Part Four Recap: Something More, Chptrs 15-19

Chapter 15: Some of His Own


...Helen's liaison with Peres won't rest in the past...


Bill edged the limo into early morning darkness for the drive to Dedalus offices. Looking in the rearview mirror, he tried to read the CEO’s mood, but he had settled in a corner making him hard to see.

In addition to his duties as chauffeur, he watched for threats to company interests and to Stephen Joyce personally. He wasn’t a snitch. Certain things happened all the time; people getting some of their own, as he put it. Like employees taking pencils from the stockroom when the school year starts. Human nature, he believed.

Glancing into the rearview, he caught the CEO’s attention, then refocused on the road to make a smooth transition onto the freeway.

Always, women were the complication. He wasn’t sure what Helen meant to him. It made sense if he were doing her ---getting some of his own--- and that was fine. And when someone interfered, he had to do something. Again he looked. The CEO was seated squarely in the back seat.

“You got something to say?”

He cleared his throat and sat up, his shaved head nearly scraping the ceiling.

“That girl Helen took someone to the condo Friday.”

“Who?”

“Peres Aguilar.”

A knot gathered at Joyce’s brow, between the spiky crew cut and his close-set eyes.

“How do you know?”

“She’d been asking around and came to meet him. I saw them.”

“And?”

“Stayed a couple of hours, then I followed them to a hotel.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I didn’t think it was important.”

He had planned to tell all along. He’d just as soon turn the screws than let them get away with something. They weren’t his kind of people, after all. But if he mentioned it Friday, he’d still be following them. He liked his weekends working as a nightclub bouncer.

“Tell me when they meet again. Drop me at the hotel.”

Bill drove a hundred feet past the office and stopped at the entrance to the Agency Hotel, then sprinted to open the door. Joyce stepped out, passed through the lobby and boarded an elevator to the upper floors.

Traces of last week’s party had been cleared away. In the bedroom, where guests typically tossed their coats, the zebra-striped bedspread was smooth and tight. With a swift sweep of his left arm, he ripped it off. Then again, he seized the top sheet and sent it onto the floor. The bedclothes were pristine.

He envisioned Helen at rest on the pillow, her brown hair puffed like a nest around her smooth delicate face. A smile tugged at his lips. They’d grown close, though sex was never the thing. It was availability, eagerness and her receptive intelligence. He brooded. Through redecorating and serving as the hostess-centerpiece, she made his strategy come alive.

Then Peres intruded. His lips tightened. An interloper, like his father. Everything had been ordained and overshadowed ---career, wife, children--- by Joyce, Senior, the larger than life trailblazer who started the company. Junior followed behind, not even the favorite among his siblings. He wanted to break free. With enough capital, he’d force a buy-out. Peres threatened that ambition and undermined his trust in Helen. He slammed the door behind him when he left.

*

“You work so hard. I don’t know why you worry on your time off.”

Peres, in faded jeans and t-shirt, shrugged. He dropped the cell phone onto the coffee table and leaned back into the sofa. Across the room, Mary stood wearing a red tracksuit with gold piping and holding their baby. They were getting ready for a Sunday drive.

“Especially since you had to entertain those executives Friday night. We missed you.”

She bounced Phoebe on her hip.

“Didn’t we miss Daddy?”

The baby cooed, wide eyes gazing at her mother. Peres rose and embraced his young family.

“I’ll go get changed.”

He reached back to the table to retrieve the cell phone. Reflexively, he pressed Redial and Send then listened as he walked. When the automated message began, he closed the phone and slipped it in his pocket.

He’d been trying since Saturday. She’d given him the number. Lying side by side, he’d entered it and called. They both heard the Calypso ring tone from inside her purse.

It had all clicked. Since the wedding he’d been thinking about the beautiful woman beside the CEO. Then out of the blue, Lola approached and told him of her interest. Smooth and easy was how he liked to win. This was no exception, so he was puzzled when she wouldn’t answer.

