"Oh?"
Arching her back, she untucked her shirt and slowly pulled it up and over her head. "There's a table right here--and although there's nothing but your laptop on it, and I wouldn't suggest throwing that on the floor, we could still . . . you know."
"Oh, yeaaaaah . . ."
As Lizzie stretched out on her kitchen table, Lane was right on her, leaning over her, his mouth finding hers on a surge of heat.
"By the way," she gasped, "in my fantasy, we do this a lot . . ."
TWENTY-SEVEN
The following morning, Lane slowed down as he approached the Big Five Bridge from the Indiana side, traffic choking up the highway with morning commuters. The Porsche's radio was off. He hadn't checked his phone. And he hadn't cracked his laptop before leaving Lizzie's.
The sun was once again bright in a mostly clear blue sky, a few streaky clouds passing by on the edges. The good weather wasn't supposed to last, though. A low-pressure system was coming in and storms were due.
Seemed fitting.
As he downshifted into third, and then second, he saw up ahead that the delay was more than just rush hour. Up ahead, there was some construction on the span, the merging lines of cars forming a bottleneck that winked in the sunshine and threw off waves of heat. Inching forward, he knew he was going to be late, but he was not going to get worked up over that.
He didn't want this meeting now. But he'd been given no choice.
When he finally got into the single line, things started to move, and he almost laughed when he finally pulled up next to the workers in their orange bibs, hard hats, and blue jeans.
They were installing a chain-link fencing system to keep people away from the drop.
No more jumping. Or at least, if you insisted on trying it, you were going to need to get your climb on first.
Hitting spaghetti junction, he took a tight curve, shot under an overpass, got onto I-91. Two exits later, he was off at Dorn Avenue and going down onto River Road.
The Shell station on the corner was the kind of place that was part drugstore, part supermarket, part liquor store . . . and part newsstand.
And he intended to go by it as he made a right. After all, there was going to be a copy of the Charlemont Courier Journal at Easterly.
In the end, though, his hands made the decision for him. Wrenching the wheel to the right, he shot into the service station, bypassed the gas tanks and parked by the double-doored silver freezer that had ICE painted across it along with a picture of a cartoon penguin with a red scarf around its neck.
The baseball cap he pulled down low over his face had the U of C logo on the front.
At the pumps, there were a couple of guys filling up their pick-up trucks. A municipal vehicle. A CG&E cherry picker. A woman in a Civic with a baby she kept checking on in the back.
He felt like they were all staring at him. But he was wrong. If they were looking in his direction, it was because they were checking out his Porsche.
A tinny bell rang as he pushed into the cold space of the store, and there it was. A line-up of Charlemont Courier Journals, all with the headline he'd been dreading splashed above the fold in Las Vegas Strip-sized font.
BRADFORD BOURBON BANKRUPTCY.
The New York Post couldn't have done it better, he thought as he got a dollar bill and a quarter out. Picking up one of the copies, he put the money on the counter and gave a rap of his knuckles. The guy at the cash register looked over from whoever he was helping and nodded.
Back at the Porsche, Lane got behind the wheel and popped the front page flat. Scanning the first set of columns, he opened to the inside to finish the article.
Oh, great. They had reproduced a couple of the documents. And there was a lot of commentary. Even an editorial on corporate greed and the rich's lack of accountability, with a tie-in on karma.
Tossing the thing aside, he reversed out and hit the gas.
When he got to the main gates of the estate, he eased off on the speed, but it was only to count the number of news trucks parked on the grassy shoulder like they were expecting a mushroom cloud to take flight over Easterly at any second. Continuing on, he entered the property at the staff road and shot up the back way, passing by the vegetable fields that Lizzie cultivated for Miss Aurora's kitchen and then the barrel-topped greenhouses and finally the cottages and the groundskeeping shed.
The staff parking lot was full of cars, all kinds of extra help already on site to get things prepared for the visitation hours. The paved lane continued beyond that, mounting the hill parallel to the walkway that workers used to get to the house. At the top, there were the garages, the back of the business center, and the rear entrances to the mansion.
