The Fives Run North-South (4 page)

“It’s all about control and a commitment to the fundamentals,” I said. It was time to put my foot on the shovel. “But I’m sure you didn’t come here to pass around business clichés. I sense you have an agenda you’re waiting to spring on me. I’m not the kind who feels the need to ease into matters of importance. Wastes too much time and energy.”

Kyle eyed me. “I understand. However, this isn’t routine niceties. I’m simply reinforcing my concerns. You say ‘control and commitment to fundamentals’; others might say ‘fear of growth.’”

Ah
-
ha
. The shovel sank. I’d heard this about Kyle. One of the
growth
-
niks
. Couple other guys on the board lean that way, subtly urging me to take a more aggressive approach…a calculated gamble here or there. Or at least present the illusion that we are.

“FMP’s
well
-
earned
reputation as a solid citizen and steady climber is a legacy we can all be proud of,” I said. “There are not a lot of companies that can point to as much evidence of that as we can.”

“Most who do are much larger,” Kyle said. He was sitting straight now. The shovel was in for another stout chunk of dirt. “You’re not GE.”

I smiled. I was much more comfortable now, as I’d had this conversation dozens of times. The stage play of the growth versus stability was one in which I didn’t need to learn my lines. I settled in. This should be over shortly.

“I listened to your earnings call last week,” Kyle said. “I felt your responses to questions regarding growth strategies were more or less unanswered.”

“I’m not sure I agree with that.”

“It’s not your opinion that matters. It’s that of the analysts. Your stock stumbled a bit.”

“And since recovered.”

“But hasn’t exceeded precall levels. And won’t.”

I felt the back of my ears start to burn. He was treading close to rudeness.

“Well,” I said. “You obviously have a message you wish to send. I’ve heard it. Now I have another appointment with a new client…”

“No,” he interrupted.

Ears hot. I hoped not hot enough he could see them turning red.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “My message hasn’t been delivered. I’m
still
—
what
did you call
it
—
’easing
into matters of importance.’”

“How about we do ourselves a favor and skip that, then.”

“Fine. I’m the messenger, remember, although also the primary driver. The board has begun the search for a new CEO. I’m here to inform you and to give you the opportunity to work with us and provide a public face of stability and harmony.” He stood. “For the good of the company.”

Suddenly my mind flashed to a large, shiny red vehicle jumping into traffic in front of me. The quick reaction of slamming on the horn, the intolerable invasion of my space. Twice in the period of
twenty
-
four
hours I had to experience someone invading the boundaries of my stability.
No way
, I thought.
Not now
.
Not again
. I stood to face Kyle.

“You give it your best shot, kid,” I said. Though while saying it I was horrified by how pinched, and somewhat shaky, my voice sounded.

“The board is ready for meeting at one o’clock sharp tomorrow. Those who won’t be in attendance in person will join us by video conference. The purpose of the meeting is to discuss our next steps. I think moving quickly is best for all involved.”

I wanted to stop his exit, to redirect the conversation. The board will not be meeting tomorrow. Hell no. I’d make some calls, rally those who were behind me, and kick his
just
-
out
-
of
-
diapers
ass into the bay. Like laying on the horn, I’d let him know this was my road. My direction.

But then I remembered what had happened after I’d done that to the red SUV. Consequences. Perhaps better to avoid them?

I sat in my chair.

No
,
I thought.
Best to bide my time. Patience.
As I watched Kyle leave the room, I drilled my gaze into the back of his head. Young. Impatient.

Good. They are the easiest prey for those of us who walked carefully into battle. I picked up the phone.

Sometimes when you pull on a shoe lace, the laces come untied easily. Other times, you pull the same lace, the same way, it catches. The knot holds. You get a bunch of knots. And in pulling harder, it tightens into something that takes time, patience, and good fingernails to free up. Why? I don’t know enough about physics to explain the difference. It just seems you should certainly be able to control something as simple as untying shoes, shouldn’t you?

As often happens, I was the last to leave the office that night. I punched in the security code, set the alarm, and stepped outside. It was growing dark, but the heat of the day still hung in the air, making it heavy outside. I put the key in the door, and clicked it to the locked position. I pulled my phone out of my breast pocket and hit my home
speed
-
dial
number. As I glanced at my car in its spot, it looked a bit crooked.

“Hello?” Suze said.

“Hi,” I said. “Just leaving and…”

The car was crooked.

“Adam?” she said.

I stopped, my mouth frozen.

“Adam?” Suze repeated.

I blinked, hoping the evidence wasn’t so blatant.

Two flat tires, both on the driver’s side. The rubber on the sidewalls jagged and shredded. Slashed.

4

I
hung up my cell phone and returned it to my pocket, shaking my head in disbelief. Suze was hopping into her car to come pick me up; she’d be here in about twenty minutes. I walked over to my BMW and bent down to look more closely at the tires (only four months old, if I remembered correctly). As it had appeared from a distance, this was definitely the work of a blade: intentional, rushed, and messy. It had happened fast; fast enough, it appeared, that the car had dropped with enough force to cause a slight dent on the bottom edge of one of the rims.

