My Man Pendleton (3 page)

The two men launched into an inflated dialogue about cost overrun and capital-intensive, punctuated with excessive use of the words
parlay
and
utilize,
and with frequent emphasis on
impact
as a verb. Pendleton took that as his cue to ignore the pie charts and bell curves and view graphs and study his coworkers instead, quizzing himself in an effort to remember their names. He'd been introduced to each of them during training, and although his memory was exceptional, it never hurt to practice.

Rutledge, he recalled, eyeing the man directly opposite him, was VP in charge of public relations. To Rutledge's right was Hayes, VP in charge of research and development. Carmichael, the solitary woman at the table, headed up advertising.

One by one, Pendleton took in his colleagues, trying to note distinguishing characteristics of each of them that would help him keep names linked to faces. And that was when it hit him, what had initially bothered him when he first sat down at the table, what it was that seemed so wrong. Except for
Carmichael
, whose obvious lack of a Y chromosome, not to mention truly spectacular legs, would make her easy to remember, none of Hensley's VPs
had
any distinguishing characteristics. Except for McClellan, Jr., who was blond, all the executives looked exactly alike.

Like Pendleton, they were all dark-haired and appeared to have brown eyes. Seated as they were, the male contingent seemed to have heights, weights, and builds that were virtually identical. Even Chang, Bahadoori,
Redhawk
,
Washington
and Ramirez, whose clear ethnic backgrounds at least offered them some measure of individuality, all bore a marked resemblance in coloring and body type to every man present.
Carmichael
, too, was a brown-eyed brunette, tall and solidly built.

Good God, Pendleton thought, he was a Stepford Executive.

Certainly dark coloring was dominant over light, he tried to reassure himself, but still
…
Eleven people of nearly identical appearance kind of skewed the odds a bit. Surely there should be one or two blonds at least in the group. A Knutson or Wilhelm or Johannes or something. Of course, Pendleton was no expert on genetics—hey, who was?—but even he doubted that the odds of this kind of thing occurring were very—

"Pendleton!"

He flinched at the sound of his name thundering from McClellan, Sr.'s end of the table. "Sir?" he responded.

"I asked what you thought about Novak's suggestion."

Pendleton bit the inside of his jaw and pretended to give the matter great thought. "I think, sir, that utilizing such a parlay might potentially impact productivity with a dynamic we can't possibly leverage at this time."

Oh, now
that
had been truly inspired, he congratulated himself. Man, it was amazing how this corporate stuff just never left you. One quick flick of a mental switch, and it was all coming back to him.

McClellan, Sr.'s snowy eyebrows shot up at his statement. "Do you?"

Pendleton nodded sagely, steepled his fingers on the table before him, and strove for a grim expression. "Yes, sir, I'm afraid I do. Not only that," he added, hoping he wasn't taking the training wheels off too soon, "but channeling such a core strategy that way could decentralize market-driven revenues." He paused for a meaningful moment before adding, "And if I may speak frankly, sir?"

"By all means, Pendleton. You seem to be on a roll."

"Thank you, sir. But I wonder if Novak and Martin have fully considered the fact that the implementation of such a trend might rouse the concern of the AFL-CIO, the NLRB and the TUC, not to mention the FCC and ATF. Furthermore, in my opinion, a discussion of P and L, PPI, GNP, and AGI wouldn't be out of place here."

Now McClellan, Sr. nodded as he gave lengthy consideration to the weight of Pendleton's argument. Finally, he said, "Yes, I think I see what you mean. And you may be on to something."

Pendleton leaned back in his chair. "Of course, sir, ultimately the decision is yours to make."

"Yes, it is." He turned to the two men at the front of the room. "Novak, Martin, I think you need to go back and expand your presentation to include all the concerns that Pendleton just raised."

The two men glared venomously at Pendleton.

"And you can pitch it again on Thursday. That's three full days. Surely you can implement the data by then.
"

A sudden tic assaulted Novak's eye as he said, "Yes, sir."

McClellan, Sr. turned back to Pendleton. "I think you're going to be a fine asset to Hensley's, Pendleton. A fine asset indeed. Come around to the house tonight, will you?"

This time Pendleton was the one to arch his eyebrows. "Sir?"

"Cherrywood. It's where I live. In
Glenview
. See Margie for my address. I'll expect you for drinks at six. Dinner will be at seven." Then, without missing a beat, he directed his words once more to the others present. "I don't think we're going to have time for
Carmichael
's input today, so we'll postpone that until Thursday, along with anything else anyone wanted to discuss. It's getting late, and you all have work to do. Now get out."

The first to follow his own instructions, McClellan, Sr. rose from his chair, turned his back on his executives, and disappeared through a door behind him. Then, with a brief nod toward the other VPs, McClellan, Jr. followed immediately behind, closing the door with a soft
click.

"Oh, way to go, Pendleton."

He looked up to find Novak smiling at him now, with what appeared to be heartfelt delight. As was Martin. Before he could comment, however, a chuckle greeted him from the other side of the table. When he turned, he saw that every other VP present was smiling the same sort of smile.

"What?" he asked.

In response, the others only chuckled some more. Finally Rutledge stood, casually buttoning his double-breasted blazer as he did so. "You, uh, you might want to make sure you're armed when you go to the old man's house tonight, Pendleton. An Uzi ought to cover you just fine, though you might want to hide a little something extra in your sock, too."

