Taking Stock (6 page)

“A couple of shirts and some sweatpants. They were too big for you, so I let him have them.”

“Not surprised. He seemed really–”

Melanie started talking before
Eric
a finished, oddly rude for her. “He said to tell you he’s done; he can’t take it anymore. He said, and I quote: dating you is pointless. He was a nice guy. They all are.”

Eric
a tried to tell her how important the project was, but her voice was so weak she couldn’t hear her own mumbling.

Melanie kept on talking.

“You know what he said
?
He said he could never tell if you really liked him or not. After all that time. You were so focused on work that you tuned him out. That’s what guys do to us. It really sucks.”

Eric
a tried to tell her how much she tried with Simon. How she’d gone to dinners and movies, really spent time with him. How he should’ve known how she felt. None of it got past her heavy lips.

Melanie kept on.

“You keep pushing them away. You make yourself positively undateable. If I did that, I’d be alone forever. I swear all that running you do is to get away from them faster. It works, but someone’s got to tell them to stop lining up. What’s the point
?
”

What did Melanie know
?
She’d spend the next half hour straightening her hair so men would take her seriously. Then she’d go out with her friends to some sports bar, desperate to get noticed in spite of the televisions every six feet and the two dozen other women trolling the same waters.

Eric
a drifted off. Melanie might still have been talking, but she couldn’t hear her anymore.

Simon walked in and stood at the foot of the bed. Next came Derek, who took his place shoulder to shoulder with Simon. A procession of men formed a line that extended through the wall and into the blackness. None of them could lift his arms from his side. All wanted to come take hold of her, but none could. The line continued to a dark hall, where a man walked toward her. He was noticeably shorter than the others, about twenty, dressed in a shabby T-shirt stretched tightly over his muscles. He had a dirty, drunken look about him and he still had the scar
Eric
a saw the morning he died.

The electronic buzz pulsed through Brad like an ice pick piercing his frontal lobe. He groped toward the bedside table, the stabbing pain behind his eyes intensified by the dim light that glowed through the blinds. Hours earlier he’d started the night with a string of Bass drafts in at least four different bars around Faneuil Hall. He drained a Bass with each woman he approached. Some lasted five or ten minutes, some only two. None resulted in a second shared drink. When he deemed the night an utter failure he veered sharply toward tequila shooters with an occasional Bass for taste.

He didn’t want to admit he was losing his touch; that the women he pursued recognized his motives almost on sight and that even he himself had become tired of the never ending quest for the next meaningless physical interlude. He was as muscled as ever. Mid-forties with a great job, he was a prime candidate for marriage-minded women of a certain age and he played the prospective husband and father routine well. Ending up alone night after night was devastating his ego.

Worse than the pain in his head and lonely pit in his chest was his dread of the man who’d be on the other end of this call. No one else dared call this early on Sunday morning. He’d always thought he was his own man; that he could walk away from anything if he didn’t like the course it was taking, but he didn’t have the luxury of such options now. He’d made a mistake and gotten in deep. The man on the other end of the phone was a pro of the worst kind. He could end this for Brad in a dozen ways, none of them pleasant. His only hope was to play along, do what he was told, and do it skillfully enough so the results never surfaced. So far, he’d done it, but keeping things quiet was getting more difficult by the day.

Brad picked up.

“You shouldn’t drink so much, Foster. With all the money you’re taking down you can afford a pro. It’d be much easier than hitting on half the women in
Boston
. More successful, too.”

Brad opened an eye, but he couldn’t focus on the tiny LED panel well enough to see the number. He groped for the record button and clicked it. The man was sending a message: he was close by and he knew everything Brad did no matter when or where. Brad was out of his league and if he defied orders, the end would be brutally swift.

“How are we doing
?
” the voice asked.

Even after a good run the night before, the results weren’t going to satisfy the boss. Brad knew better than to lie. “Fourteen mil.”

“Pitiful. You leave in two weeks.”  The angry voice confirmed there would be no forgiveness for coming up short. He was caught between the boss’ wrath and the ever-increasing likelihood of being caught if he took too much too fast. “I need the last six, Foster. This is our last chance. Get me to twenty. I don’t care how.”

Skimming that much in two weeks would make waves Brad couldn’t cover. “We’re not getting there. Things are way too hot. Turner’s pissed. He’ll do anything to screw me now.”

“Forget him, Mr. V.P. What is he
?
A damn clerk for God’s sake.”

“It’s not just him.
Eric
a’s helping him and she’s trouble.”

“You can’t handle one whiny chick
?
I’m tired of you complaining about her. You’re her freaking boss. Find some backbone.”

