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Authors: Michael Craft

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BOOK: Bitch Slap
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“Mark! At last—why haven't you picked up?” It was Lucy.
“Never mind. What do you need?” My wording might have struck Lucy as curt, but it was less testy than a more spontaneous question that leapt to mind, its phrasing inappropriate when addressing a lady (even Lucy).
She said, “I just wanted to let you know that Perry Schield was here this morning, and he's on the warpath.”
“Oh … cripes. Now what?” The chief executive officer of Quatro Press had always struck me as pleasantly avuncular and disappointingly ineffectual, two qualities that were difficult to associate with a man on the warpath.
“The merger, of course. He's been talking with Tyler Pennell, and … well, Perry can tell you himself. That's why I've been trying to reach you. When I told him you were over at the Reece house, he said, ‘Great, I can kill two birds with one stone.'”
“What'd he mean by
that?”
“I presume he meant he could talk to both you and Gillian at the same time. Anyway, he's on his way, and I thought you'd want to know.”
“Okay, Lucy, thanks. I'll see you later.” I disconnected, then squinted at the tiny buttons, well more than the necessary ten, wondering how to change the damned ringer. Fumbling to get out my reading glasses, I dropped the phone on the limestone floor. Satisfied that the question of the ringer was now moot, I returned both the phone and the glasses to my pockets.
Gillian was saying to Neil, “ … so I
hope
you'll forgive me. I've been under an enormous amount of stress lately.”
“Gillian,” said Neil, offering a smile, “of course I forgive you, but will
Todd?
You slapped the man.”
Her shoulders slumped as she heaved a weary sigh. “He probably won't even listen to me. Can't you intercede on my behalf?”
“Then you
do
want him back on the job?”
“Well … ,” she hedged, “I
do
want a shot at the
Digest.”
Both Neil and I understood that these words were tantamount to contrition, at least when uttered by Gillian. If we expected a more sincere expression of penitence for her behavior, we were unlikely to hear it. So Neil told her, “I'll see what I can do.”
“Thank
you, Neil,” she gushed, wrapping him in a mechanical embrace. “The main thing is, we just need to
finish.”
I couldn't help asking, “What, exactly, is the big rush, Gillian?”
“It's a matter of—” she began, but stopped, as if something else had occurred to her. “Well,” she told me, “I understand your paper is planning a photo feature for this Sunday. We wouldn't want to disappoint your readers, would we, Mark?”
“No, Gillian, we certainly wouldn't.” But her reasoning struck me as iffy. Though I took justifiable pride in the
Dumont Daily Register,
it was a far cry, in the world of interiors, from
Architectural Digest.
No, the truth behind Gillian's rush was simply that she wanted something, and she wanted it now.
Neil was saying, “First, I have to
find
Todd. I doubt if he tore out of town yet; his things are at our house. Maybe his crew has some idea
where he went.” So Neil went over to talk to the group of workers, now assembled near the spiral stairway to the library balcony.
Gillian turned to me. “You're so fortunate, Mark, to have a man like that in your life.” With a snort, she added, “I'll trade you for Esmond any day.”
It was an odd sort of compliment, and I wasn't sure how to respond. After a moment of grasping for words, I found that I needn't bother—we were interrupted just then by Perry Schield, who blustered in from the foyer, telling someone, “I'm quite capable of finding them on my own, thank you.”
“Oh, Christ,” Gillian told me under her breath, “here comes death-warmed-over. Who woke
him
up?”
“Gillian, please—if you're serious about this merger, it's important to recognize Perry as half of the deal. You wrote the press release, remember. It's a ‘friendly merger of equals.'”
“I suppose you're right,” she said, sounding bored. Obliquely, she added, “At least for a while.”
“Mark. Gillian. We need to talk,” said Perry, huffing toward us through the living room, the very picture of agitation. I had rarely seen him exhibit much energy, physical or otherwise, so I was surprised to note that Lucy's description had been accurate—Perry was on the warpath. Instead of a tomahawk, however, he wielded his linen handkerchief, hacking into it every few steps.
I asked, “What's wrong, Perry?”
“Yes, Perry,” added Gillian, her voice dripping with concern, “whatever is the matter?” I marveled at her ability to switch gears so fast and play nicey-nice.
“Well, I think you already know,” said Perry, pausing to clear his throat. “It's Tyler Pennell.”
“Ah, yes,” said Gillian, nodding. Leaning close, she said in a confidential tone, “Pennell is a problem, I agree. It's astute of you to pick up on that, Perry. I meant to have a word with you about him.”
Perry trembled where he stood, barely controlling his anger. “Pennell
himself
isn't the problem. It's the reports I've heard from him. First, he claimed to discover some irregularities in the accounting at
Ashton Mills. Second, and worse, when he tried to bring these matters to your attention yesterday afternoon, you invited him to … to … to
kiss your ass.
” Bug-eyed as if choking, Perry dislodged a knot of phlegm from his throat and balled his handkerchief to his mouth to catch it.
Gillian gave him an admonishing grin.
“Really
, now, Perry, I'm sure that's an exaggeration.” She laughed airily.
But Perry was not amused. “Tyler Pennell assured me that he was quoting you verbatim.”
“Then his memory is as questionable as his accounting skills. Perry, I've said it before—he's a rube, and he has no place on the merger team.”
Stepping in, I reminded Gillian, “You, along with the entire Ashton board, agreed to retain Tyler for due diligence.”
“We were sold a bill of goods. He's
awful,
Mark.”
