The Fives Run North-South (20 page)

21

“C
cccckkkk….Hello?” Ben hadn’t spoken in two days, so when answering his phone, he had to
jump
-
start
his atrophied throat.

“Uh…hi. Is this Ben?”

He didn’t recognize her voice at first, but it had an awakening effect. “Sure is,” he said.

“This is Cary. Cary Spencer.”

Purple eyes. “Hey!” he said.
Shit. Did I just add an exclamation point to my “hey”?
he thought.

“Did I get you at a good time?”

“Yeah. No problem.”

“Look, I know it’s probably still a rough time, but I thought I’d give it a shot.”

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Do you want to have dinner with me some time? When you get back in the city. I mean, assuming you’re still up…”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“I mean, no, I’m not up in Portsmouth.”

“Oh.”

“I’m back in the city,” Ben said.

Slight static, in a hanging chad of silence. Ben replayed the last few lines of conversation in his head.

“So, yes.” he said.

“Yes?”

“Yes. For dinner. I’d like that.”

“For real?”

“Uh
-
huh
.”

“Did I just say ‘for real’?” Cary asked.

“Afraid so.”

“D
o I call you Walter or Paddy?”

“Who is this?”

“How soon you forget,” Ben said into the phone.

“No way.”

“Yes way.”

“I thought you thought I was some sort of odd job.”

“I do,” said Ben. “But you’re also an expert on my father’s work, and I need an editor who will help me stay true to the Rob Keaton everyone loves. I’m finishing the book.”

A pause. Then Walter said: “I think I just took a dump in my pants.”

“Well, we’ll have to work on that. If you’re going to go to work for me.”

“I did it again.”

“Tell me that’s a figure of speech.”

“You’re the boss.”

“Look,” said Ben. “My friend and agent, Paul, thinks this is a terrible idea. He’s got a bunch of papers for you to sign basically saying that if you give anything away to all your pals on Facebook we can remove your spleen. Are you good with that?”

“What’s a spleen do?”

“You know what I mean,” Ben said. “Can you do this in a professional and discreet manner?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Okay. Paul will send a driver around tomorrow about eight.”

“Wow.”

“Too early for you?”

“Well, yes. But I suppose…”

“Good of you to be flexible. You’ll be brought to Paul’s Boston offices. Fair warning: he’s going to be a miserable shit to you. Hang tough, okay?”

“If you say so.”

“Right. I’ll see you later. Welcome aboard,” Ben said. He hung up.

“Hey, Paul,” Ben said. “What’s the word?”

“
Esquire
’s
in,” Paul said. “I just left their offices. Had to convince them you were unlikely to die before the end of the year.”

“That’s all?”

There was a drag of silence on the phone. Ben knew Paul was arguing with himself. “Not really,” Paul said. “If you need to know, I told them that your father had extensive notes and rough drafts you were mostly just cleaning up.”

Ben sighed. “I get that,” he said. “Thanks for sticking your neck out for me.”

“Ben, listen. I don’t see it that way. This wasn’t anything more than what I’ve always known. What your father’s always known. You’re a very good writer. I just wanted to make sure you knew their feelings so you don’t freak when you meet them. But trust me, if I had any doubts about you pulling this off, I’d tell you. You know I’m good at pointing out your flaws.”

“Leave my hairstyle out of this.”

“Really, Ben. This is how it ought to be. You’ll honor him, you’ll finish his story, but you’ll do it with your own style inserted in just the right dose.”

“You sound like a
kiss
-
ass
book critic.”

Ben could hear Paul getting into his car and turning it on. “Look,” he continued. “You have to go. I appreciate it, I do.”

“Stop thinking I did it for you. This is going to put a chunk of change in my bank account. So get your ass back in that desk chair and pump out chapters.”

22

From the June 2012 issue of
Esquire
magazine:

W
e are pleased to present the twelfth chapter of
Dented
, Rob Keaton’s final masterpiece, written by Rob prior to his untimely passing, now published posthumously. Rob’s son, Ben Keaton is currently completing the novel, which will be published exclusively in
Esquire
over the coming months. The remaining chapters are being assembled by Ben using the notes and detailed outline left behind by Rob Keaton
. Enjoy!

