The Ultimate Exit Strategy, page 7
Comstock, I was saying, was a company under-appreciated by nearly every other analyst but me. Winslow chewed. I said that was exactly why my contrarian opinion spelled opportunity, and he kept up shoveling his salad into the yawning cavity of his mouth, stopping only to sniffle occasionally or wipe his slightly runny nose with the handkerchief he was using as a napkin. He had been sick. Even so I’d been able to tell that Wes was interested and engaged in my story: the charm of the eventual takeover angle, the rugged, individualist, Americana wallow of bucking the conventional wisdom. In my only short meeting, I was judging him an intelligent man; and I could tell from the way he had begun to meet my eyes that his fascination with Comstock was growing. In fact, the more I talked, the more I liked Wes Winslow. His sharp angled face, the frankness of his pointing chin and nose, and the rubicund, almost parturient glow of his skin. I liked watching myself grow in his estimation. It gave me a long, giddy, head rush to be, after all these years, on the radar screen of senior management right where I thought I belonged – in the game.
“What did Herb Symon say about all this? Or Zemluski?” Or Justin, I was thinking.
Cassandra shook her head, exasperated. “Nobody’s talking here. If they were, I wouldn’t need you.” That was just like her. I was sure she hadn’t meant it as an insult, just a statement of inconvenient fact. So much for the nylons and chocolate.
In her tone there was a flat kind of irritation. “According to Zemluski, he stopped by out of nothing more than friendly concern. Yet, I am told by a more forthcoming colleague that Winslow and Zemluski were not on the best of terms the day he died. I’ll have to interview everyone at Whytebread and Greese, of course. Before I do, it would be nice to see where the skeletons are buried – the inside family stuff nobody wants to tell the cops.”
“No one but me?” The small affront had returned me, in that moment, to the exact feeling of disappointment I had when she left me years ago, and I was gratified to find that I could still provoke her, even after so long, as if that proved that whatever we had was not simply wasted time. “Are you saying I’m not family?”
“If this is because I haven’t called –” she began as if my anger hurt her feelings, “it’s not because I haven’t thought of you. A lot.” My skin felt warm as she squeezed my arm across the table and I would never have it said that I minded a little manipulation when it was done well. I minded not at all that her hand on my wrist could still dial up a ten year-old memory of clothes folded carefully in the wicker chair beside my bed.
“Maybe this will help you decide on which side your bread is buttered,” she said, taking stock of me.
On which side. I’d always felt a tingle of superiority at Cassandra’s self-conscious compulsion towards perfect grammar, an issue of class. Even as I wanted advancement, I was secure in mine, but I knew from those occasional years-ago, bedtime anecdotes that Cassandra’s finger-hold on middle-class respectability and comfort had been so hard-won she worried it could be lost by a careless slip of the tongue.
Leafing through her file, Cassandra removed a single sheet of white paper, and laid it on top of the rest of the report. It was a list. Cassandra carefully smoothed the paper’s edges with her palm, as if she expected that at any moment I would recognize and bow down to this delicate artifact.
Cassandra’s List was very much like The List Ellen Borgia had shown me, months before, featuring the same two columns with their bold-faced headings: Retain and Terminate. But now, I was on the Have List along with Allison Price, and Ellen Borgia. The numbers of options beside our names were big. The options awarded to Rupert Dean were mysteriously gone. According to this List, Dean wouldn’t even keep his job. Certainly my face must have been a study. I was wondering if Ellen knew that her suit was over because no jury on earth was going to punish Whytebread and Greese for making us rich.
Cassandra was leaned back in her chair, just short of reclining and smiling now like she could chew me up and not even crack a tooth.
“The Terminations List was supposed to be a secret,” I confessed, a little hoarse and breathless in the afterglow. “People said Wes had personally targeted folks to reward and punish.” There had been rumors, I said, though I didn’t let on I knew they were true; and I couldn’t help asking, “Is this for real, the final List?”
Cassandra nodded, now knowing she had me. Explaining, the longer it took to tie up Winslow’s murder, the less likely it was that Winslow’s List would remain with my piece of the pie untouched, a decision that would be up to August Madsen.
