The Girl in the Face of the Clock (6 page)

“When I was in college, I did something like that but with my whole body. My roommate would set up a sheet and project a light behind me, then I would jump around like a lunatic but to the people sitting on the other side of the sheet it would look like mating elephants, dancing fish, Mickey Mouse—all kinds of strange things. I never planned anything, never rehearsed—I could just see in my mind what my movements would look like from out front.”

“That's fantastic!”

Jane shrugged.

“It was just this funny talent I had, this party-trick kind of thing. It never occurred to me that it was good for anything but some laughs. Then a girl in the drama department saw one of my little performances and asked me to help her with the fights in this play she was directing. She said I'd be able to do it easily. I thought she was crazy, but she was right. From the first rehearsal, I could see exactly what two people on stage could safely do so that it would look like they were beating one another's brains out from the audience. And of course I've been fencing competitively since I was eight, so the sword fights weren't a problem. A producer came to the opening night and in one of those million-to-one shots brought it to New York. You might have heard of it—
Tillabuck
.”

“About the man with the mustache!” said Perry Mannerback. “I saw that on Broadway. It was great!”

“It ran a few years,” said Jane, nodding. “It was probably the luckiest break anyone ever had—for all of us. Half the company are now on television or in the movies. The director did the new Wendy Wasserstein. I made some money and some connections in the New York theatre. I ended up with a boyfriend who was one of the handful of guys in the world who actually make their living as fight directors. I learned so much from him that pretty soon I was getting jobs on my own, which was one of the reasons we broke up.”

“And you actually make your living like this? Choreographing fights?”

Jane nodded.

“I'm one of the few women working in the field,” she said, “so I'm a very politically correct hire for nonprofits and regional theatres. It doesn't hurt that I know what I'm doing, either. When I get through with a production, the actors really look like they're killing one another. And if I need to, I can skewer a full-grown egomaniac with épée, foil, saber, or dirk.”

“Marvelous!” said Perry Mannerback, clapping his hands together. “I know. You could be my bodyguard.”

“Right,” Jane said with a laugh.

“No, I'm serious. You look like a bodyguard. Professional. Fit. And redheads are supposed to be very fiery. You could scare people away just with your looks.”

“That's very comforting to hear,” murmured Jane. “The fact is that I've never been in an actual fight in my life. Only pretend.”

“But you would know what to do, I'll bet, if I got kidnapped by pirates or something.”

“That doesn't seem likely.”

“It could happen,” said Perry Mannerback indignantly. “Just look at all those terrorists out there. And serial killers. And out-of-control journalists. Besides, I need an assistant.”

“Mr. Mannerback, I didn't …”

“You can be my bodyguard assistant. This will be grand.”

“Mr. Mannerback …”

“Come on,” he pleaded. “I haven't had an assistant for a long time. They always quit. I'll pay you. I have plenty of money.”

Then he named a weekly figure so much higher than most people in the arts could make that Jane wanted to cry.

“And benefits,” said Perry Mannerback, adding injury to insult. “Health insurance with dental. Profit sharing. OmbiCorp employees get all kinds of neat stuff, and we don't care because the stockholders pay.”

Jane tried to catch her breath. Health insurance, too. Practically nobody she knew in New York had health insurance. To get health insurance, you had to sign a long-term contract with a LORT theatre and move to some place like St. Louis or Minneapolis.

“What did my father do that you owed him such a big favor?” she asked.

“Gosh, it's a nice day,” replied Mannerback, turning away and staring out the window as the limo inched up Broadway.

“What did my father do that you owed him such a big favor?” repeated Jane.

“I don't know,” he said, his voice suddenly louder than necessary. “I can't remember.”

Jane almost laughed aloud, the man was so obviously lying. They sat in silence for a moment. Then Mannerback turned back and looked at her like a bad puppy.

“So what do you say? Will you do it? Will you let me give you a job? I always pay my debts.”

Jane's instinct was to open the door of the limousine and dive into traffic, but this was one of those times you had to use your head, not your emotions, to decide.

She didn't have a job for the summer, and the money Perry Mannerback was offering beat unemployment by a long shot. It wouldn't be forever, Jane told herself. By next fall she'd be back in Omaha or Austin teaching punch-ups to actors again. Besides, how else could she find out why Perry Mannerback owed her father such a big favor? Or if he had pushed him down the stairs.

