Howard Engel - The Cooperman Variation

A fresh noise exploded in the corridor. It came with the sound of the elevator doors opening in a sort of cushioned groan. I heard the sharp crack of Vanessa’s coffee cup hitting wood and the name “Devlin” hissed through her set teeth, as though the name unlocked a chestful of pestilence. Vanessa jumped up behind her desk. Sally’s eyes were wide. She was on her feet and ran into Vanessa’s sanctum sanctorum. They both came out a second later, shoulder to shoulder, to meet the man in a grey suit with a hat, a briefcase and his topcoat over his arm. He was accompanied by a dark, curly-haired man half a head shorter. There was no mistaking which was the bishop and which the clerk.

“Raymond! Raymond, you shouldn’t have!” This was Vanessa as she came within bussing distance of the newcomers. He kissed her soundly on each cheek without even noticing that Sally stood next to her. “I would have sent the contracts down to you by courier. You didn’t have to come all this way.”

“Vanessa, I don’t trust people. When I want something done, I do it myself. That’s the only way to survive. Besides, with all these changes in the air, I thought I’d better get the ink on the paper as soon as possible. By the way, you know Roger here, I think.”

“Changes? What changes? What are you talking about, Raymond? Do you mean our revised fall schedule? Revising is what we do best around here.” Vanessa smiled broadly, but I could tell that she hadn’t liked what Raymond had blurted out. Raymond, too, was now looking like a child who had said too much and now was being badgered to say more. Raymond took the fatter of the two briefcases from Roger here, and began a paperchase with its contents. Roger here stood by and watched.

“Oh, I must have thought that you’d be taking some time off now. Because of the shooting, I mean. By the way, I called Ted and Whatshisname, you know, from your plant department, or whatever you call it, to sign for the engineering side of things.” At this point, Vanessa introduced Sally and me to Raymond Devlin, who was acting as though that name was better known than it was. Roger here turned out to be Roger Cavanaugh. Even with a last name, he remained the acolyte of his boss. Sally passed a man with a bald dome and black-rimmed glasses as she went out in search of beverages. He turned out to be Whatshisname.

“Oh, here you are, Harry.” Vanessa introduced Harry Parlow, head of Plant and Services, whatever that meant. The bald head bobbed, almost bowing, over handshakes.

Devlin boomed, “Glad you could make it, Harry. I don’t have long, so I’m glad you’re on time.”

“Raymond’s legal firm is the executor of Dermot Keogh’s estate, Benny. Thanks to Keogh’s estate, NTC is building a new concert studio and Raymond has generously allowed us to use Dermot’s name. He’ll remain as a consultant on the sort of things that the studio will be used for. We hope that it will rival the CBC’s Glenn Gould Studio.”

“Rival? Hell, Vanessa, it will make the CBC hall look like a swill bucket to this Limoges tureen we’re putting up.” Raymond Devlin looked like a young Henry Kissinger, with jowls poised to start sprouting after his next corned beef sandwich. Fussiness was written all over him. He fairly quivered with fastidiousness. His eyes drank you in and spat out the seeds, leaving your innards on his hard drive for later use. His weight was doing damage to an expensive, well-cut suit. He managed to make it look like he picked it up off the rack in a “Reduced to Clear Sale.” Roger Cavanaugh gave me the look he’d learned from his master. He was out for learning.

Sally arrived back not with coffee but with proper drinks. There was an array of bottles on a trolley and a nearby credenza yielded biscuits, glasses and napkins. While she was working on the refreshments, Vanessa was laying out four copies of the contract for all to sign. Raymond Devlin brought out a package of cigarettes. Menthols. “I don’t suppose that here on the twentieth floor we are free from the prohibitions that obtain elsewhere in this building?”

“You’ll have the security squad down on you in a minute. And you’d better not take it up with Ted Thornhill when he gets here. He’s a former smoker, Raymond, so you’ll be dealing with a convert. You know what they’re like.”

“The world is conspiring against smokers, Vanessa. The only way I can fly these days is Air India, and you’d be surprised at the places where Air India doesn’t fly. Why, in my own office I had to install a vent through the window. The owner is still furious at me, but we do rent the whole floor.”

Vanessa told me that she’d need Sally and me to sign as witnesses. When I asked her what this was all about, she told me to play along; she’d explain later. Just as we were about to make the papers immortal, someone introduced as Ted Thornhill, the CEO of NTC, came through the door with a photographer whose camera was already loaded and poised. Introductions were not attempted. I was the only odd man out. I could see that Harry Parlow was feeling good about it; he didn’t get to meet the top dogs every day. Vanessa was on her toes, playing hostess. Raymond didn’t sweat, but his brow showed a certain tension. His donation of Keogh’s hard cash gave him points and he knew it. Roger came into his own, pointing out small changes, places to initial and so forth. When we had had a go at examining the four copies, passing them around like it was a game, criss-crossing and twice getting mixed up, Raymond plainly relaxed. Ted Thornhill supervised all of this, glancing down over a cascade of double chins. His eyes were small but alert, his mouth the thinnest part of the whole anatomy. His suit showed the wear and tear that a large body can give to the best imported serge. Sparse blond hair betrayed a recent attempt to comb it with water. I found that likeable.

For a quiet, informal gathering, the signing itself was accomplished with sober deliberation. The principal pen was picked up and handed to all the signers by Ted Thornhill. All eyes watched as the ink moved along the paper. The pen was a Montblanc. It fairly blushed from black to grey with the weight of the honour entrusted to it. “There!” said Thornhill with a flourish after all the signatures had been applied. “We make a little history every day. The public event will be next …”

“One week from today. Wednesday at 4:30 in the library, on the mezzanine floor, southwest end of the Royal York Hotel.” Vanessa stepped in to help the forgetful Thornhill.

“Of course, I remember now. There’s a press conference to begin with. Right? I’ll call on you, Ray. You knew Keogh better than anyone, except maybe Philip Rankin. Not many speeches, just what’s necessary to hit the right celebratory note.”

“And then the drinks,” said Devlin. “I hope you’ve not ordered those bits of coloured cheese, Ted?”

“Cheese?” He looked puzzled. “I don’t ordinarily see to the catering, Ray. We might have better receptions if I did. Vanessa, will you look into that? We want the announcement of Dermot Keogh Hall to be a major cultural event. The usual cheese and crackers will not do. Not in any way. Please see to it.” Vanessa smiled one of those pasted-on smiles, the sort you get in opera when the clown’s heart is breaking.

“It has a good ring to it, that name: Dermot Keogh Hall,” mused Devlin. “The hall will seat five hundred, with ample backstage and lobby space.”

“We’ve got a logo that uses his signature, Ray. It will be on all stationery and, of course, above the doors. I’ve got a firm of architects working on it now. I want you to be pleased with this every step of the way.”

“Good. I knew you wouldn’t sell me out. This is a redletter day for the Plevna Foundation.”