My father had confided to me once in a wonderment that now reminded me of my own, in the kind of intimacy we hadn’t shared since he’d stopped taking me and my little sister to Indian Princess father-daughter evenings sometime in the early seventies. He’d said, “I never thought I would have this much, ever,” speaking of his house, his job, his cars, closing his eyes as if he were remembering a specific day when God had smiled down on his nappy head.
There at Wendy’s I was thinking back sheepishly on my scorn for my father’s naive gratefulness at the small bit of luck the universe had thrown him, limited by his concept of what could be available to a Black man born in the thirties. I never thought I would have so much. It didn’t seem quite so pathetic a sentiment anymore. The difference between my father and I was boiling down neatly to a matter of commas. We were both for sale, just a matter of price. Right there at Wendy’s, I had nearly swooned.
“Where did you get this?” My fingers grazed The List lightly so as not to damage it in any way.
“From August Madsen – who got it from Wesley Winslow’s personal safe. My sources tell me the stock and options could make you a very comfortable young woman.” Her voice was grinning. “Are you counting your money?” Cassandra pushed aside the most recent in her line of coffees. She leaned over close to goad me, catching my wrist tight and twisting almost in an Indian burn. “Well, you’d better not, Virginia. Not until August Madsen is satisfied we’ve cleared this up.”
Like it or not, my bequest on Winslow’s List made it we now.
“No murderer, no merger, no money.” Cassandra ran her tongue across her lips again seductively before she showed me every one of her perfect teeth. “Funny how it seems like we both have the same problem now.” Cassandra let go of my arm. While there was still an ache where she had held it, the rest of me was numb. My mind had emptied except for one thought: Braces.
When we’d dated, Cassie’s incisors turned inward slightly, breaking the monotony of her good looks in a way I could find endearing. She had reinvented herself just as Wesley Winslow had reinvented Starr, down to the smallest details – like Spike/Mary Ellen, with her renaming and her ever-evolving rainbow of temporary hair colors, the piercings that multiplied, it seemed now, monthly. It felt like the world was changing around me and only I remained dependably, sanely the same.
Whatever she had done to her teeth, Cassandra Hope certainly had not neglected her homework. “Tell me what you hear around the firm, Virginia. Tell me what you know, and we can all get paid.”
So, I started by telling Cassandra about Winslow’s wife. Nervous, neglected and apparently angry, Trisha Winslow had swept into the last Christmas party nine months ago with a host of Whytebread swains from which her husband was conspicuously absent. I’d seen him in a corner, whispering something that looked grave and business-related to Justin, as I found myself saddled with Rupert Dean’s debilitatingly gravid spouse. Rupert had left her struggling on a short run of stairs from the lobby in his haste to attend to Mrs. Winslow.
Katherine Dean, Kitty, as I learned she liked to be called, looked at least eighteen months pregnant with their fourth child. Wearing an outfit that consisted primarily of Lycra stretch pants and a tuxedo jacket, she put me in mind of Marlene Dietrich cast as an aerobics instructor with a thyroid condition.
I was none too sure of the stairs myself in my skinny little heels, having fully enjoyed the open bar since about quarter to five, but I took hold of Kitty’s elbow as she huffed at me appreciatively, “Wait till you have some of your own,” her face exuberantly flushed with the positive brain chemicals of pregnancy. “It’s just wonderful how the hormones make you forget everything afterwards.”
I was nodding as politely as possible, as we stepped into the ballroom. Even on an Ecstasy drip it would have been hard to forget the horror of those black, Lycra stretch pants. Over Kitty’s wide, black, padded shoulder, I caught a glimpse of Maddy Madsen strolling through the crowd, shaking hands as if he were the father of the bride at a big family wedding. Spying an expectant “mommy,” he’d changed direction and crossed the room beaming down benediction on Kitty Dean’s ponderous stomach.
“Last time,” she was telling me, “it was the twins,” as if this had been a special blessing.
“Buns in the oven,” Madsen observed like something out of Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom, the oldest male of the pride presiding over the pregnant females as they ensured the perpetuation of the species – in this case scary, yuppie White folk. “Good for you, Kitty,” he pronounced while I stood there interminably waiting for my special Christmas hello from the craggy old bastard.