That didn’t darken his mood though. To a salesman, persistence was as important as the art of closing the deal. She came willingly before and would again; it was a matter of when. Besides, he knew where she’d be on Thursday.

*

Horrified, Helen stopped short at the bedroom. Bedspread and sheets lay tossed on the floor in a black and white twist. Her mind raced back to Friday as she stared at the guts, ripped out and laid bare. Only she and Stephen would ever presume, she thought. He never used it and neither had she, except that once.

She searched the condo for anything else out of place, then returned to make up the bed and relive the past week. Friday had been an eternity of pleasure, but since then remorse preyed on her. He called multiple times, triggering a cycle of pleasure and pain: her body recalled the pleasure, her mind her vow, and both tore at her heart. Whenever the ring tone sounded, she recoiled, and now Stephen Joyce might know.

When finished and assured that things were ready for the party, she sat by the window looking over the city, thinking and indulging in the outside chance the housekeeper stripped the bed and forgot.

*

The presence at the end of the hall was a dark blot against the beige and white tones of the carpet and walls. Bill, propped against a windowsill in black suit and tie, was smoking a cigarette and watching the door.

Since Monday, he’d been tailing the salesman. Then, when he picked up the CEO for the evening ride home, he reported what happened: nothing ---so far. His routine matched the schedule filed with his manager: sales calls, lunch and home. He lived in a small house way out in Whittier, which surprised him, and he kept busy. He wouldn’t mention that to the CEO who didn’t pass him the information to learn about his work habits.

It’d come down to Thursday, he had predicted: the only time he could place Helen for sure. Otherwise her schedule was off the radar. So he waited.

And then, in the afternoon, Peres Aguilar, attired in a charcoal gray suit, appeared. His gait was quick and confident heading for the door, but Bill got there first. Half an inch taller and bulkier, he deployed his body as a barrier.

“Excuse me,” he said, reaching for the buzzer.

“You’re not authorized.” Bill barked, as he grabbed his wrist and spun him around.

“What the---?”

Pivoting behind, he pushed him into the wall and heard his head knock. Then he slammed him again and pulled him down the hall. Helen poked her head out the door.

“Bill! What are you doing?”

Smirking, he said, “Ask Mr. Joyce.”

Shrieking, she chased them, poking and pinching. But Bill was oblivious and focused on the task. He pushed Peres into the elevator and thrust out a meaty palm that caught her on the chest when she tried to enter. As they descended to the garage, Peres regained his senses and made a move. But Bill had anticipated it and growled.

“Don’t try. Think about what to tell your boss when he asks why you weren’t working.”

He took him to his car and watched him back the red Mercedes out of the Salesman of the Quarter parking space. Then he returned to the elevator: he wouldn’t wait to tell the CEO this time.

*

Peres didn’t drive too far before pulling off. Though he couldn’t explain what happened, he recognized the man. He wasn’t proud of being manhandled. Nonetheless, a smile returned to his face: he had a lead in. She’d have to pick up.

“Peres, are you okay?”

“As well as can be expected.”

Neither could say why Bill was guarding the door. She declared she’d call Stephen Joyce to report him. Peres pressed her to meet.

“We have to discuss this,” he insisted. “We both have something at stake. Think about it. Was he keeping me out or you in?”

She didn’t give the question much credence, though there could be no coincidence between the stripped bed and the struggle in the hallway. She might need him as a witness.

“Do you know the Albatross Bar and Grill?”

“When?”

“Friday.”

“I’m calling Stephen right now,” she said, hanging up.

*

Bill, slightly stooped, stood before the CEO, a hard man basking in approval from on high. After two years as chauffeur, he could gauge his interest: narrow eyes rapt amid an immovable stone face.

“…So, I’m pulling her boyfriend down the hall and she comes out, squealing---”

A buzzer interrupted; Betsy’s voice came through the intercom.

“Helen Roy on the line.”

The men exchanged a glance.

“I’m in a meeting. Tell her I’ll see her tonight.”

