Exit, page 14
Michael passed the first parallel street. Either five or six more to go. The interior of the Chrysler was all silence, even the rush of heavy pulse had left Michael’s ears. His concentration was on the road and nothing else. He gritted his teeth as he passed the next street, looked behind him.
The black Yukon’s headlights were eyes of menace. Its grill a mouth of gnarling teeth. In a black frame that spoke of doom. Not to mention the man at the wheel. Doom personified.
All the inspiration Michael needed to escape.
Streets three and four were memories. Street five was marked with a STOP sign. Michael braked and looked both ways. All clear to his sides, if not behind him. Merriman was less than a football field away. Michael tapped the gas and started rolling again. He spotted Merriman’s head making the same side-to-side survey behind him.
The temptation to speed through the rest of the street was strong but the fear of causing some innocent child harm was greater. Michael kept his speed at an even twenty-five. Merriman seemed to operate with the same restraint, as the black Yukon hadn’t made up any of the divide.
Street six was also marked by a STOP sign. But all Michael cared about was the roadway about eight hundred feet ahead. Cars whizzed by at speeds nearly three times his current pace. The main road. He exhaled and inched past the STOP sign, glancing back to see Merriman just approaching it.
Then he turned back, his eyes on the road again.
And had to hit his brakes. Hard.
The roadway blocked.
By a second bulky black Yukon.
And Merriman easing to a stop behind him, bumper kissing bumper.
Shit.
Lukas Doyle shot his cuffs as he exited the front Yukon. Michael licked his lips and considered his options, clicking his door locks as Doyle started a slow stroll in his direction. Even walking slowly it only took Doyle ten seconds to reach the Chrysler. He tapped the glass and motioned for Michael to either lower his window or exit the vehicle. Michael did neither. In his sideview mirror, he spotted Merriman making his way toward them as well.
Doyle stepped away and had a quick conference with the steroid freak. Michael was boxed in by the two Yukons, otherwise he would’ve taken that moment to make a run for it. Instead, he strained to hear them. A futile effort. Their voices were hushed by the glass. After a beat, Merriman retreated to his Yukon and Doyle retrained his attention on Michael.
Dignity.
It meant something to Michael.
He clicked his locks, paused a beat before opening his door, shot his own cuffs as he made it to his feet, shielded from Lukas Doyle by the car door only. He squared his jaw and steeled his shoulders, staring at Doyle wordlessly. Every bit Doyle’s match in his mind.
“When exactly was your brain put into a blender?” Doyle asked.
“I’m not afraid of you,” Michael said.
“Oh no?” Doyle smiled. “That just serves to bolster my hypothesis about your brain. Pure mush at this point.” He took a step toward Michael and stopped. “You should fear me. I’m H1NI, bed bugs, HIV all wrapped into one. I’m not suggesting a paralyzing fear, but a respectful one would certainly be prudent. The pangs every man should feel when he gets that first colonoscopy at fifty. You should respect that I could very well mean your end of times.”
“Any harm that comes to me,” Michael said, “Won’t go unpunished.”
Doyle laughed. “Jacqueline’s much too polite to let Ridley know that his erections are as weak as goat’s milk. If he represents the entirety of your threat of retribution I like my chances.”
Michael shifted his weight. Doyle’s reach was beyond scary. Was there anything this man didn’t know about Michael’s life?
“I know everything,” Doyle said in answer to a question that hadn’t even been asked aloud.
Michael’s jaw muscles churned.
“Thinking about rushing me?” Doyle asked. “You are dumb.”
“I’m bigger than you.”
Doyle nodded. “You are indeed. But now isn’t the time for steel. That should have occurred earlier in your evolution. This newfound courage doesn’t hold much sway in my mind.”
“I won’t be intimidated.”
Again Doyle nodded. “I’d guess as much. You’re much too stupid now. Brain’s a smoothie.”
“Insult my intelligence again and…”
“I won’t go unpunished,” Doyle said, nodding. “I got you.” He took another step toward Michael anyway. “Personally I’m offended at drawing the assignment to chase you down. So much I’d rather be doing.”