He parked by the maroon Lexus that was in one of the spots reserved for senior management.
As soon as Lane got out, Steadman W. Morgan, chairman of the Bradford Bourbon Company's board of trustees, emerged from his sedan.
The man was dressed in golfing clothes, but not like Lenghe, the Grain God, had been. Steadman was in Charlemont Country Club whites, the crest of the private institution in royal blue and gold on his pectoral, a Princeton Tiger needlepoint belt around his waist. His shoes were the same kind of loafers Lane wore, without socks. Watch was Piaget. Tan was earned on the links, not sprayed on. Vitality was good breeding, careful diet, and the result of the man never having had to wonder where his next meal was coming from.
"Quite an article," Steadman said as they met face-to-face.
"Now do you understand why I kicked them all out of here?"
There was no shake of the hands. No formalities honored or exchanged. But then good ol' Steadman was not used to be anyone's second-highest priority and clearly his Brooks Brothers boxers were in a bunch.
Then again, he had just learned he was sitting at the head of the table at a very bad time in BBC history. And Lane could sure as hell relate to that.
With a sweep of his hand, Lane indicated the way to the back door of the business center and he let the two of them in with the new pass code. Turning lights on as they went, he led the way into the small conference room.
"I'd offer you coffee," Lane said as he took a seat. "But I suck at making it."
"I'm not thirsty."
"And it's a little early for bourbon or I'd be drinking some." Lane linked his hands and leaned in. "So. I'd ask you what's on your mind, but that would be rhetorical."
"It would have been nice if you'd have given me a heads-up on the article. On the issues. On the financial chaos. On why the hell you locked senior management out."
Lane shrugged. "I'm still trying to get to the bottom of it myself. So I don't have a lot to say."
"There was plenty in that damned article."
"Not my fault. I wasn't a source, and my no comment was as bulletproof as Kevlar." Although the reporter had given him quite a bit to go on. "I will say that a friend of mine, who is an investment banker who specializes in evaluating multi-national corporations, is here from New York, and he's figuring it all out."
Steadman seemed to compose himself. Which was a little like a marble statue struggling to keep a straight face: Not a lot of work.
"Lane," the man started off in a tone that made Walter Cronkite seem like Pee-wee Herman, "I need you to understand that the Bradford Bourbon Company may have your family's name on it, but it's not some lemonade stand you can shut down or move at your will just because you're blood. There are corporate procedures, lines of command, ways of--"
"My mother is the single largest shareholder."
"That doesn't give you the right to turn this into a dictatorship. Senior management has an imperative to get back into this facility. We have to convene a search committee to hire a new CEO. An interim leader must be appointed and announced. And above all, a proper internal audit of this financial mess must be--"
"Allow me to be perfectly clear. My ancestor, Elijah Bradford, started this company. And I absolutely will close it down if I have to. If I want to. I am i
n charge, and it will be so much more efficient if you recognize this and get out of my way. Or I'll replace you, too."
The WASP equivalent of murderous rage narrowed Steadman's baby blues. Which, again, was not much of a change. "You don't know who you're dealing with."
"And you have no idea how little I have to lose. I will be the one to appoint a successor to my father, and it will not be any of the senior vice presidents who came in here every morning to suck up to him. I will find out where the money went, and I will singlehandedly keep us in business if I have to go down and run the sills myself." He jabbed a finger into Steadman's flushed face. "You work for me. The board works for me. Every one of the ten thousand employees getting a paycheck works for me--because I'm the sonofabitch who's going to turn everything around."
"And exactly how do you propose to do that? According to that article, there are millions missing."
"Watch me."
Steadman stared across the glossy table for a moment. "The board will--"
"Be getting out of my way. Listen, you each get paid a hundred thousand dollars to sit around and do absolutely nothing. I'll guarantee every one of you a quarter of a million dollars this year. That's a one hundred and fifty percent raise."