When Bill finished, the CEO said, “We’ll carry on as normal. Meet the investors for dinner then take them to the condo.” Then he went downstairs to see Jeremy Port about his salesman.

Chapter 16: How Ugly Can It Get?


...Peres pays and Helen suffers...

“Fire Peres?”

The genial sales manager couldn’t believe his ears. His eyes blinked furiously, a habit when under pressure. He willed them open. The CEO nodded to confirm what he had said.

Jeremy Port faced a no-win situation. High sales volume had been the thing keeping him secure in his position as Joyce sacked other old-line managers. Peres Aguilar was one of the engines driving the numbers. Eliminate him and sales would go down and with it his job. Refuse and fast-forward to the same result.

“Well?” Joyce stood tall and imperious before the manager’s desk.

White-haired and avuncular, Port adopted the tone he’d employed as mentor to young Stephen Joyce when he started with the company.

“Of course, Stephen. Anything you say. I’ll fire Peres today, but I won’t have someone in place for a week or two. Then he’ll need time to get up to speed. Sales will take a hit.”

Joyce reflected and Port’s eyes blinked. He put forth a treasonous suggestion.

“How about reassigning his territory? The hit wouldn’t be as big.”

“If he doesn’t agree?”

“Bye, bye.”

He pointed an accusing finger.

“If he strays again, he’s gone. Understand?”

“Of course.”

“Take away his parking, too. Maybe he’ll think twice about getting into trouble.”

“Whatever you say.”

The CEO left and Port settled into his chair and looked about the office adorned with models of WWII fighter planes and a photo of his private Cessna. How he longed to fly above it all.

Now he had to redraw the map, move Peres from prime territory and tell him why: he wasn’t where he should have been. Factual, but thin. He wouldn’t be surprised if he walked.

What troubled him was why the CEO was making such a big deal. Salesmen, by definition, were all over the place. As long as they delivered, who cared? He needed to know more. His instinct for survival overcame a feeling of disloyalty; he put in a call to the Chairman of the Board, his old boss the senior Stephen Joyce.

*

A clamor of voices in the hall led Helen to open the door to five young men. Their leader had a mane of curly black hair and eyes drowsy with drink.

“Was your name, darlin’?”

“Helen.”

“Pleased to meet you, Helen.”

He staggered by. The others followed, repeating the greeting. They might have started the evening wearing similar dark suits, white shirts and ties, but since then disarray: ties undone or stuffed in pockets, shirts crawling out of trousers and jackets askew.

Leaving the door open, Helen went inside to play hostess, doubting whether they were in the right place. They were younger than the typical investor. Still, she poured their drinks, hoping that Stephen Joyce would show up.

Nearly ten, she’d been waiting the whole day to tell him what happened. She tried calling a second and a third time but the receptionist told her he wasn’t available. That wasn’t normal. He always got back promptly. It made her uneasy.

With nothing to do, she’d spent hours braiding her hair so that it coiled upon her head like a soft crown and promoted her expressive brown eyes. She wore a conservative turquoise dress, cut to the knees and concealing cleavage. Now, she was glad ---the men pierced her with looks, and Joyce for sure knew about last Friday. She’d fess up, if it came to that, but there was no excuse for what Bill did to Peres.

Someone cranked up the sound system and an unsettling beat rocked the room. Nonetheless, a woman’s shrieking laugh penetrated from the hall and stirred the men.

“The girls! I forgot about the girls.”

“How could you?”

“I dunno.”

Three women trooped into the room and were immediately surrounded; Joyce and an older man entered afterwards. The tallest had long sloping legs, red micro-skirt and silver halter-top overhanging a lean midriff. She had long black hair falling to the hips, gold hoop earrings and vivid contact lens blue eyes.

“Gigi wants tequila,” someone shouted.

“With a lime,” she shrieked.

