up the telephone and called my attorney, John Blake. I told him I would like to meet with him for breakfast the next morning… that I had an important matter I wanted to discuss. John told me breakfast was not very far off, since it was then 2:30 A.M. I guess I had sort of lost track of time. Only moments before it had been ten o’clock. I apologized to John and I really was sorry. But it’s hard to feel bad about an attorney’s feelings… even my own.

At breakfast with John the next morning we really got into it. My strategy was to start slow, so he wouldn’t think I was crazy. I told him about my need for a change in my daily activities… the desire to do something that would be a complete break with my past. John would nod his head in agreement with each pronouncement, even though he appeared to be a bit distracted… like he had heard all this from me before, which he hadn’t.

High technology, in my previous business, changed so fast it took every waking moment just to stay even. I wanted something with a lower level of involvement. John’s head continued to nod in agreement with every point made and eventually I worked my way around to my plan. I told him about the job and my intention to apply… that I would create a resume describing substantial estate management experience over the last several years. In fact it was sort of true. I didn’t see where the fact that the estate was my own was really relevant. John would be the reference contact and would attest to my many fine skills and attributes. The look on his face slowly changed from mild interest to outright amazement. Predictably, we argued for almost an hour. Point and counter-point, it was an argument John could not win. He was trying to make sense to a man who no longer placed a value on it.

Finally, John asked pointedly, “Can I tell them I think you’re crazy?”

“Just tell them the truth,” I replied.

“It is the truth,” John growled. “You have really lost it this time, Philip, and there is no jury in the country that would not agree with me. You’re certifiable. definitely wacko… off the charts. Jesus, every time I think I’ve heard everything, you manage to test the limits of my imagination.”

So far, in my view at least, John had not come up with any really solid counter-arguments. While crazy and wacko are not exactly medical terms, he would have no right to use them anyway, since all he has going for him is a law degree. He shook his head and pushed his coffee cup away, his body language signaling his discomfort with the entire matter.

“Let me know when you’re finished,” I told him. I wanted him to have his say.

“Almost there,” he continued. “You’re nuts.” John looked up, defiance in his eyes. “Here you are, a man worth millions in your own right, applying for a flunky job as an estate manager. What you should do is take a trip and rest until this blows over. You’re coo-coo bananas.”

“You already said that, or words to that effect,” I reminded him.

“Let me take another, more personal tack,” he persisted. “Why bring me into this? I could be disbarred for aiding and abetting a fruitcake.”

The coffee spoon he had been furiously conducting his arguments with went flying across table, banging into plates and condiment jars as it bounced along.

“Dammit!” he concluded.

Obviously, John needed some friendly persuasion.

“You probably will be disbarred someday,” I replied, attempting to smooth his ruffled feathers, “but not for this. It will more likely have something to do with incompetence, or alcohol, or some equally respectable cause your peers would understand and accept.

“Look, John,” I reasoned, “all I’m asking you to do is tell a little white lie, or a series of little white lies… not the kind of whoppers they train you to tell in law school.”

Finally, cool reasoning and high hourly rates prevailed. After all, John would be paid for his role in this and money always soothes any lawyer’s misgivings. As long as John could stick to the smaller white lies, he guessed he could go along with it. But he wouldn’t outright tell a falsehood! No way! No big fat lies. Shade the truth a little, maybe an omission here and there, and that’s it! It’s hard to criticize a man for having high standards.

We finally agreed… sort of.

The digital clock on the panel says the time is 10:52. I slip the Porsche into gear and with some lingering hesitancy start down the lane. After all the work I’ve put into this, I certainly don’t want to be late for my interview.

CHAPTER 2
 

The large wrought-iron gates are well suited to the property they guard. Attached to stone pillars standing about ten feet high at the end of a wall constructed of the same material, but about two feet shorter. The walls extend thirty or forty yards in either direction, at which point they disappear into dense hedgerows. The hedgerows appear to be impenetrable and I can’t tell from here if the walls continue on through the dense vegetation or not. The gate and the walls are set back from the road a good twenty yards, with a well kept lawn spanning the distance between the wall and the uneven edge of the country road. Evidently I’ve tripped a photo cell somewhere, for the gates are starting to swing open as I approach, revealing a long curving drive framed by low crab apple trees growing on both sides as it winds its way to the house.