The man's chin went up. "Are you attempting to bribe me? Bribe us?"
"Or I can shut the board down. Your choice."
"There are bylaws--"
"You know what my father did to my brother, correct?" Lane leaned in once more. "Do you think I don't have the same contacts my old man did in the States? Do you honestly believe I can't make things very difficult for the lot of you? Most accidents happen in the home, but cars can be tricky, too. Boats. Planes."
Guess his Kentucky Fried Tony was coming out again.
And the truly scary thing was, as he said the words, he wasn't sure whether he was bluffing or not. Sitting here, where his father had sat, Lane found himself feeling perfectly capable of murder.
Abruptly, the memory of falling from the bridge, of watching the water come at him, of being in that hinterland between safety and death, returned to him.
"So what is it going to be?" Lane murmured. "A raise or a grave?"
Steadman took his sweet time, and Lane let the man stare into his eyes for as long as he wanted.
"I'm not sure you can promise either, son."
Lane shrugged. "The question is whether you want to test that theory out on the positive or the negative, isn't it?"
"If that article is true, how are you going to get the money?"
"That's my problem, not yours." Lane sat back. "And I'll let you in on a little secret."
"What's that?"
"My father's ring finger was found buried out in front of the house. It's not been released to the press yet. So don't kid yourself. It wasn't suicide. Someone killed him."
There was a little throat clearing at that point. And then good ol' Steadman said, "When exactly would we be receiving payment?"
Gotcha, Lane thought.
"Now, here's what we're going to do," he said to the man.
*
Jeff took his breakfast upstairs in Lane's grandfather's crib, and he was on the phone the entire time. With his father.
When he finally hung up, he sat back in the antique chair and looked out at the grass of the garden. The flowers. The blooming trees. It was like a stage set for the Carringtons back in the eighties. Then he picked up the copy of the Charlemont Courier Journal he'd stolen from downstairs in the kitchen and stared at the story.
He'd read it first online.
After that, when he'd gone down to snag some coffee and a Danish, he'd asked Miss Aurora if he could take the physical copy. Lane's momma, as she was called, hadn't looked up from whatever she'd been chopping at the counter. Get it out of here, was all she had said.
Jeff had pretty much memorized every word, each number, all the pictures of the documents.
When a knock sounded, he said, "Yes?"
Lane came in with some coffee for himself, and even though he'd shaved, he looked like shit. "So--oh, yup," the guy said. "You've seen it."
"Yeah." Jeff put the goddamn thing down. "It's a hatchet job. The problem is, nothing is misrepresented."
"I'm not going to worry about it."
"You should."
"I just bought the board."
Jeff recoiled. "I'm sorry, what?"
"I need you to find me two point five million dollars."
Putting his palms up to his face and holding in a curse, Jeff just shook his head. "Lane, I don't work for the Bradford Bourbon Company--"
"So I'll pay you."
"With what?"
"Take a painting from downstairs."
"No offense, but I don't like museums and I hate representational art. Everything you have was done before the advent of the camera. It's boring."
"There's value in it." When Jeff didn't give a response, Lane shrugged. "Fine, I'll give you a piece of my mother's jewelry--"
"Lane."
His college roommate didn't budge. "Or take the Phantom Drophead. I'll deed it to you. We own all the cars. How about my Porsche?"
"Are you . . . insane?"
Lane indicated all around them. "There's money here. Everywhere. You want a horse?"
"Jesus Christ, it's like your garage sale'ing--"
"What do you want? It's yours. Then help me find that money. I need two hundred and fifty grand each for ten people."
Jeff started shaking his head. "It doesn't work like that. You can't just divert funds on a whim--"
"There is no whim here, Jeff. It's about survival."
"You need a plan, Lane. A comprehensive plan that immediately reduces expenses, consolidates function, and anticipates a possible federal investigation--especially with that article out now."
"Which brings me to my second reason for being here. I need you to prove that my father did it all."