Helen tried making eye contact, but Joyce was talking to the gray-headed man and escorted him to the window without looking her way. She hastened to serve the new arrivals, then poured two vodka rocks. Scooting around the bar, she went into the crowd, then felt the stinging on her backside that came with a loud slap. She ignored it and made her way to Joyce.

“I need to tell you something.” she said, handing over a glass.

“Bernie, this is Helen.”

Helen greeted the man, but shrank under his gaze. Thick glasses magnified his eyes. They looked like green olives in a jar. In his sixties, he had gray stubble on his chin and dry, bony hands.

“I’ll get you whiskey.” Joyce took the other glass. They sat and Bernie crowded close, trying to make conversation. But she was distracted. Then he laid a hand on her knee and clenched. She tried batting it away, but he held on. Not until Joyce returned did he release his grip. He didn’t say a thing.

“Stephen---“

“Helen made this the perfect place to entertain. She does everything.”

“Everything?” Bernie inquired.

“Even in the bedroom.”

She flinched.

“The other day, it was a mess. Now it’s like nothing happened.”

“But something did, yes?”

“Bernie, I don’t have to tell you what goes on in there.”

He grinned and trained his bottle eyes on Helen.

“Stephen, call we talk?”

“Only talk?” Bernie sniveled a giggle then smirked when she persisted.

“Alone, Stephen.”

Joyce, the maker and manipulator of worlds, was both repulsed and fascinated by the effect: beautiful Helen in the prim dress and crowning braid, and the pervert with bulging eyes and the wicked imagination. But she must learn. There were alternatives to wealth and beauty, if she didn’t obey.

Whoops and hollers attracted their attention. They turned to see Gigi raise a willowy arm in the air and circle round it like an imaginary pole. The others pulled back, paper bills sprouting in their hands.

Bernie’s head swiveled, to stare at Gigi then back at Helen. She was frightened; everybody was thinking the same thing. Music blasted. The room got hotter and ready to explode. The stripper was the spark.

She left them to go back to the bar, but the man with drowsy eyes grabbed her and shoved her into the circle. They shouted as she tried to escape. A man grabbed and tore her dress.

“Take it off!”

Frantic, she looked for an opening and hoped for Joyce’s help. Finally, she squeezed through groping hands, ran to the bedroom and slammed the door shut. She leaned against it and struggled with the lock, her heart thumping, her breath straining her chest.

Outside, the mad exuberance continued as they called the other women into the circle. “Fiona! Melissa!” So much did she want to hear a friendly voice. She heard three taps.

“Stephen?”

“Come out, darlin’. We don’t mean no harm.”

“Go away!”

She held her position, trying to hear what was happening when something scratched at the door. She imagined a dry bony hand.

“Tell Stephen to come!”

He went away, or stood trying to see through the door. But something changed. The collective intensity of shouts broke into disjointed mutterings. They were leaving. But it seemed forever before they did. Then three authoritative raps struck the door. She opened it and Joyce stepped inside.

He looked down on her without sympathy. The others had been caught up in the frenzy. Not him. He was implacable and intense.

Shivering, her braid crown undone, she wanted to express her fear and show her torn dress. She wanted to talk about the whole strange day. He wouldn’t listen.

“This is what happens when you don’t stick to the plan ---perversion, ugliness, neediness. When you brought Peres Aguilar here you undermined my faith in you. It mustn’t happen again. Do you understand?”

A desire to protest welled up inside. She held it in. He won’t listen, and maybe it was true. Had she not brought Peres the first time Bill wouldn’t have brutalized him. As for the rest, she couldn’t say.

“You must not see Peres Aguilar again. Do you understand?”

She wanted the night to end and go home.

“I understand.”

“Do you promise not to see him again?”

“I promise.”

Then he left. She was alone and it was a comfort, even though the condo was a mess, bottles strewn everywhere and chairs on their sides. She was alone and it bothered her, not having anyone to tell. She promised Stephen; but she'd agreed to meet Peres. He would understand, and it was away from work. Certainly her time was her own.