“Okay,” Jane said. “Why not?”

“Hurrah!” her new employer declared, pumping her hand and slapping her back. “This is great. Wonderful. Welcome aboard.”

Just then the limousine glided to a stop at the side entrance to the Lincoln Center complex on Sixty-second street, across from the Fordham University Law School. The chauffeur cut the engine, then got out of the car and opened the backseat door.

“Where are we going?” asked Jane, following Mannerback, who had jumped out and was bounding up a walk toward a large tent that had been set up in an area where they usually had outdoor concerts.

“We're going to have fun!” shouted Mannerback over his shoulder.

As Jane chased after him and rounded the corner, a huge banner stretched between two posts came into view:
THE BIG APPLE CIRCUS
.

Her first duty as Perry Mannerback's bodyguard-assistant was to get them both popcorn.

“You'll be surprised,” said Perry Mannerback in his earnest, excited way as they got into the small, mahogany-paneled elevator. The elderly, white-gloved attendant closed the door and pressed the button marked “PH.” “It's not what you expect, I bet. I bet it's not what you expect at all.”

Nearly a week had now passed since Jane had come to work for Perry Mannerback. This was the first time she would have the opportunity of seeing his penthouse apartment, but if it turned out that he lived with a family of elves in the exclusive Fifth Avenue building that he had brought her to, she wouldn't be surprised. Perry Mannerback was the most remarkable man Jane had ever met.

There were other men who were like children (practically every guy Jane knew was childish to one degree or another), but Perry Mannerback truly
was
a little boy: a fifty-six-year-old with all the good and bad aspects of a third-grader. He was innocent, yet he was naughty. He was rough, yet he was gentle. He was boisterous and shy, selfish and thoughtful, silly-looking but somehow cute. He could be hateful and stupid one moment, sensible and incredibly sweet the next.

If Perry Mannerback had been born into a poor or even a middle-class family, Jane didn't know what would have become of him. He certainly wouldn't have been able to hold a job. He had no useful skills, was totally irresponsible, and had the attention span of a tropical fish. However, in the same way that God seemed to look out for mothers, drunks, and little dogs, the Almighty had provided Perry Mannerback from birth with everything he needed for a happy and productive life—namely, money.

Perry Mannerback, as Jane had learned over the past few days, was the great-great-grandson of Otto Mannerback, an industrious German immigrant who had arrived in New York City in 1869 at the age of eleven without a cent in his pocket. Otto had eventually found work in a factory that made buttons from discarded oyster shells. Within ten years he had founded his own company in a lightless tenement on Grand Street—Otto Mannerback Buttons.

By the time Perry was born, several generations of shrewd and hardworking Mannerbacks had built Otto Mannerback Buttons into the largest buttonmaking concern in the world. Perry's great-grandfather had diversified into other unglamorous yet profitable businesses that had assured Ombicorp's profitability in bad button years as well as good. Perry's grandfather had taken the company public and continued its expansion. His father had built it into an international conglomerate.

Perry Mannerback had thus entered the world wrapped in a safety net of trust funds and privilege, his childlike qualities valued rather than condemned, his interests viewed as eccentric instead of crazy. Because of his wealth he was accorded opportunities that most men could only dream of.

To her astonishment, Jane had learned that this man who made “vroom-vroom” noises when he played with toy cars had graduated from Harvard University (albeit not at the top of his class), had made his way through three marriages to beautiful and well-bred women (presently all happily divorced), and was now an actual grandfather. He was a respected member of New York society, a trustee of the Metropolitan Opera and the Museum of Modern Art, and served on the boards of directors of several major banks, corporations, and charities. Perhaps most surprisingly of all, under his leadership OmbiCorp International had flourished beyond anyone's wildest dreams.

Perry Mannerback's shrewd tactics and unorthodox style had become a business legend. Competitors and journalists alike were always trying to figure him out, but to no avail. When OmbiCorp had bought out a small plastic toy producer whose Arizona factory complex turned out to be sitting on top of the largest palladium deposit ever discovered in the Western Hemisphere, all Perry Mannerback would say was, “Yellow stegosauruses. They make yellow stegosauruses. Who wouldn't buy a company like that?”

