Till the Butchers Cut Him Down (6 page)

I looked over there at a stocky, round-faced man with a mop of black hair. “Nice kudos to T.J., Carole,” he added, “but it
won’t earn you any additional perks unless he’s hiding under the desk.”

“Ah, Russ.” There was an edge to Lattimer’s greeting and little warmth as she performed the introductions. Russ Zola, she
explained, was Suits’s organizational strategist and had been with him “forever.”

Zola turned the straight-backed chair around and straddled it, his forearms resting on the crosspiece. Diamond-studded links
winked from the cuffs of his white shirt, and a diamond-and-onyx ring gleamed on his right hand. “What’re you trying to do,
Carole?” he asked easily. “Make me out to be older than God?”

Lattimer didn’t reply.

I asked, “What does an organizational strategist do, specifically?”

“I look at the overall structure of the corporation, decide what can be changed to facilitate efficiency. I make recommendations,
help implement them, monitor progress, make constant adjustments.”

“In short,” Lattimer said, “Russ is T.J.’s executioner.”

“Thank you, Carole. Such a dramatic job description.” He smiled at me and changed the subject. “So you’re the investigator
who’s going to save T.J. from the alleged assassin.”

“Russ.” Lattimer’s voice held a warning note.

“What—we’re supposed to pretend we don’t know why she’s here?”

“I believe that’s a confidential matter between T.J. and Ms. McCone.” Now her tone was markedly chilly. “When you came in,
we were discussing what makes T.J. unique as a turnaround pro. We talked about his lack of specialization and, as you heard,
his vision. Since you’ve been with him so long, I’m sure you have something to add to that.”

Zola rolled his eyes, obviously amused at her stiff manner. The subject to which she’d attempted to redirect the conversation
seemed to interest him, though; he considered before speaking, his expression thoughtful. “The speed of T.J.’s turnarounds
is pretty damned impressive. The average pro will do four or five in a lifetime. T.J.’s been operating for around fourteen
years now, and he’s already up to half a dozen.”

I asked, “You’ve worked with him on all of them?”

“All but the very first.”

“How does he manage them so quickly?”

“Advance planning. He does comprehensive research and goes in with a strong game plan. And he pushes everybody mercilessly,
including himself and those of us on his team. He’s brutal to the few employees who survive the bloodbath. He’s a whiz at
getting answers out of the banks and creditors, is even better at getting action out of his investors. To tell you the truth,
I’ve seen no evidence that he’s ever slept.”

Zola paused again, dark eyes reflective. “Of course, there’s a downside to all that. T.J.’s easily bored. Once he’s got a
firm stabilized, he’s itching to get on to the visionary stage. Once the vision begins to become reality, he’s already thinking
about where he wants to go next, sifting through the offers that’ve come in.”

“So he doesn’t see things through?”

“Sometimes. Keystone Steel, company we turned some seven, eight years ago, is a perfect example. Big mill in southwestern
Pennsylvania on the fringe of Appalachia. The last one operating in that area, and about to go bust. T.J. had it stabilized,
but then he got a vision and jumped ahead too fast. Saved the company, but at an awful human cost. And then there’s the problem
of his temper; he’s just too volatile for his own good. He’ll get in a big fight with the board, make it impossible for them
to go on working with him.”

“How often does that happen?”

“Once or twice a turnaround. He manages to smooth it over but again, at a terrific cost.”

“All right,” I said, “let’s get back to the way he treats his people. Lucrative or not, why do such talented individuals as
the two of you come each time he calls?”

Lattimer said, “As I told you, it’s the chance of a lifetime to see someone like T.J. do his stuff.”

Zola nodded. “When he’s good, he’s very, very good. That’s really something to be a part of. And when he’s bad … well, it’s
still damned interesting.”

I’d asked the question to see if either would betray hidden resentment or animosity, but both responses seemed genuine. After
a moment I said, “I’m wondering how T.J. got to be so good at this line of work. You don’t just decide to become a turnaround
man and hang out your shingle. What is there in his background that qualifies him?”

Zola looked perplexed. “An M.B.A. from Harvard doesn’t qualify him?”