The next day early in the evening she met him at the Albatross Bar & Grill. She couldn’t imagine someone might trail her, someone tall and hulking whose shaved head was hidden beneath a baseball cap, someone discreetly snapping pictures of the couple in the booth and going into her apartment, someone who thought so well of his effort that he considered for a moment a career as photographer or private detective, something more than bouncer and chauffeur.

Chapter 17: Abduction

...Bill assists the CEO and calculates his chances...


Monday morning they followed Helen. Then, as she walked back to her apartment, Bill drove alongside and Joyce pulled her in. The chauffeur had seen Stephen Joyce as someone who got things done ---the CEO who put the fear of God into people, but didn’t get his hands dirty. No more.

He’d told him about another meeting with Peres, this time with pictures. He shook his head, like a father about to take the strap to an unruly daughter. When he picked him up he said they’d be getting Helen, too. He didn’t let on as to how until just before the snatch.

It was a funny way to resolve a lover’s spat. Joyce, dressed for the office in gray suit and blue satin tie, dragging her in; Helen, who looked young in jeans and a sweater, yelping and kicking until stifled with the saturated white rag. The chloroform knocked her out and, with arms, legs and mouth bound by duct tape, she lay in the backseat.

They drove east to the ranch house Joyce owned in the Mojave Desert. From the freeway they took a highway tracing through high desert dirt and scrub grass. The late afternoon sun cast shadows across the landscape and gusts of wind rocked the limo.

Turning into an anonymous dirt road, Joyce stepped out to unlock a metal gate. He swung it open and, after Bill drove through, slammed it closed again. They proceeded slowly so rocks crunching under the tires didn’t leap up to ding the vehicle.

Then the house appeared, isolated on a hillock. The lawn was burnt brown and blinds on the windows were shut. An empty corral lay to one side and the stables beyond. The saddles in a rusty swing set swayed back and forth in the wind.

Joyce opened the house while Bill stood over Helen, who struggled and squirmed. Then, he took the legs while Joyce lifted from under the arms and they carried her in. Dusty air swirled around furniture draped in white sheets. After dropping her onto a bare mattress, they retreated to the front room.

Bill fidgeted for a pack of cigarettes and offered one to his boss. He took a deep drag, then exhaled.

“Mr. Joyce, what’s going on?”

“Teaching a lesson.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You’re getting a bonus for this, so don’t worry.”

Joyce straightened his jacket and the cigarette tumbled from his hand. He stooped to pick it up then left to inspect the house.

This wasn’t what Bill expected. After the joke of the abduction, he thought Joyce would set her free then pamper and persuade her. But the house was a place to store things, not live. He wasn’t squeamish ---or stupid, and didn’t want to be drawn into kidnapping. The thought of money though encouraged him to play along, cautiously.

Joyce reappeared and went into the bedroom. When he tried pushing the door shut, Bill inserted a foot.

“Better to keep it open, boss.”

Eye-to-eye the tall men stood, the CEO’s spiky crew cut and the chauffeur’s shaved head. When Joyce took over, he promoted Bill from the warehouse, believing he could make better use of his street smarts and imposing bulk. He had never challenged him before.

Letting it go, he turned back into the room, but Bill pushed past and exposed the blade of a knife. Joyce gaped with surprise. In a red and sweaty face, Helen’s eyes bulged, her mouth straining against the tape. He sliced the restraints from wrists and ankles, then left, closing the door behind. Seconds later he heard the screaming accusation.

*

Ripping the tape from her mouth, Helen screamed then leapt. He knocked her back, but she scratched his face. The wound stung as he slammed the door shut.

“Damn her.”

After explaining, yet again, what she did wrong and getting her agreement, he planned to set her free. But if she won’t listen, how can she learn? He made sure the door was locked and went outside. The chauffeur lurked somewhere at the end of a trail of smoke.

Dusk settled in and lights twinkled on distant hillsides. Farther south, the concentrated glow of a suburb underlit the sky. The smell of dirt, grass and sweet jasmine brought to mind Fourth of July vacations the family had spent there, his parents and siblings.