“Backbone
?
What more can I do
?
Nothing affects her. I’ve taken half her team so what does she do
?
She works day and night to keep up, and puts herself right in the middle of it. She’s too damn close. I’d be better off is she was a nine to fiver. She strays one step in the wrong direction and she’s going to trip over us.”

“It’s her or you. She trips, knock her down.”

“Easy for you to say from the sidelines. We’ve got nearly two hundred mil. Enough is enough.”

“No, it’s not enough. This is an expensive operation. If you want to quit, you can finance the shortfall. I’m not going to.”

“She’s there day and night. How am I supposed to keep getting in and out of the computer room without her seeing me
?
”

“Just don’t do anything stupid like you did with Tinsley. You have every right to go into the computer room. We’ve kept this hidden for three years. She’s not going to figure it out in two weeks. She’s not that smart. Don’t give her time to breathe and everything will be fine.”

“There’s nothing more I can do. If I take anyone else, the project will crash and burn. I don’t need that kind of attention right now.”

“Idiot. Can’t you think of another way to keep her busy
?
What would happen if one of her programs started acting funny
?
That might take quite a bit of time to fix, no
?
And it’ll drive her nuts.”

“I’ll think of something.”

“I just did. Do it quick and get me my last six million.”

“Impossible.”

“Get it! You’ve got two weeks.”

The line went dead.

Brad stared down at the white box a moment before ejecting the mini cassette. He carefully dated it and put it in his brown leather bag with the others. This would be his payback for three years of torment. Threatened every day with discovery and a rough ride to jail, Brad dreamed of standing toe to toe with him in an alley somewhere and making him pay. Getting even with the bastard was the last thing he’d do before making his break for
France
.

Melanie picked up the cardboard tube, peeled back the label and worked her fingernail into the seam. The lasagna in the oven was made with canned sauce and the bread came from a tube, but Melanie felt good about the sly dinner party she’d arranged. Nothing could keep Gregg away.
Eric
a would be uncooperative, but Melanie had a feeling she’d at least come. She pondered what she might have to do to keep the party together once
Eric
a realized what was up. She diced tomatoes and strategized. She sliced a cucumber and combined it with the lettuce she’d chopped into bite-sized chunks. As she sprinkled shaved carrots and a bit of red onion over the top, footsteps rushed down the hall. The door jerked open and
Eric
a walked in looking nearly as harried as she had the night before. She sniffed the air, gave an approving nod and let her eyes dart around the room suspiciously.  

It wasn’t as if Melanie never cooked. When she first moved in, Melanie was so grateful for the free room she cooked almost every night. At some point in the last few months things had changed.
Eric
a had started spending more nights in the office than at home and Melanie had stopped playing homemaker. This was the first dinner she’d made in a long time, but
Eric
a’s mind wasn’t devious enough to smell out what Melanie had concocted. Melanie convinced her that a relaxed Sunday meal would be the perfect stress reliever after all the long hours she was putting in.
Eric
a went off to the shower unaware that her true dinner companion was yet to arrive.

Soon the lasagna was out of the oven and the small table was set for three. The security system beeped and Melanie buzzed Gregg into the lobby. She kept one eye toward the bathroom, wondering if she should have warned
Eric
a. The shower was still running. If she ducked into the kitchen before she finished dressing they’d both be shocked, but that might be the catalyst they needed. Melanie considered sending him in to wash his hands and starting the fireworks herself.
Eric
a would be appalled and Gregg would be mortified. Melanie remained nervously silent until he knocked.

With a quick look over her shoulder, she pulled the door wide and welcomed Gregg in. The loafers and red crewneck sweater dressed up his jeans enough so they didn’t look hickish, but not so much that his intention was obvious. He handed Melanie a bottle of white wine and looked past her for
Eric
a. He knew she was as likely to work through the night as to come home for dinner, invitation or not.

“She’s getting dressed,” Melanie said.

Gregg’s body language was all jumbled as if he wasn’t sure what to make of the news. His eyes lit up, but the rest of him tensed. He might have been relieved to learn she was still at work.

“What
?
No flowers
?
”

“I thought that was a bit over the top.”

“Kidding. Good call. Now lighten up or your face is going to crack.”

She put him to work opening the wine to calm his nerves.

When he was done, he had trouble deciding whether to sit at the table or on the couch facing the windows. The blow dryer started whining at the back of the apartment. His posture stiffened and he plopped down on the couch with his back to the noise, lest he see something he shouldn’t. Yes, she was half naked back there and his imagination was running wild. He was the kind of guy Melanie could fall for: strong and smart, polite and deferent. He was marriage material and he was completely gaga over
Eric
a. Otherwise, Melanie would have thrown herself at him by now. If she couldn’t have him, she’d bring
Eric
a around before he got tired of waiting. No sense letting a hunk like Gregg go to waste.