No buns in my oven (thank God). Madsen smiled down at me as an afterthought. “Nice piece of work you did on Proctor and Gamble.” He clapped a big, God-like hand on my shoulder, squeezing slightly with a well-rehearsed quality of spontaneous personal feeling. “Keep it up, Virginia.” He had my name easy enough; I was the Black one, but he’d confused me professionally with Allison Price, another barren spinster, the analyst for non-cyclical consumer products. It would have been both impolitic and impractical to protest the mistake. Before I could speak, Madsen was several people away, on to the next warm-employee-shoulder-clasp.
“What a nice man.” Kitty Dean was gazing after him with dimwitted veneration. She turned to me companionably, “Proctor and Gamble. Why that’s so exciting. With the twins, now I swear by Tide and Rupert – I don’t know what he does after work to get so dirty.”
I said I couldn’t imagine, looking past her for my method of escape, but in truth, worse conversationalists than old Kitty Dean, who had the appeal of at least being sober, had cornered me at these affairs. She had proved herself astonishingly well-versed on obscure medical complications of pregnancy, having suffered from them all when she was carrying the twins. Should anyone ask, I would be able to report that Kitty was pleased to be experiencing none of these reproductive difficulties with her current potential litter.
“So glad to hear that.” I meant it quite sincerely, managing to slip away just as she was explaining Toxemia to Allison Price who’d had the wretchedly poor judgment to join our conversation some minutes before.
Pleasantly alone I had retired to a quiet spot away from the networking to enjoy a little quality time with my gin and tonic.
“Hey, little sistah, I love your dress.” Justin had come from behind, stage whispering in remedial Ebonics. He planted both hands familiarly on either of my hips, a suggestive little move that since he was gay suggested nothing, but surely would be misunderstood and discussed that Monday. I’d had enough of the open bar to imagine that he was asking for a piece of my mind.
“Honey,” Justin answered back, critiquing my outfit with the self-assurance of Mr. Blackwell, “sequins are absolutely you.”
He was wearing a red and green Christmas tree cummerbund with matching bow tie and socks, the only man in the room in tuxedo pumps and queer family feeling made me hold my tongue.
He unwrapped our bodies and began pulling me towards the dance floor where I minced out an awkward kind of two-step courtesy of the black, peau de soie pumps, an inch too high, and a hair too small across the instep. I’d begged off after one or two turns around the nearly empty dance floor, leaving Justin to Starr who had been swaying to the music conspicuously solo for most of the evening. With a partner, she’d been transformed from wallflower to man-eater, all teeth now, floating to the dance floor with Justin on her arm, in her full length gown – a beaded pink affair with a neckline that headed resolutely towards China and a slit up the side that showcased thigh. I watched from my little table as he swirled her around so athletically that her shimmery dress flew out in circles around her legs.
Like most everyone else, Starr was drunk, so loaded that every so often she would lose her balance and just sit down in the middle of the floor, the beads of her dress clattering like the shake of a shiny, pink abacus. Once down, she would remain there giggling until Justin hoisted her back onto her feet again. The entire party, in fact, had drunk itself into an attitude of Christmastime goodwill and giddiness. The Irishman even came around, booming, “Merry Christmas,” at me as if it were a job assignment. He threw a heavy arm around my neck chokehold-style and delivered a slobbery kiss to my cheek. “I’ve always liked you, kid. You know that, don’t you? That’s why I’ve got to be so hard on you.” He was kneading my shoulder in a way that I hoped was merely fatherly, wondering where The Irishman’s wife might be, but I didn’t expect he would remember our special moment on Monday. The Irishman tousled my hair affectionately before he shambled off towards Rupert Dean, leaving me to discreetly wipe the spit off my face.
While I’d been thus engaged, Wesley Winslow had cut in on Starr and Justin, so they were all dancing together. I didn’t know where Winslow’s wife had gotten to either. Maybe she was talking to Mrs. Zemluski. In the meantime, Wes was swinging Starr under his arm like something out of a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers musical number, dipping her so low her head nearly touched the floor while Justin watched his boss’s moves, clapping effusively.
After a while they both began to spin her around, passing her back and forth in the silent, serious way two guys on a dark quiet porch will share a bottle. Starr would throw herself carelessly backward shouting “Wheeeee” when one man reached out and caught her so she didn’t crack her head on the hard, marble floor.