There’d been fireworks in warm nights, horseback riding and swimming. Always, he strived to be the fastest rider, the strongest swimmer, the one who could swing the highest. When his father deeded him the house, he put it on the market. He suspected no one else wanted it, so neither did he. He wouldn’t sell for less than his asking price and it lay unused.

That morning he brought the keys, along with everything else he needed to shock her sensibility and help her understand. The infatuation with Peres was nothing compared to his plans. Maybe, in a different setting under different circumstances, she’d realize.

She should’ve known to avoid a relationship with someone in the company when he was CEO. She didn’t. Then, she promised not to see him, but did and still won’t listen. Stubborn.

After searching for a number on his cell phone, he placed a call, spoke briefly, then waited. Within the hour a dented and dirty red truck raced up the road. At the sound of its approach, Bill came outside.

The driver was about five feet six and in his thirties with black hair, mustache and scraggly goatee. His chin was small and his lips unusually red, as if stained. Traces of an undershirt showed beneath a white t-shirt. His jeans were pressed. Bill disliked him immediately, sensing something institutional; someone resigned to waiting hours for a prison phone.

Growing up, Bill played tag with the law. He’d been in a gang, dealt drugs and fought lots of battles. While those around him were being arrested, he got away. He tried understanding why. His conclusion: luck. Beyond that, he couldn’t figure, except that he liked knowing who was or wasn’t lucky. The man in the truck, he felt, wasn’t.

Joyce gave him his orders and he drove behind the house to the generator.

“We staying, boss?”

“Only until he gets the lights on.”

“Her?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“Oswald will take care of her. His father worked for mine.”

He wasn’t reassured. Maybe the father was dependable, but how did that speak for the son? Every man had a trigger. How and why he pulled it depended on character. Some fired on impulse and in all directions.

The generator sputtered to life. The porch light flickered, failed then began to glow. Helen, who had grown quiet, screamed.

“Let me go! Let me out of here!”

Oswald came around with a flashlight.

“Inside?”

Joyce nodded and indicated he should lead the way. They followed as he tested the lights in each room. Helen’s was last. Standing before the locked door, he turned to Joyce.

“This one?”

He shook his head. Helen pressed and bounced against the door.

“Let me out!”

Holding a woman against her will didn’t seem to bother Oswald. He went out the back, while Bill followed Joyce to the front where he met them carrying weathered wooden planks. He dropped them before the bedroom window, then pulled a hammer and nails from a bag. He slapped one midway across the window and looked over his shoulder.

“Help him, Bill.”

He held the plank as Oswald hammered. The blind flew open. Helen jumped, pounding the window. He could see the top of her head and her open hand flapping inside the pane.

“Help me, please!”

Without missing a beat, Oswald continued to hammer and Bill calculated his chances. If she got away and called the cops, he’d be an accomplice. If Joyce set her free, he’d make it right somehow. If something worse happened, the penalty would be severe and he’d probably be on his own, so years of observation taught.

The next plank hid her completely. He didn’t like the comparison but Oswald was following orders, just like him. If he could read minds, he’d want to know how long before he got distracted and needed the next fix, and what’s the worst he would do.

After the last plank was in place, Joyce gave him more instructions then motioned Bill to the limo. He started the engine.

“Are we coming back?”

“I suppose.”

“I don’t know about that guy.”

Joyce leaned forward. “Think about your bonus. And, remember to deliver those pictures. Make sure she gets them, not him.” Then he leaned back and closed his eyes.

Bill followed the headlights down the road, weighing things in his mind. He didn’t say how large the bonus would be and wouldn’t press him now. With her at the house, he’d bring it up and get him to come across. But if something happened, the money wouldn’t matter much. A week, he estimated. Longer was dangerous. Wanting to improve the odds, he thought of telling someone about his doubts. Maybe then, he could stay lucky and have the money, too.


Chapter 18: Help

...Helen's held as information trickles through...