“His credentials are first-rate, and both boards have agreed to abide by his findings. Ashton/Quatro Corporation won't be created tomorrow without his blessing.”
“And he's getting cold feet,” Perry piped in.
“Funny,” said Gillian, “that's just what he said about you, Perry. Surely that's not true. You
know
that AQC is a match made in heaven. And it pains me to mention this, but with retirement looming so near for you … well, let's just say that it's very much in
your
best interest to help shepherd this deal to completion.” She turned to me with a plastic smile. “Right, Mark?”
Though I did not appreciate her manipulative manner, I could not argue with her premise. I told them both, “I've supported this merger from the start.”
“Well, then,” said Gillian, flipping her hands, “it seems we're all in agreement. And all of these so-called problems and issues are merely fabrications of a third-rate bookkeeper's overactive imagination. Maybe Pennell feels that he needs to
find something
in order to justify his fee, which I suppose is commendable. The important thing is, after tomorrow, we're rid of him.”
Perry had listened quietly, but his stern expression said he hadn't bought much of Gillian's act. He told her, “I wouldn't be so sure about
tomorrow. This isn't over till it's over.” With a brisk nod, he bade both of us, “Good day.” Then he turned and trundled out of the room, his exit prolonged by the wake of coughing and hacking that trailed behind him.
Watching him leave, Neil returned from the curtain crew, telling Gillian and me, “I get the impression Perry Schield is a less-than-happy camper.”
“Perry Schield,” said Gillian, “is a boob.”
“And Tyler Pennell,” I recalled, “is a rube.”
“That's right”—Gillian nodded emphatically—“boobs and rubes. We're
surrounded
by them. Philistines at every turn.”
Wearily, I asked Neil, “What's the consensus on Todd?”
“His crew thinks he just went somewhere to cool off. Maybe he went to have breakfast—or took a drive to the park. I'll start looking.” Neil leaned to give me a good-bye peck.
“Gillian!” said a voice from the foyer. “We need to talk.” These were the same words that had announced Perry's entrance. Now what?
We turned to see Esmond Reece enter the room with Tamra Thaine at his side. He wore the same ill-fitting gray suit I'd seen him wearing at Neil's office the previous morning; she wore a similar outfit in white. I didn't know if they had a yin-and-yang thing going on, or if the light and dark signified some rank of achievement in their studies, or if they simply preferred dressing in these colors.
Gillian groaned.
“Now
, Esmond? Can't you see I'm busy?”
“It's important,” he assured her with no apparent emotion. Then he brightened a smidge, greeting Neil and me, “Hello, gentlemen. So pleasant to see you again.”
As Neil had not met Tamra, I introduced them, telling Neil, “I had a chance to visit the Eastern studies institute yesterday. It's quite a project.”
“That's why we're here,” said Esmond. “The institute—”
“Ughhh!” interrupted Gillian. “‘The institute, the institute'—that's all I ever hear!” She clapped her palms over her ears, as if protecting her delicate senses from the assault of a jackhammer. It escaped no one that it was she who was making most of the noise.
“Well,” said Esmond, stepping up to her, “I'm afraid there's more to be said on the subject. Tamra and I have been working day in and day out, getting our project off the ground, but our—”
“Your
project? What the hell about
mine?
” She gestured about the sumptuous, surrounding room, as if it lay in shambles. “Do you think this just
happens?”
“But our future success at the institute,” Esmond persisted, “is contingent upon the funding you've already committed to. If you don't deliver, Gillian, I may be forced to reconsider your stewardship of my assets; I may be forced to reclaim control of my own finances.”
With a sharp laugh, his wife asked, “Do you honestly think I was dumb enough to leave you any loopholes?”
“A bargain's a bargain, Gillian, and you've—”
“And I've hit a few snags!” she snarled.
“Cost overruns? Neil tells me everything's on budget.”
As Neil was standing right there, Gillian was in no position to contradict him, so she took another tack, skirting the facts and launching a personal attack on her husband and his yogi.
Sneering, she asked, “Just how long do you intend to keep this up, Esmond? These damn ‘lessons' have been going on for years now, and what do you have to show for it? Back in Harper, when you first told me you were taking up yoga, I thought, Sure, why not? Maybe some good will come of it. What the hell's to lose? But here we are, and you
still
haven't learned any tricks.”
“Tricks?” asked Tamra, the first word she had uttered to Gillian.
“Yeah,
tricks.
You know—like wrapping your ankles around your neck.” Gillian turned to Esmond. “I thought you'd have mastered
that
by now.”
He asked, “What possible interest do you have in the asanas I've mastered?”
“Their entertainment value, of course.”
The rest of us exchanged a bewildered glance.
Gillian explained, “Say, for instance, we're throwing a party. You could provide some entertainment, Esmond, by wrapping your feet
behind your head and walking on your hands. Better yet, you could serve cocktails that way, balancing the tray on one hand, hopping on the other. Our guests would get a kick out of it. Hell,
I'd
get a kick out of it.”
“Mrs. Reece,” said Tamra, sounding truly appalled as she approached the woman, “yogic practices are not undertaken for the amusement of an audience, but rather for the student's own spiritual and physical well-being.”
“And how 'bout the instructor?” asked Gillian. “There's some enrichment there, too, isn't there, swami? And I'm not talking about spiritual enrichment. Catch my drift, swami?”
“Mrs.
Reece,
” said Tamra, flushed and shaking, “that's an insufferable insult. I won't take it.”
“Oh, really? You won't take it, huh? Then take this.” And with no further warning or provocation, Gillian bitch-slapped Tamra.
BOOK: Bitch Slap
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