This little stunt show seemed to interest nobody else but me and my pleasantly bottomless drink in the way that, when you’re solidly sauced, even the most banal party silliness can seem like rocket science and that chunky, badly-dressed accountant expounding on the mysteries of currency exchange can seem like the most fascinating woman you have ever met.
Yes, the open bar had created a bonanza of social possibilities. The room was alive with friendly, drunken party shouting, Starr’s crazy laughter and the sounds of the five-piece dance band. Then layered even above the crowd’s roar, a wailing came up like a note from some shrill, angry instrument far away. It was a sudden interruption. Nobody heard it, then, everyone seemed to turn at once towards its source, Trisha Winslow.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH,” she was saying.
Distracted by this display, Justin had absently let Starr fall backward with a thud that sounded like it would certainly leave an ugly bruise.
Winslow’s wife was facing him in the middle of the dance floor, screaming “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH,” and pummeling the frozen, horrified Wes on his chest and face with surprising force. Her bony wrists working like pneumatic tools, Winslow lamely held his hands up as if that might at least blunt the shouting.
“GODDAMN IT WES. YOU PROMISED ME!” As she struck out at Winslow, Justin was trying to catch her arms as best he could, unsuccessfully attempting to redirect the blows.
“OWWW,” Starr announced rising stiffly to her feet. Pride among her other bruises, she was rubbing her butt with one hand and the back of her neck with the other.
Justin had gotten hold of one of Mrs. Winslow’s forearms to stop her from beating on Wes, but Winslow had lost his hold of her other wrist and her free arm kept wind milling, twisting her off balance like a black tie gyroscope.
“Owww,” Starr said again more petulantly, but no one seemed very interested in her welfare.
“You get off of me, bastard.” Trisha was still screaming, although more coherently now, at Justin, her demure little dress torn off one shoulder. “You’re worse than he is.” Twisting, she had managed to connect a fist with Justin’s nose and he was holding his face, bent down as some spots of red hit the floor like a slow faucet drip.
You could see it had bled down the front of his fabulous tuxedo shirt. “AW FUCK. YOU BROKE MY NOSE.” Justin cried flinging blood from his nose as he straightened up.
“Hey. Hey.” Winslow had pressed in quickly towards Justin, moving Jon Patel forcibly aside.
“YOU CRAZY BITCH.” A small nervous crowd was gathering around in anticipation, not the least nervous it seemed being Winslow as Justin hauled back like he might take a swing at Trisha.
“Hey! That’s my wife.” Wes positioned himself protectively, if reluctantly, between Mrs. Winslow and Justin’s threatening fist. “That’s my fucking wife for Godssakes.”
“YEAH?” Justin held up a palm full of blood. “SHE BROKE MY FUCKING NOSE.” He was, at once shaking his fist, holding his face and roaring, until it seemed inevitable that there would definitely be some hitting done, even if it was unclear exactly in what combinations.
All the while, Trisha Winslow, who seemed to me better able to take care of herself than anyone else there, was gamely kicking with her pointy-toed pumps, past her husband’s body at Justin’s shins. But, then, instead of punching anyone, Justin had suddenly begun to laugh, heartily at himself, at the absurdity of the tableau. Nose still dripping, he reached an arm over Winslow’s shoulder and pulled him into a clubhouse embrace. He let his palm slap, slap, slap companionably on Winslow’s back as if an expression of manly solidarity in the face of this hoyden had been his original, unwavering intent.
The gesture seemed to unplug Trisha’s rage. Winslow, looking relieved and grateful, offered the white handkerchief from his pants pocket to Justin’s bleeding nose.
Mrs. Winslow didn’t make any more fuss as Wes quickly hustled her off. And almost as quickly as they left, the crowd, which had surrounded the ruckus, began to disperse. Justin had wiped his hand on his trousers, and gallantly marched himself straight over to help Starr up from the floor where she seemed to have dropped herself again. Never mind the blood on his shirt, Starr was obviously thrilled to have Justin escort her through the dessert buffet. The party started up again as if nothing unusual had ever occurred. Although, for the next few weeks after that you’d catch the references in snatches of conversation: “Yes. Well, you know she drinks.”