Light seeped into the room, under the door and through cracks in the wood-patched window. Helen opened her eyes and lifted her head off the mattress. Time had passed. Too cold to sleep, she’d pulled a dusty sheet to her chin and lay in darkness and didn’t recall its slipping away. She must have slept. Though instead of being rested, she was tired and sore from flinging herself against the walls and door.

Her head ached dully as she recalled being dragged into the car and suffocated with a rag. Next, they carried her into the room. Then she clawed his face; the last she saw of Stephen. Alone, not knowing where, she lay down her head.

Way over in Wisconsin, family would help, if they knew. Over time, they’d ask why they hadn’t heard from her and try calling. They’d call work, leading to Stephen. They might try Kelly, who joined her on the trip west. But gone separate ways, he didn’t know her routine: only a year, already out of touch.

Friends she had were friends in the moment that clustered in happy groups to share occasions then broke apart. It was typical not to hear from someone for a spell then have her pop up for another good time. Knowledge of time away depended on her to tell.

“Help.”

*

Bill entered the break room looking for Lola McIntyre and saw her seated at a table with Bob and Joe. In her late thirties, married and slightly overweight, she had permed blonde hair, wide-set eyes and lips twisted in a mischievous grin. She shifted in her seat like a schoolgirl, having a crush on the rough man; and, wanting to hear the latest.

After all, she’d brought Peres and Helen together. Already she knew of the liaison in the condo and hotel, but hadn’t seen Bill in nearly a week. She bounced eagerly, jangling the charms on her bracelet.

He leaned over and whispered he had something to share, but not there. Nodding, and with a meaningful glance at her companions, she followed him to the garage. When they arrived, she was out of breath from keeping up with his pace. Settling into the limo’s front seat, she turned to demand the news when something caught her eye.

“Hey, whose car?”

She pointed to the Salesman of the Quarter spot and a white sedan. It should be empty when Peres wasn’t there. He drove the red Mercedes.

“That’s for Peres.”

“He don’t need it no more.”

He told her how Peres tried to see Helen and how he stopped him. A smile curved her lips: that was the man she romanticized. And then, about the wild night with the strippers. She beamed and couldn’t wait to tell. He recounted trailing Peres Friday and snapping their pictures in the restaurant and outside the apartment.

“Naughty, naughty.” She wagged a finger.

Then he told her about the kidnapping.

“In this car? You asshole!”

Not the response he was expecting. He’d decided to bring her in on it, believing she’d sanitize his role in any future telling. For the present, he wanted her to keep quiet.

“Help her!”

“You calling the cops? I’m not.”

Her anger slipped at the thought of a 9-1-1 recording. It might come to light that she got the CEO into trouble.

“Somebody has to.”

He reached for the ignition.

“I’ve got to go.”

Slamming the door, she shouted, “Think of something!”

Squealing tires expressed his displeasure. Too bad, thought Lola, still in a rage. Though placing the burden on him, she wasn’t confident. A man might conclude that killing Helen meant he wasn’t holding her anymore. So, as she returned to her workstation, she brainstormed solutions, short of taking an active role.

*

Jeremy Port sat across from Stephen Joyce Senior, the “Chairman” to most people to avoid confusion with his son. The sales manager sought guidance that Saturday morning. Earlier, the CEO called to say Peres Aguilar was terminated, countermanding his agreement Thursday to let the salesman stay.

Abrupt terminations had become the norm, the victims often managers like Port, who were replaced by younger ones in the style of the brash CEO. One generation succeeding another might explain such ruthlessness, but he found no logic for firing their top earner.

If looks were solutions, he would’ve been satisfied, because the home office was rich and substantial: from the highly polished deep-grained desk to the wood-paneled walls lined with photos of presidents and other VIPs with the former CEO.

His silver hair, burnished and trim, capped a lean face. Electric blue eyes demanded attention and focused intently. After hearing the details, he seemed to look into himself. Port broke the silence.