“He attended
Harvard
?”

“Both as an undergrad and as a graduate student.”

But how had his cross-country ramblings permitted time for that? “When?”

Zola chuckled. “I’m surprised an old friend like you didn’t know. Or maybe I’m not. Man’s got a mania for privacy, that’s
for sure. Anyway, it’s a fascinating story. T.J. was one of those child prodigies you hear about: reading at an adult level
when most kids are learning their ABC’s; fiddling with advanced calculus when the others are still having trouble with their
multiplication tables. By twelve he’d finished high school and was taking college courses. Started Harvard at fourteen and
earned his degree in two years. A year after that he had his M.B.A.”

“And then?”

Zola shrugged. “Time off to grow up, I guess. All I know is that he did his first turnaround about fourteen years ago—something
to do with agriculture north of here. Then he contacted me about helping turn Avery Equipment in L.A., and we’ve been kicking
corporate butt ever since. It never occurred to me to question him about the time between Harvard and then; I didn’t need
to check on his background because I’d seen him in action.”

I was fairly sure Suits wouldn’t want his associates to know he’d acted as an itinerant peddler of mostly illegal commodities
during those years, so I didn’t respond to the question implied in Zola’s tone. In truth, I was having difficulty digesting
this latest piece of information about the life and times of Suitcase Gordon. Finally I forced my attention back to the business
at hand and said, “Now I’d like to talk about the reason T.J. wants to hire me. Mr. Zola, earlier you mentioned the ‘alleged
assassin.’ Is that your phrasing or T.J.’s?”

“Mine. I believe he used the term ‘hit man.’”

“Ms. Lattimer, has he also commented on the situation to you?”

She nodded. “Same terminology.”

“Does either of you have an opinion about what’s going on?”

They exchanged glances. “Well,” Lattimer said, “
something’s
wrong.”

“She knows that, Carole. What she’s asking is if the hit man theory holds water.”

I turned to Zola. “Does it?”

“Only if the hit man’s preposterously incompetent. T.J. claims he’s made four different attempts by four different means.”

Unorthodox as well as incompetent. “So what’s happening here?”

He shrugged.

“
Is
somebody trying to kill him?”

Lattimer said, “This may sound strange, but I’d like to believe someone is. If not, T.J.’s becoming a head case, and we’re
all going to be in trouble.”

“Paranoid?”

“Uh-huh. He’s exhibiting some classic signs.”

“So which is it—hit man or head case?”

Again they exchanged glances.

Zola said, “I vote for head case.”

Lattimer nodded.

* * *

“It happened right here,” Suits said. “You can see where the bullet hit the pillar.”

We were standing next to his vintage silver Corvette in the lower-level parking area of his building. On the copter ride back
across the Bay he’d told me of two additional attempts on his life: a hand pushing him into traffic while he stood on a crowded
street corner in the financial district—shades of an old Hitchcock film, I’d thought—and a shot being fired at him as he parked
in his assigned space late one night the week before last. I took a close look at the nick that he indicated on the support
pillar. Yes, it could have been made by a bullet. But given its height, it could just as well have been made by a car.

I wondered if Suits had watched many of the dozens of TV movies depicting shootings in parking garages.

“How come the security guard didn’t respond?” I asked.

“He wasn’t around when I drove in. And it was only a pop—the shooter probably used a silencer.”

TV movie, all right.

“You called the police?”

He nodded.

“They find the bullet?”

“… No.”

“What action’re they taking?”

“They’re investigating.” The set of his mouth was turning sullen.

“If you have the name of the officer in charge of the case, I’ll check on its status.”

“I’ve got his card someplace upstairs.” Suits moved toward the nearby elevator, but I stopped him.

“You’ve used the term ‘hit man’ to Russ Zola and Carole Lattimer. Do you think there’s a contract out on you?”

He looked down at the concrete floor, scuffed at something with the toe of his sneaker.

“If you do,” I went on, “let me reassure you. A pro wouldn’t have bungled it. He’d have come to town, made a quick hit, and
been long gone. And in the unlikely event that he failed on his first attempt, he wouldn’t have used a different method the
next time. That’s not the way the pros operate.”