“Well, now you’ve caught me,” Michael said through gritted teeth. “Take your best shot. And make it your best.”
Doyle sighed, chuckled. “Is that Ray Liotta? Or Bobby De Niro?”
“Fuck you.”
“Joe Pesci?”
“Fuck. You.”
“Tempting offer but I didn’t stalk you for extracurriculars, Michael Allan Palmer. You’re wanted back at the offices.”
“Wanted?”
“Yes, you insouciant fool.”
“For what?”
“I’m just the messenger,” Doyle said. “Why don’t you head on back and find out for yourself.” And noticing Michael’s hesitation, he added, “Your call.”
Michael still didn’t speak or respond in any noticeable way.
Doyle shrugged, moved on, back toward the Yukon.
Michael watched Merriman, and then Doyle, take off.
Wanted. Back at the offices. Something to do with Malcolm, no doubt. His stomach seized up as he considered the possibilities. The old man, dead. Terrible news.
He headed back.
CHAPTER
THREE
Lilacs. Liz Sutherland’s scent heavy in the conference room, peppering the air, soaked into the furniture and the walls and the carpet it seemed. Michael had come full circle, back where he’d first foolishly approached Liz about his problems with Karla. He would’ve orphaned his firstborn for a do-over, a rewind, but life was often too stingy for second chances. Definitely in this case. Karla was gone forever and there was nothing he could do to change that. Besides, the present situation was critical enough to wipe away any thought of what was. It was a moment swollen with uncertainty of what was to come.
Michael’s familiarity with several people in the room was largely by name only. He recognized just two faces—Hank Geathers and Benjamin Wallace—but his past dealings with both of those men were cursory at best. The only person in the room with which he had any intimate knowledge was Daniel. And Daniel’s glum demeanor, even more broken than usual, confirmed Michael’s worst fears. Malcolm was indeed dead.
Still.
“Malcolm’s died?” Michael asked miserably.
“Have a seat, Michael.”
Michael looked at the man who’d spoken to him. “And you are?”
“Eli Catena,” he said. Michael knew the name. A bloodhound from Legal.
Michael nodded. “You didn’t answer my question. Has he?”
“No,” Catena said. “Now have a seat. Please. I’ll explain everything.”
Michael fell into a soft leather chair, the far end from Daniel, relieved in his spirit. He couldn’t deal with another loss. “What’s the meaning of all of this?” he asked, swiveling his head to take in all of those present. Key board members, several company lawyers, and Daniel.
Catena was obviously the appointed spokesman. He tapped a small stack of papers into a neat pile, leaned back in his chair, rocking it gently.
“Would you not do that?” Michael asked.
“What?”
“Rock your chair. It unnerves me.”
Catena regarded him curiously for a moment. After a beat, he calmed the chair, picked up a pencil and tapped it against the table instead. A bundle of nervous energy.
“You said you would explain,” Michael said.
Catena sighed in a way that Michael suspected had been decided hours earlier. “Succession planning is almost as vital to a business as its purpose for incorporation.”
Michael nodded. “Okay.”
“There needs to be a clear and visible transition plan for leadership and management. Accountability both during a transition and for the long term.” Catena actually ticked items off with his fingers. “Financial planning for buy-outs.” Tick. “Employee retention bonuses.” Tick. “Clear plans for client retention.” Tick. “Comprehensive buy/sell agreement.” A tick and a wide smile. “I won’t bore you with all of the particulars. Just understand how crucial a good succession plan is.”
Again Michael nodded.
Catena stood to his feet. About six feet tall. Trim and tanned. Cornflower blue eyes. Brown hair streaked with premature gray. A handsome young face absent of any age lines. Dressed in a short-sleeve Polo shirt and khaki pants. It was too cold for golf but he had the air of a man disrupted from nine rounds on yielding greens.
Michael glanced at Daniel. Daniel’s eyes were on Catena. He looked on the verge of rushing the young lawyer.
