The Doll Brokers (7 page)

“Don't go.” He caught her free hand to reel her back in.

She let him. And he walked her over to the bar.

His office was huge and pretentious. An impressive oak desk and computer station faced the window. The other side of the
room was given over to a black leather sofa fronted by a narrow smoked-glass table. A few pictures of his family hung on the wall, but none of Irene.

Patrick poured himself a snifter of Courvoisier. He held the bottle aloft as though to invite her to join him.

Verna shrugged indifference.

He poured another snifter. She made no move to take it.

“You're angry with me,” he said finally.

“I'm worried about you.”

He let out a deep, rough breath. “It's been a rotten day.”

“What did the banks say?” she asked, finally taking the snifter in hand. “Besides no?”

He groaned and shook his head. “What does it matter? That's the bottom line.”

“What did your mother say?”

“That doesn't matter now, either.”

Which meant he hadn't told her yet, Verna thought.

Patrick hooked his free hand behind her neck and tried to pull her face closer to his.

She moved away. “How did Ann take it?” She asked.

“I don't want to talk about her,” Patrick said.

Verna realized that she was going to have to put more effort into this. “I could help you.”

“I know. That's what I'm waiting for.”

“I meant with a way to fix the bank mess.”

“You?”

“Yes, me.” Her anger flared. “We could set a plan down on paper, figure out a new approach.”

He took a long swallow from his glass. “I have better plans for you,” he said.

“But you don't trust me.”

“I
crave
you. That's better.”

“Is it?” She stepped further away from him.

“Don't do this. Don't play with me. Everybody wants something from me. Except you.”

For a moment she almost faltered, found herself prepared to give in. But too often she'd given herself to him and it proved meaningless. “Pat,” she started to say.

As if she hadn't spoken, his arms reached out and he tried pulling her tight.

She struggled against him.

“I need you,” he said.

And I need you, she was thinking. But not this way. Not tonight. She pushed hard. He almost lost his balance. She backed up towards the door.

“Where are you going?”

There it was, the insecurity in his voice.

“Home.”

“What the hell do you want from me?”

“It doesn't matter,” she said, reaching for the door.

“For Christ”s sake, Verna!”

She opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

“Wait! Let me see if I can get you something special. Maybe … maybe have Ann approve a big, fat raise.”

She stood there, feeling sorry for him, feeling sorry for both of them. “I don't need a raise,” she said.

“What do you need, then?”

Slowly, sadly, she shook her head. “You figure it out,” she said, and she walked away.

“W
hat does ‘tire down' mean?” Jonathan asked.

He had spent the last fifteen minutes with her Gameboy, and had gotten pretty good at dancing his fingers over the buttons, when the message ‘TIRE DOWN' popped up.

“You've got a flat.” Ann kept her eyes on the window as the plane hurtled them back toward New York.

“How'd I get that?”

“You must have run over something.”

“I did not.”

“Oh, for God's sake, give it to me.” She turned from the window and snatched the toy out of his hands. “Was there a crash?”

“Not involving my car. I'm a damned good driver.”

Ann glared at him. “In
front
of you. Was there any debris on the track in front of you?”

“If there was, I didn't notice.”

She started working the buttons and handed the gizmo back to him. “There you go. You're headed for a pit stop.”

“I don't want to go in for a pit stop.”

“You have a flat tire. You
have
to go in for a pit stop.”

“This is stupid.”

“You know, I'm starting to remember why I never liked you.”

His attention was already back on the toy. “Why's that?” he asked absently.

“You're argumentative.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Everything becomes an issue for you. Like the reason why you're here and tracking my every move.”

“The doll's a pretty big issue on its own, Ann.”

She felt something boom behind her eyes. The headache didn't start slowly and build. It was the kind that was just suddenly there, in full force. She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. “What the hell am I supposed to do about this mess?”

“Are you asking me?”

“It was a rhetorical question.”

“I'll make a suggestion anyway. Give Pat another chance.”

She turned her head to look at him. “Damn it, why did he
lie
?” He'd told her that he'd gone to their own bank and three others, and that he had been refused by all of them. Ann had spent the remainder of the afternoon on her cell phone, calling the institutions herself, trying to pull off a miracle. One of them—Margin Savings and Loan—claimed that they had never even gotten a request from Pat. The officers at the two other banks had confided in her that Pat hadn't been able to answer questions about the doll, and had left the impression that he himself didn't think Baby Talk N Glow was going to fly.

Jonathan turned the Gameboy off and gave it back to her. “Screw it. I don't want to go to pit row.”

“Your way or no way?” Ann put the game back into her briefcase.

“Tell me something,” he said. “Why's our own bank being so difficult?”

“Because they're stuck on our inventory situation.”

“The Moonlight Game business? I thought that was fixed.”

She gave him an appraising look. “Osmosis again?”

“Something like that.”

“It was. Is.” Ann let out a throaty sigh. “Okay. Here's the gist of it. When we bought that company out of Chicago, one of the key products was a successful board game called Moonlight that we could re-release every fall.”

“That's good, right?”

Ann rubbed her forehead and nodded. “In theory. But we're dependent on three major accounts—Toys ‘R' Us, Walmart, and Target. Last year, Toys ‘R' Us got themselves into an inventory bind. They canceled commitments right before Christmas, including ours for the Moonlight game, and we were left holding the bag.”

“What happened to the inventory?”

“We sold it. Eventually.”

“Could that happen with this doll?”

Things went weak inside her. “Yes.”

To his credit, Jonathan didn't comment.