Suits mumbled something to the floor.

“What?”

“I said, I know how the pros operate. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that whoever’s trying to kill me has a personal reason,
may even be somebody close to me.”

I ran my thumb over the nick on the pillar, trying to tactfully phrase what I needed to ask next. “Suits, you’ve been working
pretty hard this past year. Russ Zola says he’s seen no evidence you’ve ever slept—and he was only half joking. You’re not
using cocaine or—”

“You don’t believe me.” He didn’t sound angry, merely defeated.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Suits …”

He turned his back to me, began walking toward the elevator. “I am not using coke or anything else,” he said wearily. “Drugs
are a roller-coaster ride that’s not worth the price of the ticket. I am not imagining these attempts on my life; I don’t
have much imagination, except as it pertains to my work. I am not paranoid; paranoid people are not self-aware, and I am—painfully
so.” He lifted his hand toward the elevator call button, then let his arm drop to his side.

When he faced me, his lips were twisted in a lopsided, self-mocking smile. “You think I don’t know who and what I am? Try
this, then: Remember that bullshit I handed you this morning about how I slunk out of town after our substance-induced fling
because I wasn’t ready to settle down? Well, do you know why I really left?”

I shook my head.

“I left because I knew I was a runty, funny-looking guy with a mediocre personality who’d just happened to get very lucky.
You were the prettiest, nicest, smartest woman I’d ever gone to bed with, and I knew you’d never let it happen again. And
I also knew that if I stayed in town I wouldn’t’ve been able to leave you alone. That would’ve only made us both miserable.
I just plain didn’t want to put either of us through that.”

“Oh, Suits—”

“No.” He held up his hand. “Spare me any kindness at this late date. I don’t need it, I don’t want it. What I do need and
want—” He looked down at the floor again. A shudder passed through his slight frame as he tried to control runaway emotions.

“What I do need and want,” he went on after a moment, “is for you to help me.” He looked up and met my gaze; his eyes were
jumpy with restrained fear; odd pinpoints of light flared in their depths.

I stepped forward and took his hand; it was icy. I looked more closely at his face to make sure he wasn’t conning me. His
skin was ashen, pulled so tight it seemed brittle.

I said gently, “We’ll talk more in the morning.”

It was after seven when I got back to the office; Mick had given up on me and gone home. I stood in the little room over the
Victorian’s entryway, which someday would belong to my assistant, looking over the new equipment assembled there. The lights
on the answering machine glowed; the display panel on the fax broadcast the word “standby.” After a moment I went over to
the computer and ran my finger across its keyboard. Felt something akin to a mild electric shock, even though it was turned
off. And realized it was emotional static.

For years I’d resisted becoming computer literate, turning over accessing the databases I routinely needed to my former assistant,
Rae Kelleher. I’d told her I wasn’t good with machines, that I couldn’t even type properly, but the real reason was my fear
of becoming trapped in the office, far from the action and interaction I thrive on. Now—at least until I could winnow out
a promising assistant from an unpromising crop of applicants—I would have to learn to use the computer in order to keep the
cash flowing.

But why not? I thought. I’d once said I wouldn’t have a microwave in the house; now I defrosted and cooked entire feasts in
record time. While my earthquake cottage was under renovation I’d mastered electrical wiring and become a fair plumber’s helper.
My stomach had once lurched at Hy’s suggestion of piloting the Citabria upside down; now I was impatient to solo and kept
pestering him to teach me the fancy stuff. Compared to understanding the circular flight computer, learning the Apple would
be a piece of cake.

And all this had come about because of a crazy week last June when I’d undergone a series of severe emotional shocks as well
as an ordeal that forced me to call upon resources I hadn’t suspected I possessed. After that there was no going back. I’d
stepped off the high dive into a new future, and now I was treading water as fast as I could.

I turned away from the Apple and went into my office, noting with approval that my new sofa and chair looked exactly as I’d
pictured them when I saw them in the showroom. My rose from Hy had also arrived; it stood in its bud vase on the corner of
my desk, and Mick had even thought to add fresh water.