Catena settled down on a corner of the long conference table. He wrung his hands like a wet mop. Cleared his throat and began again. “This great organization is well prepared for the tragedy that has suddenly befallen us. I’ll take it that everyone in this room is now aware of Malcolm’s precarious health?”
Nods all around.
“Daniel’s just come from the hospital and he informs me that Malcolm is not responsive but fighting just the same. As we’d all expect of course.”
He hopped off of the table, moved to the other end, repeated the earlier ritual. Sat down on a corner, wrung his hands.
“A good succession plan isn’t static,” he went on. “It’s proactive. It’s governed by clear goals and metrics. Specific, measurable, appropriate, realistic, and timely goals.”
“Transparent?” Daniel called out. “Public. Right, Eli? Isn’t that a condition of good succession plans?”
“Usually,” Catena said, nodding. “Certainly, Daniel.”
“Well, great,” Daniel replied, throwing his hands in the air dramatically. “Usually, but not always.”
“There are certain circumstances where the kind of transparency you’re suggesting isn’t prudent, Daniel.”
“Like in this case. Right, Eli?”
“I’ve looked at our succession plan with a very critical eye, Daniel. It’s solid.”
“Our?” Daniel sniffed a laugh. “You mean my father’s, don’t you? There was no inclusion whatsoever in this process. Don’t kid any of us.”
“Malcolm thought it best that he handle the particulars, Daniel. He understood how delicate this all was. I can’t say that I disagree with his approach.”
Daniel rose to his feet, looked around the room, flashing on every face for a few seconds, a sneer curling his lips. “Make sure you grease the skids, gentlemen. Makes it a lot easier to accommodate the shaft when it’s drilled into you.”
He slapped his chair aside and stomped across the carpet, ignoring Eli Catena’s plea for him to stop. He paused at the door though, looked back over his shoulders, his eyes trained on Michael.
“Rot, my friend. Rot,” he said.
And then he stepped through and slammed the door behind him.
A low murmur floated through the room. Eli Catena released another prepared sigh, chased it with a rehearsed head shake.
“He’s feeling some stress,” Michael said.
“More like envy,” Catena said. “Misplaced and altogether oppositional with the best interests of this company.”
“Envy?”
“I suppose his spirit is tweaked that Malcolm’s plan initiates you as our interim CEO.”
Michael’s mouth fell open into an uppercase O, but no words came. He was much too shocked to respond.
CHAPTER
FOUR
Michael was still trembling hours later, adrenaline coursing through his body like oxygen-rich blood. Interim CEO. The promotion had required a move to a bigger office. Not Malcolm’s, but damn close in both extravagance and square feet. Polished wood everything, a chair comfortable and large enough to sleep in, carpet so plush it swallowed his footsteps. Wall-mounted speakers. Satellite radio or his own personal CD player, the controls for both enclosed in a glassed-in case he was told was made of ivory and inch-thick glass. Jazz playing softly from the wall-mounted speakers. Miles. “Sketches of Spain.”
For the better part of the morning, Michael had been intimate with a company paperweight he’d found on his new desk. MRF Global chiseled on the top of a square of smoothed amethyst rock. Michael twirled it in his fingers now, nodding to the melody of the music, enthralled by nothing.
A buzzing sound crashed through his thought. It took him a moment to locate its source. His desk phone. A different telecommunications system from his old office.
He picked the phone up, pressed buttons until his new secretary’s voice feathered his ear.
“Mr. Palmer, I’m sorry to trouble you.”
“It’s okay”—Melba, Maureen? Something with an N instead? Noreen, Nancy?—“What is it?”
Her voice softened even further, into a whisper. “Perhaps I should have just called security. I’m sorry, Mr. Palmer.”
“Is there a problem?”
“A young gentleman… He works for us. I verified as much. I believe I’ve seen him around before. He works the mailroom, according to our directory.” Another notch fell off of her voice. “He’s in a very agitated state. He insists on speaking with you personally. I’ve tried to explain to him that your schedule doesn’t allow spur of the moment visits but he persists. I can call security, if you’d like. I truly do apologize, Mr. Palmer.”
