Джозеф Файндер - Company Man

“They have fish,” Nick said, apologetically, as they were led to a corner table.

“Now why would you say that? You think girls don’t eat red meat?”

“That’s right, I forgot — you do. So long as it isn’t actually red.”

“Exactly.”

Cassie ordered a rib steak well done, Nick a medium-rare sirloin. Both of them ordered salads.

After Nick ate his salad, he looked at Cassie. “Brainstorm. I always order a salad. But I just realized something: I don’t particularly like salad.”

“Not exactly the solution to Fermat’s last theorem,” Cassie said, “but we can work with this. You don’t like salad. Same deal as with tea.”

“Right. I drink tea. Laura would make it and I’d drink it. Same deal. I order salads. But you know, I never liked tea, and I never liked salad.”

“You just realized this.”

“Yeah. It was always true. I just wasn’t conscious of it, somehow. Like... Chinese food. I don’t really like it. I don’t hate it. I just don’t have any liking for it.”

“You’re on a roll, now. What else.”

“What else? Okay. Eggplants. Who the hell decided that eggplants were edible? Nontoxic, I get. But is everything that’s nontoxic a food? If I were some cave man, and I weren’t starving, and I bit into an eggplant, cooked or not, I wouldn’t say, wow, a new taste sensation — I’ve discovered a foodstuff. I’d say, well, this definitely won’t kill you. Don’t bother to dip your arrowhead in it. It’s like — I don’t know — maple leaves. You could probably eat them, but why would you?”

Cassie looked at him.

“You’re the one who was complaining I was a stranger to myself,” Nick said, tugging on the table linen absently.

“That wasn’t really what I meant.”

“Gotta start somewhere.”

She laughed. He felt her hand stroking his thigh under the tablecloth. Affectionately, not sexually. “Forget eggplant. Give yourself credit — you know what’s most precious to you. Not everyone does. Your kids. Your family. They’re everything to you, aren’t they?”

Nick nodded. There was a lump of sadness in his throat. “When I was playing hockey, I could convince myself that the harder I worked, the harder I trained, the harder I played, the better I’d do. It was true, or true enough. True of a lot of things. You work harder, and you do better. In hockey, they talk about playing with a lot of ‘heart’ — giving it your all. Not true of family, though. Not true of being a father. The harder I try to get through to Lucas, the harder he fights me. You got through the force field. I can’t.”

“That’s because you always argue with him, Nick. You’re always trying to make a case, and he doesn’t want to hear it.”

“The way he looks at me, I think he couldn’t care less whether I lived or died.”

“That’s not what’s going on here. Has Lucas ever talked to you about Laura’s death?”

“Never. The Conover men don’t really do feelings, okay?” Nick looked around the darkened room, and was surprised to see Scott McNally being seated a few tables away. Their eyes met, and Scott waved a hand. He was with a tall, gangly man with a narrow face and a prominent chin. Nick saw Scott talking to his dinner companion hurriedly, gesturing toward him. It looked like Scott was deciding whether to do the dessert visit, or to get it over with, and had decided that it would be better to get it over with. The two men stood up and came over to Nick’s table.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Scott said, patting Nick’s shoulder. “I had no idea this was one of your hangouts.”

“It’s not,” Nick said. “Scott, I’d like you to meet my friend Cassie.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Cassie,” Scott said. “And this is Randall Enright.” He paused. “Randall’s just helping me understand some of the legal aspects of financial restructuring. Boring technical stuff. Unless you’re me, of course, in which case it’s like Conan the Barbarian with spreadsheets.”

“Nice to meet you, Randall,” said Nick.

“Pleased to meet you,” the tall man said pleasantly. His suit jacket was unbuttoned, and he put his glasses in his breast pocket before shaking hands.

“We get that contract with the Fisher Group analyzed?” Nick said.

“Not sure that’s something we want to rush into, actually,” said Scott.

“Sooner the better, I’d say.”

“Well,” said Scott, fidgeting with a lock of hair above his left ear, glancing away. “You’re the boss.”

“Enjoy Fenwick,” Cassie said to the lawyer. “When are you heading back to Chicago?”

The tall man exchanged a glance with Scott. “Not until tomorrow,” he said.

“Enjoy your dinner,” Nick said, with a hint of dismissal.

Soon, heavy white plates arrived with their steaks, each accompanied by a scoop of pureed spinach and a potato. Nick looked at Cassie. “How did you know he was heading back to Chicago?”

“The Hart Schaffner and Marx label inside his jacket. The obvious fact that he’s got to be some sort of hot-shot lawyer if he’s having a working dinner with your CFO.” She saw the question in his eyes and said, “He put his glasses away because they were reading glasses. And they hadn’t been given their menus yet. We’re definitely looking at a working dinner.”

“I see.”

“And Scott wasn’t happy about introducing him. He did it strategically, but the fact is, he chose to have dinner here for the same reason you did. Because it’s a perfectly okay place where you don’t expect to see anyone you know.”

Nick grinned, unable to deny it.

“And then there’s the ‘You’re the boss’ stuff. Resent-o-rama. A line like that always comes with an asterisk. ‘You’re the boss.’ Asterisk says, ‘For now.’”

“You’re being a little melodramatic. Don’t you think you might be over-interpreting?”

“Don’t you think you might not be seeing what’s right in front of your face?”

“You may have a point,” Nick admitted. He told her about Scott’s secret trip to China, the way he tried to cover it up with a lie about going to a dude ranch in Arizona.

“There you go,” she said with a shrug. “He’s fucking with you.”

“Sure seems that way.”

“But you like him, don’t you?”

“Yeah. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say, I did. He’s funny, he’s a whiz with numbers. We’re friends.”

“That’s your problem — it’s blinding you. Your alleged ‘friendship’ with Scott didn’t exactly keep him from stabbing you in the back, did it?”

“True.”

“He’s not scared of you.”

“Should he be?”

“Most definitely. Scared of you, not of what’s-his-name, the Yale guy from Boston.”

“Todd Muldaur. Todd’s really calling the shots, and Scott knows it. Truth is, I’m surprised by him. I brought him in here, I would have expected a modicum of loyalty.”

“You’re a problem for Scott. A speed bump. An impediment. He’s decided you’re part of the problem, not part of the solution. His deal is all about Scott Incorporated.”

“I’m not sure you’re right, there — there’s actually nothing greedy or materialistic about him.”

“People like Scott McNally — it’s not about making a life, or attaining a certain level of comfort. You told me he wears the same shirts he’s probably worn since he was a student, right?”

“So whatever he’s about, it’s not exactly money. I get it.”

“Wrong. You don’t get it. He’s a type. People like him don’t care about enjoying the things money can buy. They’re not into rare Bordeaux or Lamborghini muscle cars. At the same time, they’re incredibly competitive. And here’s the thing. Money is how they keep score .”