“Please say something,” Suze said standing in the doorway of my office.

I shook my head slowly.

I reread Viniteri’s
e
-
mail
, sent just hours before he died.

His name is Randall Grosse. I finally spotted his vehicle parked at the front of your subdivision and ran down the tags. Bad dude. Looks like he just moved here from North Carolina. Favorite hobbies: bar brawls and dog fights. Amazingly has lived a charmed life of crime, as he’s never been convicted of anything. Not yet, at least. More to follow.

“Adam,” Suze said, pulling my eyes from the computer screen.

I’m convinced that part of the reason Suze and I have lasted so long is my ability to build solid compartments between our life and my career. Every night as I’d leave the office, I’d rebuild the walls of those compartments so that when I got home, the events of the day were tucked away. I had colleagues who routinely came home every night and delved into the day’s events with their spouse, bleeding them over from the workplace to home. I saw nothing positive about that. Burdening their family with stuff too complicated and nuanced to really explain effectively; I never saw how that helped anyone.

Suze had complained about it a bunch in our early days. Still did occasionally. “You think I’m not bright enough to talk about your company?”

“Just the opposite,” had been my response.

“Don’t patronize me.”

I couldn’t win.

But as she sat down in front of my desk, I found myself talking. It came easily. Surprisingly so. Maybe it was the environment. Sitting behind my desk and serving instructions or information to the person sitting across from me was as natural as breathing. Even if that person was now my wife, and the stuff I was telling here was straight out of the twilight zone.

I didn’t tell her everything, leaving out what I suspected was Randall Grosse’s first nighttime visit to our house; it felt as if it put some of the responsibility for his second visit in my lap. I also didn’t mention
Viniteri
—
neither
the fact that I’d hired him nor the possibility that his death had anything to do with Randall Grosse. I wasn’t even ready to consider the implications; no way was I going to drop that on Suze.

Before I knew it, I’d flowed right into the possibility that Kyle Thomas would sway the board to remove me as CEO.

“Why?” she asked.

“Lots of reasons.”

She frowned. I’d drifted back to familiar territory: waving off her question because of the complexity of the answer.

“Okay,” I said. “Lots of possible reasons. I suspect he wants to continue to build his brand as a guy who deconstructs and reconstructs companies in dramatic fashion. Why choose our company? I don’t know. These guys come and go, but for some reason he’s a bit stickier than I’d expected. And moving quickly.” I pointed to the folder on my desk. “Kyle’s been trying to set up a meeting with the board. Until now, I’ve held it back, but now it looks inevitable. It’s probably going to occur two days from now. Chester’s trying to reach me, so I’ll call him in a sec. Seems the activity’s amped up a bit.”

I could hear voices in the hallway. It was around nine, so the entire
workforce
—
the
clock
-
watching
bunch
—
was
settling in for the day. The hallway was filled with mindless
chitchat
—
asking
about each other’s nights, talking about some televised talent show result, generally doing all they could to stall the actual work waiting at their desk or
e
-
mail
inboxes. I usually was slightly annoyed with it all; today it was strangely comforting.

As was the conversation with Suze. Again, strange.

“So the last thing CEO Adam needs right now is that bozo in the red SUV and his demented idea of pranks,” Suze said.

“Or vice versa.”

“Can I help with the SUV guy? Go to the police?”

“I’m not sure that’s going to get us anywhere.”

She looked at me as if an ear had dropped off. “Why not?”

In my mind, I replayed all the reasons I’d given myself earlier for not involving the cops. But as I looked at Suze…

“You’re right,” I said.

She couldn’t help herself. Hearing me admit she was right, well, it was as if my other ear had fallen off. I was a bit surprised myself. She sat a little straighter. “Why don’t I call,” she said. “You can review that file in front of you. Maybe by the time we go to bed tonight, everything will look a little brighter.”

I nodded. Maybe.

As she stood and started to walk off, she stopped. “It’s just odd,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“All this simply because you honked your horn at him.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” she shook her head. “Never mind.”

I felt a slight rush of blood to my temples. For a second, I tried to let it drop.For a second.

“Never mind what?” I asked.