“Send him in,” Michael said.
“I beg your pardon?” she said, her voice rising now.
“Send him in. I have an open door policy for all employees.”
“Very well,” she said, sounding discouraged nonetheless.
Moments later Michael’s office door opened, and closed right away.
“She needs to put her diaphragm in the microwave or at least leave it out on a counter until it gets to room temperature. I mean…damn.”
Michael smiled, said, “You look like shit, Joe.”
And he did.
Unshaven. Dark circles under his eyes. Hair unkempt. If his pants were light colored there might’ve been an indeterminate stain in the crotch. A street bum for all intents and purposes.
“At least I’m living,” Joe replied. “Which is more than I can say for Cassie, dude.”
Michael sat up straight. Was it happening again?
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“She’s gone, dude. Poof. Right after you started asking questions about the Bellatoris.”
“Haven’t we had this conversation?”
“I been by her place, dude. No one’s seen her in days. Something’s awry.”
“Awry? Shit, Joe, why do I feel like I’m watching bad programming on BBC?”
“Joke around, dude. That’s your M.O. Meanwhile Cassie’s all fucked up in your bullshit. Can’t believe you don’t care. This is all your horseshit fault, dude. I blame you.”
“Have a seat, Joe. And lower your voice, if you would.”
“No. And no.”
Michael sighed and stood to his feet, moved around his cavernous desk, met Joe in the center of the floor. It was awkward positioning, standing there that way, but Michael didn’t dare mess with the dynamics. Joe seemed on the verge of unraveling.
“I’m gonna take Cassie’s letter to someone,” Joe said. “I’m gonna explain how she’s gone missing.”
“Someone? You mean the police?”
“If I have to.”
“That would involve me, Joe. I can’t be involved.”
“You are involved, dude. Just ’cause you get to play Bill Gates until the old man’s able to eat solid foods again doesn’t change that.”
“You should watch what you say, Joe.”
“Why? You gonna get the Bellatoris on me like you did Cassie?”
“You know I didn’t get them on her.”
“Didn’t you, though?”
Michael sighed again. Risked a hand on Joe’s shoulder. “You’re emotional. I understand. But I really believe Cassie burned out. She’s somewhere sipping drinks with umbrellas in them right now, while you…and I sit here and worry unnecessarily.”
“That’s not what you thought the other day.”
“Cooler heads prevail.”
“You’re so busy sucking the company’s tit right now you won’t even admit the obvious.”
“Which is?”
“The Bellatoris have done something to Cassie.”
“What are you? Auditioning for a John Grisham novel, Joe? Just full of conspiracy.”
“Don’t talk down to me, dude.”
Michael said, “The CIA shot Kennedy and crashed Junior’s plane. Elvis is alive. He and Michael Jackson are somewhere fighting over who gets to play cards with Tupac Shakur and Princess Di?”
Joe was a whirlwind of gestures and emotions. He poked out his mouth, frowned, took a step toward Michael, fists balled, took a step back, relaxed his hands, sighed, cursed, grabbed at his unruly hair, released it from his grip and punched the air, bit his lip. Cried.
“Joe?”
“They did something to her, dude,” he said through a veil of tears.
“I don’t think so, Joe.”
“Sure you do. But you’re all set in your own situation, so everything is copasetic in your world. Fuck Cassie.”
Michael pursed his lips. “I appreciate you, Joe. I really do. And the good thing is I can really help you now. I’m in a position to enact some real change in your life, Joe. Say goodbye to the mailroom.”
Joe took out his laminated employee ID. Turned it over and over in his hands. Then handed it to Michael. “You’re right, I’m saying goodbye to the mailroom. But I don’t want any help you’d give. I quit.”
Michael shook his head. “Wrong move, Joe. You’re being way too emotional right now.”
“And you’re being too emotionless. You know deep in your gut something’s happened to Cassie. This isn’t all some great big coincidence. And you…” He waved his hand dismissively. “I’ve said all I have to say. I gotta go, dude. Love, peace, and hair grease.” He walked for the door.
