Джозеф Файндер - Company Man

“It’s a fact. Suck it up.”

“Jesus Christ, Eddie, you said everything was cool!” Nick’s voice cracked. “You said the gun wasn’t registered to you. You — you said you picked it up at a crime scene, and there was no record of it anywhere.”

Eddie’s normally confident expression had given way, disconcertingly, to a pallid, sweaty discomfort. “That’s what I thought. Sometimes shit gets out of your control, buddy boy.”

“I don’t believe this,” Nick said, his voice hoarse. “I don’t fucking believe it. What the hell do we do now?”

Eddie set down his coffee mug and gave Nick a stone-cold look. “We do absolutely nothing. We say nothing, admit nothing, we don’t say a fucking word. Are you getting this?”

“But if they... they know the gun I used was one you took—”

“They’re going to try to connect the dots, but they don’t have it nailed down. Maybe they can prove the ammo that killed Stadler came from that gun, but they can’t prove I took it. Everything they got is circumstantial. They got nada when they searched your house — that whole thing was a scare tactic. They got no witnesses, and they got a lot of little forensic shit, and now they got this gun, but in the end it’s all circumstantial. So all they can do now is scare you into talking, see. This is why I’m telling you about it. I want you to be prepared. I don’t want those jokers springing this on you and having you crumble, okay? You got to be a rock.” Eddie took a sip of coffee without moving his eyes from Nick’s.

“They can’t just arrest us? Maybe they don’t need us to talk.”

“No. If neither one of us says a damned thing, they’re not going to arrest.”

“ You wouldn’t say anything, would you?” Nick whispered. “ You’re not going to say anything, right?”

Eddie smiled a slow smile, and Nick got a shivery feeling. There was something almost sociopathic about Eddie, something dead in his eyes. “Now you’re starting to understand,” he said. “See, at the end of the day, Nick, they don’t give a shit about me. I’m just some small-time corporate security guy, a nobody. You’re the CEO everyone in this town despises. They’re not interested in putting my puny antlers on the wall. You’re the monster buck they’re hunting. You’re the fucking twelve-point rack, okay?”

Nick nodded slowly. The room was turning slowly around him.

“The only way this thing unravels,” Eddie said, “is if you talk. Maybe you decide to play Let’s Make a Deal with the cops. Try to strike your own separate deal — good for you, bad for me. This would be a huge, huge fucking mistake, Nick. Because I will hear about it. You have even the most preliminary, exploratory conversation with those jokers, and I will hear about it in a matter of seconds, Nick — count on it. Believe me, I’m wired into that place. And my lawyer will be in the DA’s office so fast it’ll make your head spin, with an offer they will fucking jump at.”

“Your... lawyer? ” Nick croaked.

“See, Nick, let’s be clear what they got me for. It’s called ‘obstruction,’ and it’s no big deal. First offenders get maybe six months, if any time at all, but not me. Not when I agree to tell the whole story, testify truthfully in the grand jury and at the trial. They get a murderer, see. And what do I get out of it? A walk. Not even probation. It’s a sure thing, Nick.”

“But you wouldn’t do that, would you?” Nick said. He heard his own voice, and it seemed to be coming from very far away. “You’d never do that, right?”

“Only if you change the rules of the game, bud. Only if you talk. Though I gotta tell you, I shoulda done this on day one. Why I ever came over to help you that night, I don’t know. Goodness of my heart, I guess. Help an old buddy who’s in deep shit. I shoulda said, Sorry, not me, amigo, and just stayed in bed. Look what I get for being a nice guy. Very least, I should have shopped you long ago. Rolled over, made a deal. I don’t know why I didn’t. Anyway, what’s done is done, but let’s be crystal clear, I am not going down for this. You try to make a deal, you talk, and at that point I’m gonna do what’s in my own best interests.”

Nick couldn’t catch his breath. “I’m not going to talk,” he said.

Eddie gave him a sidelong glance, and he smiled as if he were enjoying this. “All you gotta do, Nicky, is hold it together, and we’re going to be just fine, you and me. Keep your fucking mouth shut, don’t panic, and we’ll ride this out.”

The waitress was back, wielding her glass carafe. “Freshen your coffee?” she said.

Neither Eddie nor Nick responded at first, and then Nick said slowly, not looking at her, “I think we’re okay.”

“That’s right,” Eddie said. “We’re okay. We’re just fine.”

The Fenwick Racquet Club wasn’t a place where much tennis was played, as far as Nick could tell. But for Henry Hutchens — Hutch, as he was always known — it had evidently become a home away from home. Hutch had been Stratton’s chief financial officer back when the position was called, less grandly, controller. He had served Old Man Devries for a quarter of a century, and when Nick took over, he helped prepare the financial statements for the sale to Fairfield. Did a good job of it too. His manner was unfailingly courtly, maybe a little formal. And when Nick had come to his office — that’s how he did it, in Hutch’s office, not his own — and told him that Fairfield wanted to replace him with one of their own, he didn’t utter a word of protest.

Nick had told him the truth about Fairfield. Still, they both knew that if Nick had seriously objected, Fairfield would have backed down. Nick hadn’t. Hutch was a highly competent old-school controller. But Fairfield was loaded up with high-powered financial engineers, ready to lecture you on the advantages of activity-based costing and economic-value-added accounting systems. They viewed Hutch as a green-eyeshades guy; he didn’t use words like “strategic.” Scott McNally was someone the people at Fairfield were comfortable with, and he was someone who could help Nick take Stratton to the next level. The next level — there was a time when Nick couldn’t get enough of that phrase; now the cliché had the stink of yesterday’s breakfast.

“Long time between drinks, Nick,” Hutch said as Nick joined him at a table inside the clubhouse. He lifted a martini glass, and smiled crookedly, but didn’t stand. “Join me?”

Hutch had the kind of ruddy complexion that looked like good health from a distance. Up close, Nick could see the alcohol-inflamed capillaries. Even his sweat seemed juniper-scented.

“It’s a little early for me,” Nick said. Christ, it wasn’t even noon yet.

“Well, of course, ” Hutch said, with his Thurston Howell III purr. “You’re a working man. With an office to go to. And lots of employees who depend on you.” He drained the last drops of his drink, and signaled to the waiter for another.

“For the moment, anyway.”

Hutch clasped his hands together. “You must be riding high, though. Layoffs — everyone talks about the layoffs! They must be ecstatic in Boston. To think that my own humble self was to be the first of so many on the gallows. It’s kind of an honor, really.”

Nick blanched. “The company owes you a lot, Hutch. I’ve always been grateful to you, personally.”

“Oh please. Not everyone has the privilege of selling the rope to one’s own hangman.” Another drink was placed before him. “Thank you, Vinnie,” Hutch murmured. The waiter, a sixtyish man whose neck strained against the club-required red bowtie, nodded pleasantly.