She smiled. “It’s okay, Adam. I’m just wondering what’d you really do to hack off that guy so much? I mean, guys don’t break and enter after someone beeps their horn at them.”

“No,” I said. “They usually don’t.”

“Don’t get sour.”

Too late.

She could tell too. The excitement left her face. The compartments were reforming.

“I’m going to the bathroom then getting a refill on my coffee,” she said. “After that we need to get the police here.”

“What, here?”

“Well, where else?”

“I’m not causing a scene here. We can get them over tonight or something.”

“So what am I supposed to do? I’m not going back alone.”

I ran my hand through my hair. “Look, I’m thinking you go back to
Vermont
—
keep
tabs on Peter and let me clear it up down here.”

She just shook her head. “Unbelievable,” she said.

“What?”

Suze just whirled around and walked out. Suddenly, she didn’t belong here again, which is probably best for both of us.

My cell phone started buzzing. I looked down at the readout, but didn’t recognize the number. Didn’t even recognize the area code.
Two
-
oh
-
five
? Probably someone selling something. I ignored it and opened the file Kyle had left me. Thirty seconds later, the phone rang again. Same number. This time, a knot formed in my stomach and I reached for the phone and answered it.

“Hello?” I said.

A thin static then: “Hi there.”

“Who’s this?”

“Think you know, bud.”

“Randall Grosse.”

“So you do know my name. Thought you might.”

My heart started slamming against my chest, and I couldn’t fight back the need to swallow, even though my mouth had gone dry. No one has ever made me fold like a nervous schoolgirl. I cursed him and me both. I stood up, hoping it would gain me a measure of
self
-
control
.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. World fucking peace.”

There was a knock on my door. I turned and saw my assistant trying to get my attention. I scowled at her and waved her out. She cowered and slipped away. It gave me a measure of confidence.

“Well, I’m a bit tired of your little games,” I said into the phone.

“Tired, are ya? Sleeping pretty heavy these days, big man,” Randall said. “Seemed that way to me. Hardly even move. Now your wife, she’s a wiggler, ain’t she?”

“You…”

“Hey, I just wanted to say a couple things. No need to get all personal.”

I looked around the office, as if something just outside my line of sight would help me stake out my next move.

“I’m going to ask again,” I said. “What do you want?”

“Well, ever since I first saw it, I’ve wanted to wipe that smug look off your
rich
-
assed
face.”

“So we’ve met before.” I said it as a statement.

He didn’t take the bait. “Look, Bo. At the end of the day, it’s just the end of the day. But what I want right now is to make sure we have an understanding.”

“Go on.”

“You might be thinking of calling the cops. It’s what your type does, thinking all those tax dollars will get you some sort of special treatment. But here’s the deal: this is you and me. That’s all it has to be.”

“So you want to arm wrestle or something?”

“Don’t you want to know. I like a little mano a mano stuff. Like racing too. You like racing?”

“How about you make your point, Randall.”

“Well, I’m thinking if you want to call the cops they might be able to get me. Maybe. But if you do, you have to hope they move faster than I do. That’s when the fun begins, you know? They come for me and maybe they get me. But do they get me before I make it to your wife?”

“Listen…”

“Or maybe track on up to Vermont and have a little talk with your boy.”

“Huh…” Speechless. The prick had me speechless.

“So here’s the deal,” Randall said. “I play around for a while longer. Maybe get bored; you’d like that. Find another smug little mouse to bat around.”

“Are you done?” I breathed in.

“Just about. Got one more little thing to say.”

“I’m not sure I’m in the mood to listen anymore,” I said.

“No prob, big guy. I’ll make this easy. It’s a nice sunny day out here. I got things to do. You seen how sunny it is out here?”

“I’ve been busy,” I said, hoping the shake in my voice wasn’t evident over the line.

“See what I mean? You have to stick your head out and smell the sunshine every once in a while. I mean, check it out. It’s a dandy out here.”

I froze. Everything but my heart.

“Come on, stud,” he said. “Take a peek.”

I turned to my window, looking out at the parking lot. Flashing headlights caught my eye at the far end. Headlights flashing on a red SUV.

“Have a nice day,” he said.

The line went dead as the SUV backed up. From the driver’s side window I saw his arm extended into the air, his middle finger sticking up as he drove away.