Ann fell silent, too, wondering how to touch on the subject of Patrick again without instigating a fight. She was too tired and anxious to quarrel. “Your brother has got to stop drinking, Jonathan.”

“Patrick lets things get to him. It's his way of relaxing.”

“You can make excuses for him, but I can't afford to. He has responsibilities to your mother's company.”

“So what are you going to do? Fire him?”

“Unfortunately, Felicia wouldn't condone that.”

Jonathan studied her face for a moment.

“What are you looking at?” she asked suspiciously.

“You.”

“Well, stop.”

He continued to study her, then asked quietly, “Tell me, Ann, why did you lie to me about Mattie?”

She fumbled with her coffee cup, then brought her hand back and clasped her fingers together to still them. “I'm going to say this once more, then I want this to be the end of it: I didn't have time to tell Matt that I wouldn't marry him.”

She unwound her fingers. One by one. Carefully. “I stalled. I never told Matt anything at all. I never said yes, I never said no. I was trying to find the words, the
right
words. I knew he would be hurt. He and your mother were my only friends in the world…”

There was something hollow in her voice that nagged him into wanting to believe her.

“You're an artist,” she said suddenly.

“What's that got to do with it?”

“You of all people should understand that nothing is black or white. There are a million shades of gray.”

It was true enough, he thought. So why was he trying so hard to pigeonhole Matt's death?

“I never would have married him,” she said. “I told you that. But if you think I'd have held back because I gave
you
my word, you're a fool. I didn't owe you anything. I owed Mattie. And he deserved someone who wasn't so … so…”

She trailed off and made an odd, gulping sound. Jonathan looked at her quickly; it occurred to him that she might be on the verge of crying.

She was just searching for the right word.
“Pretty.”
She finally spat out.

Jonathan was startled. There was some kind of wound here, one that did not involve Matt, and he couldn't for a minute imagine what it was. She would never share it, he knew. So he could either believe her … or not. Maybe it
was
simply an issue of gray. Maybe she'd never had time to tell Matt with the kind of words that wouldn't have left his heart broken. And maybe Matt had misunderstood her silence.

Jonathan realized he could accept that explanation and still resent Ann. It remained that if she had told him, if she had been faster, firmer, more definite, Mattie would have likely still been alive today.

“Let it go now,” she said finally, quietly.

“Yeah.” Suddenly, he was exhausted, and filled with the possibility that by the time this doll business wrapped up, he could have spent enough time to actually get to know her. And maybe even like her more than he would dare to admit.

T
he man breathed in deeply through his nose and hit the light switch. The apartment was pitched into shadow. He let himself out and meticulously turned both locks on the door.

Downstairs, he undertook the onerous chore of hailing a cab. Autumn was sharpening. The wind had a fractious edge, signaling that winter wasn't too far behind. A taxi stopped for him, and though he detested public transportation, he was grateful to get inside.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

An Armenian or Arab, the man thought. He had absolutely no objection to the ethnic snarl of New York's population. But the way most of them drove was another matter entirely.

“Twenty-fifth and Broadway,” he said.

Ann Lesage may not have been ready to give up on her doll, but under the circumstances she would almost certainly have returned early from Canada. He would head over to her office, where he hoped to catch a glimpse of her grim expression.

The cabbie drove, the car hitching, swerving, brakes squealing on grinding stops and near misses. The man held on tight. As they pulled up to the address, fate smiled on him.

A woman he recognized at once came through the lobby doors. She was a brunette of enticing proportions that he could just make
out beneath her open, flapping coat. Her stride was choppy in a way that told him she was angry. She drove her long hair back with one hand as she looked right then left, perhaps deciding in which direction she should go. He knew her name, knew her to be Patrick Morhardt's secretary.

Although they had clearly arrived at their destination, the man instructed the cab driver to keep the meter running.

“But you said Twenty-fifth Street,” the cabbie protested in broken English.

He handed him two twenties. “You can keep the change if you just hang tight for a minute.”

The driver shrugged and did as he was told.

The man knew he had to make a decision. He could follow his intended plan, a rather indulgent one with no immediate consequences, and wait to see if Ann Lesage would show up, or he could make a change. His instincts told him that now that he had spotted Verna Sallinger, this was the more fortuitous path to take.

Verna headed south on Broadway, and he bid the cabbie to follow. They didn't have far to go. She crossed 23rd, strolled a few blocks before turning west and into a bar just past the corner.

Ten minutes later he stepped inside the same bar—finding that it resembled a small Irish pub.

Four patrons sat at the counter, a middle-aged couple, a man in his twenties, and Verna. Fortunately, the stools on either side of her were unoccupied.

“May I?” he asked, indicating the seat on her right.

She picked up her drink, sipped, then put it down.

He didn't wait for her answer and introduced himself.

“Vincent?” she repeated, closing her eyes and leaning back in her seat with a small groan.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“I'd rather be alone, Vincent, if you don't mind.”

The man's blood began to boil at the slight. But he kept his emotions in check. The germ of an idea was beginning to percolate—one that was too good to reject. So he swallowed his anger and inquired if it would be alright if he stayed for just one drink before going on his way.

Even that didn't seem to sit well with Verna, but she nodded her head as if she had no choice in the matter.

Neither said a word until his drink—a Belvedere Martini—was served. Then he asked what was troubling her.

“Who said I was troubled?”

“I like to watch people. When you left your office, you were walking mad.”

“You saw me leave my office?”

“Yes. I knew who you were. You've been recommended to me, Ms. Salinger. I'm looking for a secretary and I heard you were a good one.”

“I'm good and presently employed, thank you very much.”