The trees create a nice effect, which should be even nicer in a couple of months when they will be in full bloom. The surface of the drive is covered with fine, round pebbles that gently pepper the inside of the Porsche’s fenders as I slowly make my way towards the house I see standing on higher ground about three hundred yards distant.

The lawns are vast, sprinkled with stately trees… mostly mature hardwoods with widespread canopies. This early in the year the trees have not yet started to leaf out, and the sun shining through their wooden skeletons lends its own kind of beauty to the landscape. Closer to the house, the road surface changes to large, flat paving stones that continue under and around a large portico and back to another building that looks like the garage, although I can’t be certain from this distance. I ease the car to the left of the portico and park in an area maintained for that purpose.

I step out of the car and pause for a moment to have a better look at the house. It’s an English Tudor style home. There are three massive stories of brick and stucco and leaded glass windows. Chimneys sprout everywhere.

The entryway is composed of large double oak doors framed by sandstone pillars. The roof is covered with gray slate tiles and a high, arched portico protects the doorway. Hanging from the center of the portico is a large verdant colored brass light fixture that may have held candles at one time, but now looks to be electrified with small flame shaped lights. I don’t know who built this place, but whoever it was, they didn’t have a very tight budget. It’s your basic mansion from a time when a little money bought a lot, and a lot of money bought… a mansion, I guess.

Pushing the doorbell, there’s a brief pause and then a faint chime, which I assume, is a result of my efforts. It could also be from some monastery about twenty miles away. It has that kind of resonance. The whole place has the air of a bank or a stock exchange. Mr. Jackson, whom I am about to meet, probably still wears spats on his shoes.

I’m about to push the monastery chimes again when the door starts to move. I watch with growing interest as it continues to open slowly until before me stands a very large black man. He’s dressed casually in pleated blue wash pants, a too-short golf shirt that hangs out over his ample belly revealing about three or four inches of dark-skinned gut. Scruffy white basketball sneakers complete the ensemble with the untied laces dangling to the sides. A large gold earring adorns his left ear. We both seem somewhat surprised. If this is the man I’m to meet with, I think I’ll just go back to the car and mosey on home.

“Is there somethin’ you be needin’… pal?” He asks, emphasizing the last word with a self-satisfied smirk.

I don’t know why he should be getting such a kick out of managing such a simple question, but there you have it… to each his own. His arms hang out about a foot from either side of his body as he gently rocks from side to side awaiting an answer. I’ll bet he has to pee and doesn’t want to admit it.

“Yes,” I reply. “My name is Philip Richards. I have an appointment with Mr. Jackson. I believe he’s expecting me.”

This rather large man does not appear pleased with my answer, but I may be overly sensitive. He holds his position, wrinkling his forehead and narrowing his pig-like eyes, appearing to think about my request for a while before proceeding. Now his nose twitches as if he’s about to sneeze.

Finally, “What’s the meeting about?”

Now it’s my turn to think. What the hell is this, twenty questions? I decide to charm him.

“I’m afraid that’s between Mr. Jackson and me,” I reply. “If he wishes to tell you, that’s up to him, but since he hasn’t already done so he may have decided it is private for the moment. May I see Mr. Jackson?”

Our eyes lock momentarily. This is a very quiet house. There is absolutely no sound coming from within. Ah, the look on his face indicates he has an idea. On the other hand, maybe it’s just gas.

He turns and over his shoulder says, “Wait there!”

Leaving the door open, he walks across the foyer and turns left into a room at the far end. Moments later he emerges from the room, walks part way back across the foyer and commands, “This way,” accompanied by a wave of his massive hand.

BOOK: Little White Lies
10.01Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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