I stood up straight and let out a growl of frustration. “Just fucking wonderful,” I said to the darkening sky above.

I considered going back into the office but really just wanted to be at home with a glass of wine. So to keep from wasting precious time, I decided to wait by the car so we could get moving toward home as quickly as possible after Suze’s arrival. Pulling the phone out of my pocket again, I decided to flip through some unanswered
e
-
mails
and messages. Get my mind off of…

What? The red SUV? The brick?

Now this. Certainly not a coincidence. An annoyance, that’s for sure. Not what I needed when the real threat, the real area on which I needed to focus, was that cowboy Kyle Thomas and his little coup attempt. Another wise punk following some meathead script currently fashionable in the market where turbulence is sexy. He probably just graduated from his master’s program. Wrote a paper on the ideals of corporate growth and now wants to take his little
theory
-
based
ideas and get a skin for his belt. Pad his resume with a turnaround; probably in his mind a
small
-
company
turnaround. Easy pickings before graduating to a larger, more substantial company. As I flipped through my
e
-
mails
, paying little attention to them, I was already forming a plan, mentally enlisting allies…

The red SUV. The brick. Now this…

I tried to shake my mind free of the slashed tires, to get back to focus. But my thoughts wandered again. If it was the red SUV guy, he had to have been pretty ballsy coming here to slash my tires in this relatively
wide
-
open
parking lot. Sure, it was empty now, but certainly there had to have been someone here when he…

Like a slight punch to the stomach, I felt a sudden tightening of my vision. From the time I parked this morning until around 5:30, this parking lot is always a flurry of activity. And come quitting
time
—
starting
about 4:
30
—
the
area is abuzz, an
eleven
-
story
building emptying out in a mad rush to beat traffic. It stays busy right up until…

Until about ten minutes before I come out myself.

I looked around. Street lights had illuminated around the fringe of the lot. A spotlight by the front entrance cast a small halo between where I was standing and the office entrance door. Everywhere else, deepening shadows and darkness. I thought of the knife, sitting tightly in the grip of the person who’d slashed my tires. Slowly, so it wouldn’t be obvious, I scrutinized my surroundings. Thick bushes extended from either side of the walkway leading from the front door. Those bushes ran around the perimeter of the building. On the west side of the executive/visitor parking lot was the employee parking
garage
—
dark
, quiet, and mostly empty with all but the night custodial staff having removed their vehicles (except there was always one or two there…random cars that would be there one night and not the next, as if sometimes folks decided to walk. One of those small mysteries I always wanted to ask about). Trees on either side of the parking garage were shifting in the breeze, causing lights from outside the garage to dance around the interior of the building, casting off support columns and stairwells, giving off the illusion of movement or activity from within.

I heard a sound.

Then just the breeze.

I felt both a deep solitude and the dull sensation that someone was watching me.

The glow from my cell phone suddenly disappeared as it went into sleep mode. It made me jump, much to my embarrassment (and really, if someone hiding in the bushes was watching me, embarrassment was probably the least of my worries). I glanced down at my watch. The dial was difficult to read in the dusk, but it appeared to be getting close to the time I was expecting Suze to show up. I looked out to the entrance road and saw no headlights approaching. I thought of calling her but felt the need to stay attentive.

Okay, you’re acting like a jumpy teenager in a slasher movie
,
I thought. Again, embarrassment. It occurred to me that perhaps the expression “dying from embarrassment” probably came from people in situations like this who allowed their defenses to drop in a silly effort to appear cool and unbothered.

Another sound. A soft thud, from where?

Again, I slowly moved my head around the perimeter of the lot. Moving shadows, all perfectly natural. No other sound, except…

Finally. A car engine. I looked out to the entrance road and saw the high beams of the approaching car. As it turned into the parking lot, I exhaled as the familiar shape of Suze’s Volvo moved toward me. She pulled up beside my car, and I walked toward the passenger side. I was momentarily confused when she shut the motor off and got out of her car. I stood dumbly as she got out and walked around to inspect my tires. I wanted to order her to get back in her Volvo and get us out of here, but then realized that really, her actions were the more appropriate and reasonable. I told myself that it was best not to frighten her by acting nervous while ignoring the voice in my head; the one telling me that perhaps it would be preferable for me to get slashed than for her to see in me the embarrassing weakness of fear.

“Oh my God, Adam,” she said, looking down at my tires. “Who would have done this? Did you fire someone today?”

“I think it was random, Suze.”

“Nothing’s ever random. I mean, first the brick, now this?”

“I don’t know, but it’s probably just simple coincidence,” I said, slowly looking around and wandering toward her car. “Look, I’m tired. It’s been a long day. Let’s just go home and I’ll deal with this tomorrow.”

“Have you called the police?”

“No.”

“Well, you have to call the police, I mean…”

“Not tonight.”

“Don’t you have to report these things right away? Are you sure you didn’t fire someone.” She bent down to look closer. “Will you look at these tires?”

“Suzanne.”

“I think we should call the police. We can wait; I didn’t put anything in for dinner yet. Maybe we can eat out again.”