When
Forbes
asked how OmbiCorp had thought to snap up a biotech company involved in recombinant DNA before the field got hot, the enigmatic chairman replied, “I thought it had something to do with combs. Everybody needs a comb.”

Stock market analysts were so pleased by the synergy when OmbiCorp took over Armex Patterson, the Canadian electronics conglomerate, that OmbiCorp's stock shot up eight points. Perry Mannerback, however, claimed that all he had been interested in was a small string of movie theatres that Armex Patterson owned in Manhattan. “Now I can go to the movies right around the corner from my office any time I want to,” he boasted to the
Wall Street Journal
, “and I get in for free!”

Not only did everything that Perry Mannerback touch turn to gold, he had a talent for attracting loyal, talented employees besides.

His executive secretary, the fiercely protective Miss Fripp, typed a hundred and ten words a minute, kept him stocked with gummy bears, and wouldn't let him go out without buttoning up his coat.

Leonid, the Russian chauffeur, was so grateful for Perry Mannerback's kindnesses to him and his family that he would regularly stop the car in the middle of a busy avenue, rush into a store, and come back with an ice cream cone or lollipop for Perry that he had bought with his own money.

But perhaps the most valuable employee of all, Jane had discovered to her surprise, was the tall, unpleasant man whom she had mistaken for Perry Mannerback that first day. His name was Theodore B. Danko. He was OmbiCorp's president and chief executive officer, the man who actually ran the company.

According to the Gang of Five—a group of OmbiCorp secretaries who were happy to have someone new to gossip with around the water cooler—Danko had started in sales and risen to vice president of the North American marketing division under Perry's father. When Reginald Mannerback died twelve years ago, Perry had selected Danko over several more senior people to run the company, “because he looked like a quarterback,” Perry had once said.

It turned out to be yet another brilliant decision for all the wrong reasons, in typical Perry Mannerback fashion. Ted Danko was a shrewd, efficient, and utterly ruthless executive, enough of a buccaneer to navigate OmbiCorp through the treacherous waters of international business, yet enough of a politician to deal with a loose cannon like Perry Mannerback.

Jane had met Danko formally for the first time yesterday, her fourth day on the job. Up to this point, she and Perry had stopped by OmbiCorp's Sixth Avenue offices only briefly each morning for gummy bears and grant checks. It seemed that Perry Mannerback hated business and spent most of his time having adventures and giving away money through his foundation. The past week had been a blur of fun, feature films, and selfless philanthropy (at one point Jane had watched in amazement as Perry Mannerback spent three hours reading stories to toddlers in a Harlem day care center, and then, unable to find his pen, wrote a fifty-thousand-dollar check with a crayon).

Finally, though, Perry had had to spend a few hours at OmbiCorp's Sixth Avenue offices with Miss Fripp, signing documents and correspondence, about the contents of which he didn't seem to have a clue. As he and Jane were escaping they had run into Danko accidentally in the hallway outside Perry's enormous office.

There had been an awkward moment of silence. Clearly, the two men didn't see one another often. Perry had then introduced Jane to Danko as his new assistant and inquired how things were going with the business, crossing his arms and assuming a very serious businessmanlike expression for the occasion—rather like a little boy putting on his father's hat and frown.

“I'm glad you asked, Perry,” Danko had replied smoothly. “Things are doing very well. Sales are up in Europe and we're taking advantage of the monetary problems in the Far East to buy raw materials. Happily, Asia has never been a market for our products, isn't that right?”

“Oh, yes,” Perry had said. “Absolutely.”

“So you don't think we should try to penetrate the Asian markets?”

“Well, I don't know about that.”

“You mean, then, that we should?”

“Gee. Is this something I have to decide right away, Ted?”

“No, Perry. Take your time. Take as long as you want. You're the boss.”

Danko's face hadn't changed in any aspect as he spoke. His voice carried no inflection. However, his cold gray eyes betrayed him, at least to Jane. There was more than cruelty in those eyes. There was contempt. And something else, something frightening. Danko did not merely think Perry Mannerback a fool, he despised him. He hated him with a passion.

“What do you think we should do, Ted?” Perry had asked, oblivious.

“I can study the situation, if you like, and make a recommendation.”

“That's good. That's very good, Ted. Make a study and recommend something.”

“I'll do that,' said Danko without a trace of emotion in his voice. “Thank you, Perry. I don't know how we'd manage without your guidance. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting. A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Sailor.”

