Джозеф Файндер - Company Man

Stephanie shook her head slowly. “That’s not what I pick up from this. It’s strange. For one thing, there’s not a single mention in the list of assets of any factories or plants or employees. Which, if they were planning to keep any of it, they’d have to list. And then, in the Representations and Warranties section, it says the buyer’s on the hook for any costs, liabilities, et cetera, associated with shutting down U.S. facilities or firing all employees. So, it’s pretty clear. Pacific Rim is buying only Stratton’s name. And getting rid of everything else.”

Nick stared. “They don’t need our factories. They’ve got plenty in Shenzhen. But all this money for a name? ”

“Stratton means class. An old reliable American name that’s synonymous with elegance and solidity. Plus, they get our distribution channels. Think about it — they can make everything over there at a fraction of the price, slap a Stratton nameplate on it, sell it for a premium. No American firm would have made a deal like this.”

“Who are they, this Pacific Rim Investors?”

“No idea, but I’ll find out for you. Looks like Randall Enright wasn’t working for Fairfield after all — he represents the buyer. Pacific Rim.”

Nick nodded. Now he understood why Scott had given Enright the factory tour. Enright was in Fenwick to do due diligence on behalf of a Hong Kong — based firm that couldn’t come to visit because they wanted to keep everything very quiet.

She said, “The least they could do is tell you.”

“They knew I’d go ballistic.”

“That must be why they put Scott on the board. Asians always demand to meet with the top brass. If Todd Muldaur thought firing you would help, he’d have done it already.”

“Exactly.”

“It freaks potential buyers out if a CEO gets fired right before a sale. Everyone’s antennae go up. Plus, a lot of the key relationships are yours. The smarter move was to hermetically seal you off. As they did.”

“I used to think Todd Muldaur was an idiot, but now I know better. He’s just a prick. Can you explain this side agreement to me?”

Her pruned mouth turned down in a scowl. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It looks like some kind of deal-sweetener. From what I can tell, it’s a way to speed up the deal, make it happen fast. But that’s just a guess. You might want to talk to someone who knows.”

“Like who? Scott’s the only one I know who understands the really devious stuff.”

“He’s good, but he’s not the only one,” Stephanie said. “Does Hutch still speak to you?”

Nick had begun to dread going out in public.

Not “public” as in going to work, though that still took a fair amount of effort, putting on his Nick Conover, CEO act, confident and friendly and outgoing, when a toxic spill of anxiety threatened to ooze out through his pores. But whether it was school functions or shopping or taking clients out to restaurants, it was getting harder and harder to keep the mask fastened securely.

What was once just uncomfortable, even painful — seeing people the company had laid off, exchanging polite if tense words with them, or just generally feeling like a pariah in this town — was now close to intolerable. Everywhere he went, everyone he ran into, he felt as if a neon sign was hanging around his neck, its gaudy orange tubes flashing the word MURDERER.

Even tonight, when he was just another spectator at Julia’s piano recital. Her long-dreaded, long-awaited piano recital. It was being held in one of the old town performance theaters, Aftermath Hall, a mildew-smelling old place that had been built in the nineteen thirties, a Steinway grand on a yellow wooden stage, red velvet curtain, matching red velvet upholstered seats with uncomfortable wooden backs.

The kids in their little coats and ties or their dresses streaked across the lobby, propelled by nervous energy. A couple of little African-American boys in jackets and ties with their older sister, in a white dress with a bow: unusual in Fenwick, given how few blacks there were.

He was startled to find Laura’s sister there. Abby was a couple of years older than Laura, had two kids as well, married a guy with a trust fund and no personality. He claimed to be a novelist, but mostly he played tennis and golf. Abby had the same clear blue eyes as Laura, had the same swan neck. Instead of Laura’s corkscrew brown curls, though, her brown hair was straight and glossy and fell to her shoulders. She was more reserved, had a more regal bearing, was less approachable. Nick didn’t especially like her. The feeling was probably mutual.

“Hey,” he said, touching her elbow. “Nice of you to come. Julia’s going to be thrilled.”

“It was sweet of Julia to call me.”

“She did?”

“You seem surprised. You didn’t tell her to?”

“I can’t tell her to do anything, you know that. How’s the family?”

“We’re fine. Kids doing okay?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes yes, sometimes no. They miss you a lot.”

“Do they? Not you, though.” Then she softened it a bit with a smile that didn’t look very sincere.

“Come on. We all do. How come we haven’t seen you?”

“Oh,” she breathed, “it’s been crazy.”

“Crazy how?”

She blinked, looked uncomfortable. Finally she said, “Look, Nick, it’s hard for me. Since...”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Nick put in hastily. “I’m just saying, don’t be a stranger.”

“No, Nick,” Abby said, inclining her head, lowering her voice, her eyes gleaming with something bad. “It’s just that — every time I look at you.” She looked down, then back up at him. “Every time I look at you it makes me sick.”

Nick felt as if he’d just been kicked in the throat.

Little kids, big kids running past, dressed up, taut with the preperformance jitters. Someone playing a swatch of complicated music on the Steinway, sounding like a professional you might hear at Carnegie Hall.

Laura’s nude body on the folding wheeled table after the embalming, Nick weeping and slobbering as he dressed her, his request, honored by the funeral director with some reluctance. Nick unable to look at her waxen face, a plausible imitation of her once glowing skin, the neck and cheek he’d nuzzled against so many times.

“You think the accident was my fault, that it?”

“I really see no sense in talking about it,” she said, looking at the floor. “Where’s Julia?”

“Probably waiting her turn at the piano.” Nick felt a hand on his shoulder, turned, and was stunned to see Cassie. His heart lifted.

She stood on her tiptoes, gave him a quick peck on the lips.

“Cass — Jesus, I had no idea—”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Did Julia order you to show up too?”

“She told me about it, which is a different thing. I’d say a daughter’s piano recital falls in the category of a family obligation, don’t you think?”

“I’m — wow.”

“Come on, I’m practically family. Plus, I’m a big classical piano fan, don’t you know that about me?”

“Why do I doubt that?”

She put her lips to his ear and whispered, her hot breath getting him excited: “I owe you an apology.”

Then she was gone, before Nick had a chance to introduce her.

“Who’s the new girlfriend?” Abby’s voice, abrupt and harsh and brittle, an undertone of ridicule.

Nick froze. “Her name’s... Cassie. I mean, she’s—”

I mean, she’s what? Not a girlfriend? Just a fuck? Oh, she’s the daughter of the guy I murdered, ain’t that a funny coincidence? Tell that to Craig, your alleged-writer husband. Give him something to write about.