“Fine. Let’s just get going.”

Then I heard something. No mistaking it. From the parking garage.

“Do you think they did anything else to your car?” Suze continued. “Did you check for scratches? Sometimes people take keys and…”

“Dammit, Suze, will you shut up. I said I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

She stood, mouth dropped, eyes wide, then narrowed.

Without a word she walked around my car, opened the Volvo door, and got in. I did the same. She turned on the ignition and
reversed
—
a
bit too
quickly
—
put
it in drive, and moved toward the exit. I looked back as my BMW receded, still sitting cockeyed in my parking space.

I considered apologizing but knew it didn’t really matter. The night was shot. She’d been a bit jazzed; this little incident, while negative, had been, in her mind, a little mutually shared adventure, a derailed routine, something she tended to crave these days.

“I’m hungry,” I said, after allowing a few miles to pass in silence. “Want to stop off at the deli and get some big salads?”

“Whatever.”

She shifted lanes (without checking, of course), then reached down and switched on the news.

“It’s quicker if you take this right up here,” I said.

She decelerated, hitting her turn signal. My mind started to fill with thoughts of Kyle Thomas. The irrational feelings from the parking lot were receding, and I chalked up that momentary loss of
self
-
control
to lack of sleep. A light dinner and a good night’s sleep would give me back my core, and I’d deal with all this crap tomorrow. Come out swinging.

“How was your day?” I asked her.

“Same things.”

“Did that guy come by to fix the window?”

“He put a board over it, says he has to order a matching sash.”

I’d expected as much. A nice brown patch right at the front of the house to give the neighbors something to chat about.

“Take the next left,” I said.

“It’d be a heck of a lot easier to drive if this guy would get off my tail,” she said.

I turned around. She was right. We were being tailgated. I realized two things immediately upon turning to look back. First, the lights were tall enough to flood our interior compartment. Tall like a truck. Or an SUV. Second, whoever was driving behind us was getting a good, illuminated view of my face turned back to look at him.

“Jesus, that’s close,” said Suze. “I can’t see the turn.”

I looked forward. “It’s right there. You have to slow down.”

“What an asshole!” she yelled into her mirror. “There’s plenty of room to go around!”

“You’re going to miss the turn!” I said.

“Don’t yell at me!”

I turned back, just as the lights behind us veered off. The tailgater was turning right, leaving the road. I tried to blink away the sparks in my eyes left from his bright lights. Tried to see the outline of the vehicle, to see what it was.

Suze turned, and I wasn’t able to see what had been following us.

But I had a good suspicion.

When I was twelve, there was this hill. A hill and one
day
—
that
day
—
a
truck.

We lived in a rural town, a town where kids could just ride their bikes on the street with little worry about excess traffic (though I doubt we’d have worried about it either way). My
bike
-
riding
partner was named Kevvy.
Three
-
speed
bikes, no helmets, scraped knees in the breeze. We’d leave our homes behind and travel what seemed to be great distances. It’d probably be a ridiculously short drive if I were to retrace the path in my car today. Leaving our homes, we’d have to climb the hill, and our contest each time was to make it to the top without having to dismount and push. Usually one or both of us had to, but we tried like hell to make it.

Our competitive spirit remained in place on our return trip as we’d race back down the hill at the end of our ride. The road curved, and our focus was on each other each time, not any possible traffic. I’m here today because there were so few cars on that road most days. Timing, luck, and stupidity. Many kids depend on that cocktail, especially back then before we all became so filled with tragic awareness.

But on that day our neighbors were moving. And there was this truck, maybe a
U
-
Haul
. A box van truck that had one of those old, rusty steel bumpers. About the same height off the ground as the head of a
twelve
-
year
-
old
boy on a bike.

As we took the hill, Kevvy got a jump on me that day. He took the lead, and I peddled as fast as I could to catch him. I was looking down at the road beneath my madly peddling feet. I always liked how the road looked when speeding above it…the white and shiny parts of the pavement like stars going past. Light speed. I felt the wind in my ears and looked up, certain I was gaining on Kevvy. He was looking back and laughing, confident that his lead was too much as he neared the bottom. Where the truck was parked. I saw it, and saw how quickly he was approaching it.

So I yelled. I yelled a warning. I could tell that in the wind he couldn’t hear me. He looked more closely at me and tried to understand. Then he turned his face. Just in time to slam into that bumper.

I remember the scream. I remember the blood. And the pieces of teeth that flowed out from between his lips. Lips that were swelling up so fast it reminded me of the Hulk. I remember helping him to his home, and then the trip to the hospital. He lived and he was okay, but he went through a tough few weeks. And as I think back, I have this pit of guilt. In those last few seconds, if only he’d turned around more quickly. But it was my attempted warning that kept him looking back at me; I was sure of it. Or maybe if I’d looked up more quickly and warned him earlier.

And now, I think about Suze and me and all the incidents happening to us. There were warnings about what was coming. Plenty. Easy to see that now, but like with Kevvy, I think that had we paid attention, perhaps it could have been worse.