"Lane--what the fuck! Do you think I can just pull this stuff out of my--"
"I'm not naive and you're right. Law enforcement is going to come knocking after that article, and I want to present them with a clear path to my father."
Jeff exhaled. Cracked his knuckles. Wondered what it would feel like if he struck his forehead with the desk. A couple of hundred times. "Well, at least that looks like a no-brainer."
"That's the beauty of all this. It just came to me. My father is dead so it's not like they're going to dig him up and put him behind bars. And after everything he pulled, I'm not concerned with preserving his memory. Let the bastard go down in flames for everything, and then let's move forward with the company." He took a drink from his mug. "Oh, which reminds me. I e-mailed you what Lenghe sent me on the WWB Holdings companies. It's more than we had and yet not nearly enough."
All Jeff could do was stare at the guy. "You know, I can't decide whether you are incredibly entitled or simply so desperate you have lost your damn mind."
"Both. But I can tell you that the latter is more material. It's hard to be entitled when you can't pay for anything. And as for your compensation, as far as I'm concerned I'm in a fire-sale situation here. So back up a truck and load the damn thing to the roof. Whatever you think is fair."
Jeff looked down at the newspaper again. It seemed appropriate that the article was covering all of the work he'd been doing.
"I can't be down here forever, Lane."
But he did have something he had to take care for himself. In addition to Lane's newest laundry list of demands and bright ideas.
"What about senior management?" Jeff asked. "Did you bribe them, too?"
"Not at all. For that bunch of suits, I put them on unpaid administrative leave for the next month. I figured there was enough evidence so that it was justified, and the board is sending them notice. The middle managers will pick up the slack until I find an interim CEO."
"Gonna be hard with this out." Jeff tapped the front page. "Not exactly a good recruiting platform."
As Lane just looked ac
ross at him, Jeff felt a splash of figurative cold water hit his head. Putting up both his palms, he started shaking his head again. "No. Absolutely not--"
"You'd be in charge."
"Of a torpedoed ship."
"You could do anything you want."
"Which is like telling me I can redecorate a house that's in the middle of a mudslide?"
"I'll give you equity."
Annnnnd cue the screeching of tires. "What did you just say?"
Lane turned away and went to the door. "You heard me. I'm offering you equity in the oldest and finest liquor company in America. And before you tell me I'm not allowed to, blah, blah, blah, may I remind you that the board's in my back pocket. I can do whatever the hell I want and need to."
"As long as you can find the money to pay them."
"Think about it." The slick bastard looked over his shoulder. "You can own something, Jeff. Not just crunch numbers for an investment bank that's paying you for being a glorified calculator. You can be the first non-family shareholder in the Bradford Bourbon Company, and you can help determine our future."
Jeff went back to staring at the article. "Would you have ever asked me if things were going well?"
"No, but that's because in that case, I wouldn't be involved in the company at all."
"And what happens when all this is over?"
"Depends on what 'over' looks like, doesn't it? This could change your life, Jeff."
"Yeah, there's a recommendation. Look what it's done to you. And P.S., last time you wanted me to stay you threatened me. Now, you're trying to bribe me."
"Is it working?" When he didn't answer, Lane opened the way out. "I didn't like strong-arming you. I really didn't. And you're right. I am thrashing around here like an idiot. But I'm out of options, and there is no savior coming down from heaven to give me a miracle and make this all go away."
"That's because there is no making this go away."
"No shit. But I've got to deal with it. I don't have a choice."
Jeff cursed. "I don't know if I can trust you."
"What do you need from me so you can?"
"After all this? I'm not sure I ever can."
"Then be self-interested. If you own part of what you're saving, if there's a tremendous upside--and there is--then that's all the incentive you need. Think about it. You're a businessman. You know exactly how lucrative this could be. I give you the stock now, and then things turn around? There are Bradford cousins who will be dying to buy the shit back. This represents the single best chance of an eight-digit capitalizing event for you--outside of the fucking lottery."