Then he turned on his heel and marched away.

“Nice man,” Perry had said, beaming, clearly delighted to think he had solved another problem.

The incident had left Jane with an unsettled feeling in the pit of her stomach. Certainly, Perry needed someone like Danko to run his business. Perry couldn't match his socks on a regular basis, let alone make the kinds of day-to-day decisions that a huge corporation like OmbiCorp depended on.

But Jane knew instinctively that Danko's animosity posed a real danger for her new employer. Perry seemed so vulnerable and helpless against such a man—and this was what had left Jane feeling so unsettled. She had taken this job to learn if Perry Mannerback might have destroyed her father. Now, after only a few days, she was beginning to feel as protective of him as Miss Fripp!

“I live in the penthouse,” said Perry proudly as the elevator came to a stop, jolting Jane back to the present. He was wearing a plaid vest today, which was too busy a combination along with his striped shirt and patterned bow tie, but on Perry it all somehow seemed to fit. “Mine's the best apartment in the building, isn't it, John?”

“Yes, it is, Mr. Mannerback,” said the white-gloved attendant with a smile.

“I have to get that article in
Time
magazine for Aunt Eunice,” Perry continued, fixing the elevator operator in his eager gaze. “The one all about sex chat rooms on the Internet. Did you read that article, John?”

“No, Mr. Mannerback.”

“But you remember Aunt Eunice, don't you? The one who gets stoned out of her gourd every year at Thanksgiving? She's always telling everyone what a sex maniac she is, which is why I think she'll be interested in this article.”

“I'm sure she will be, Mr. Mannerback,” said John. He opened the metal gate, then the outer door.

“Come on, we're here,” announced Perry Mannerback, urging Jane out of the elevator and directly into the vestibule of the most spectacular apartment she had ever seen.

A huge silver chandelier carved with stags' heads and grape-leaves was suspended into the room from a ceiling at least twenty feet high. The floor was alternating squares of black and white marble. An elegant limestone staircase wound its way to a second floor. Eight superb grandfather-type case clocks, graduating in size from three feet to eight, flanked one wall. An antique Brussels hunting tapestry graced another. A ballerina painted by Degas posed
en pirouette
above a walnut hall table.

In the rooms ahead Jane could see a center table with an enormous arrangement of fresh flowers, stunning Oriental carpets, important paintings, and windows looking out onto the grand buildings of Central Park West across the green expanse of the park itself.

Amidst this glory, however, all Jane could focus on was the sound.

It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, high and low, near and far: a pervasive rhythmic pulsating, like a million butterflies beating their wings or an ocean of bubbles bursting in time with one another. Jane turned to the right, then the left, but still couldn't grasp what it was or its source until one of the grandfather clocks began to chime the hour with a low
dong
.

“Isn't that a beautiful sound?” said Perry Mannerback, tilting his head up and closing his eyes.

Jane looked at her wrist. According to her watch, it was a little before six o'clock. Perhaps she was a little slow. The days with Perry Mannerback sped by, though Jane still didn't know exactly what she was supposed to be doing to earn her extravagant salary.

A second grandfather clock began to chime. Then from the other room, a clear bell began to ring. Then another, and suddenly the air was vibrating with what a poet had once needed to coin a word to describe: tintinnabulation. The ringing and the singing of a hundred different bells and gongs. More joined in. And still more. On and on it went.

Jane looked over to Perry Mannerback, who was standing in the center of the elegant entryway, his eyes closed in bliss. The tolling of the hour went on for nearly a minute, then began to taper off until all that was left was the rhythmic pulsing that Jane had noticed before. Now she knew what it was—the ticking of a thousand clocks!

“I hear you collect clocks,” said Jane, pointing out the obvious.

“Come on, I'll show you,” said Perry, bursting with excitement. “Come on!”

Jane followed him past the huge flower arrangement in the inner hall to the living room. If the vestibule had been spectacular, this room was positively incredible, a good fifty feet long and another thirty wide, furnished exquisitely with English antiques, plush sofas, Tiffany table lamps. It was the clocks, however, that dominated everything.

Clocks sat on the marble ledge above the huge fireplace. Clocks crowded the Delft-tiled windowsills. Clocks packed the enormous breakfront. Clocks filled the shelves between the windows looking out over Central Park.