Redhawk nodded. "Yeah, like a bazooka."

Chang concurred. "And Kevlar under your Hugo Boss wouldn't be out of place."

"The boys are relatively harmless,"
Carmichael
said with an odd smirk.

"But watch out for the girl," Bahadoori added.

Dizzy from his confusion, all Pendleton could ask was, "The girl?"

"She bites,"
Washington
clarified, gnashing his teeth for illustration.

Pendleton, too, finally stood, gathering up his portfolio in the process. "I'm afraid I have no idea what you guys are talking about."

They all chuckled even harder at that. "Yeah, we know," Ramirez said gleefully, obviously speaking for everyone present.

"But you will,"
Carmichael
told him, winking. She was halfway to the door before she turned around, a thoughtful expression on her face. As she scanned Pendleton quickly from head to toe, she nodded with what he could only assume was approval. Then she added, "Just between you and me, Pendleton, you might be exactly the man for the job."

Chapter 2

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C
herrywood, the McClellan home, was a majestic brick Georgian monstrosity perched high on a majestic green hill in majestic
Glenview
, an enclave for the way too rich just outside
Louisville
. The house was nestled amid huge, majestic trees—probably oaks and maples that were doubtless even more majestic when they weren't stripped of foliage by the winter chill. Because the sun had just set, the house was awash in soft, golden, majestic light, thanks to majestic outdoor illumination hidden
in
the majestic landscaping.

All in all, it was very majestic.

Pendleton rolled his car to a stop in the cobbled court in front of Cherrywood and simply sat behind the wheel, staring. A house with a name. God. He didn't begrudge anyone the material rewards that came with success. Hell, he planned to buy a few of his own once his paychecks from Hensley's started kicking in. But no one should be allowed to have as much money as the McClellans obviously had. There was just something very unbalanced about it.

Nevertheless, he supposed it wasn't his role in life to decide who got what and how much. So he pushed the thought away, opened the door of his brand new BMW roadster—okay, so he'd already bought himself a material reward—and unfolded himself from inside. The winter wind whipped around him again, and he tugged the collar of his Ungaro overcoat—okay,
two
material rewards—up over his bare neck. Then he approached the McClellans' front door as he checked the time on his Breitling watch.

All right, all right.
Three
material rewards. But that was it.

Noting that he was a few minutes early, he lifted leather-clad fingers to the brass door knocker, an art deco sun with an expression on its face Pendleton could only liken to completely soused. After four quick falls of the knocker, he stepped back to await a response. Within seconds, the door opened, and he was met by a slender, white-haired woman with a very nice smile.

"Mrs. McClellan?" he asked.

She shook her head slightly. "Mrs. McClellan passed away almost two years ago. I'm Mrs. Mason, the McClellans' housekeeper. You must be Mr. Pendleton."

The
Mr.
part surprised him for a moment. Even having been employed at Hensley's for such a short time, he had already begun to think of himself as just
Pendleton.
"Yes, ma'am," he returned with a smile of his own.

"Please come in," Mrs. Mason told him, stepping to the side of the door. She swept an arm toward the interior, seemingly oblivious to the fact that it felt like it was about forty-two below zero outside.

As he entered and watched her close the door softly behind him, Pendleton noted that she wore the traditional livery of a housemaid—a plain black dress with white collar and cuffs. She lifted her hands at shoulder level, and for a moment, he wondered why she was surrendering. Then he realized she was waiting for him to remove his coat so she could hang it up for him. Feeling a little self-conscious, he unbuttoned himself, turned around, and let the woman who was his mother's age help him out of his coat.

And he made a mental note to remember that if he ever rose to the status of filthy, stinkin' rich, he'd never hire anyone to undress him.

Pendleton found himself standing in a foyer bigger than most suburban living rooms. It opened onto an ivory-colored, softly lit hallway that extended a good fifty feet before ending in a staircase that wound up to the next story. The hardwood floor was buffed to honey-colored perfection, and topped with the biggest Oriental rug he'd ever seen, woven of the softest colors he could ever imagine—apricot, ivory, pale blue. Along the walls, flowered loveseats beckoned to visitors, while marble-topped tables boasted a variety of knickknacks and family photographs, antiques, and fresh-cut flowers. Above the furnishings hung massive oil paintings of hunt scenes that—just a shot in the dark here—must have cost a small fortune.

Halfway down the hall were two large entryways facing each other beneath elaborate molding, the French doors of both thrown open wide in welcome. Muffled voices emerged from one of the rooms, though Pendleton couldn't have said which. He glanced at Mrs. Mason in silent question.

"Mr. McClellan and the boys are in the library," she told him. "Miss McClellan hasn't yet come down."

The girl. Pendleton recalled
Washington
gritting his teeth and decided that Miss McClellan must be the one with the overbite that he was supposed to watch out for.

"The library?" he asked, pointing first to one entryway and then the other.

Mrs. Mason smiled benignly, and Pendleton couldn't help but wonder if she really, really hated her job. "On the right," she told him with a quick gesture.

"Thank you."

She dipped her head forward in silent acknowledgment, and Pendleton stiffened a bit, uncomfortable with her display of deference. He wasn't much one for being deferred to, mainly because he wasn't much one for deferring. Unless, of course, his paycheck depended on it, and even then, it stuck in his craw. He gazed toward the door the housekeeper had indicated, but paused before taking a step.