“Peres---”

“Is not significant.”

“It’s not right.”

“Not when individuals put themselves before the company.”

“You’re not talking about Peres?”

“Only corporations matter ---out spanning any man, commanding vast resources, building what imaginations conjure. Would commerce transport cargo around the world without the likes of Dedalus Insurance? Risks so great require corporations to counter.”

“What can I do?”

“Let things play out.”

“Things?”

“He’s raising capital to take over the company. Helen Roy helps. Aguilar got too close.”

“Will he do it?”

The Chairman smiled indulgently.

“How much has he raised?”

“We can’t find it.”

The Chairman rose and he did too, taking the extended hand.

“I promise, you’ll survive.”

The assurance was welcome, though fraught with the promise of more upheaval. He left, shaking his head over the lust for control, and for Peres. The Chairman and the CEO agreed: he had to go.

*

Peres arrived home in the middle of the day and wasn’t surprised by an empty house. Probably, Mary’d gone shopping and left the baby with her folks. He shouldn’t be there, like those pictures of Helen on the kitchen table. He slammed into a concrete wall.

The entire day had been like that, beginning with the message on his Blackberry: fired and ordered to return company property. On arriving at the office, security denied him access and handed him an envelope. The enclosed letter restated the termination and gave no reason except that his services were no longer required.

The guard offered to escort him upstairs to retrieve anything personal, but he decided against it, not wanting anyone to misinterpret the scene.

He called Jeremy Port, who was contrite. Then he tried Helen; she wasn’t answering. Not ready to speak to Mary, he spent the day driving and plotting his next move.

No doubt, he’d find something else, having contacts and clients he could bring along. Speculating what Dedalus might say to a new employer, he could only think of Helen.

She’d told him of Joyce’s demand. Classic over-reach, he said and she agreed. But the wild party and the threats upset her. He steered her from those thoughts and back into his arms. So, this was payback. He’d laugh in his face if he told that story, even challenge him to. The record proved his abilities.

The pictures struck deeper. As he shuffled them, he remembered that night, then grimaced over the pain he caused. What could Mary be thinking?
Always striving higher, he’d been secure in the approval of those watching him: his parents and now a wife and child. Without it, success seemed hollow.

He called Mary’s cell phone. No answer. Then tried her parents. She was there and didn’t want to see him. His head dropped into his hands.

*

Nothing had come to mind when Lola noticed Ulysses Mann sitting in his cubicle. Her supervisor was always coming up with bright ideas. She popped in and said, “Yul, I have something to tell you.”

At first, he didn’t believe it. Stephen Joyce? The CEO? Though he had firsthand knowledge of his anger, kidnapping?

Forebodings had been stalking him for months since Joyce dressed him down over e-mails and Helen. Waiting to be fired, nothing had happened, so he was anxious and wary of Lola’s story. Was she leading him on?

After spotting him at the wedding, she later forced him to admit he sneaked in. Then she realized how ---on the caterer’s bus--- and mocked him shamelessly, even though she wasn’t invited and was hired help. Red-faced, he persuaded her not to spread it around. She agreed, but let it be understood she had a card to play if ever he got her mad.

He never confessed why he went ---his interest in Helen, who’d intrigued him ever since hiring into his unit. Then, when she went to work for the CEO, she disappeared. He had to see her.

Sensing more than what met the eye, what he did see was conflicting: demur but confident once, radiant and compelling next, a presence in absence always --- mysterious, beautiful, exotic. In seeking the key to her nature, he embarked on a journey for himself.

Did she trick perception; or was the fault in him? Was it the light, a spell, an inspiration? Did destiny play a part, foreshadowed by his name from the hero in The Iliad and The Odyssey?

The brilliant colors of his youth ---when possibilities were vibrant and alive--- had turned monotonous gray, the passing time marked by anniversaries, bought things, and shifts in economic fortune. Going with the flow as dictated by others, his daily options became waking, working then prepping for the following day: the mental cast of worker drudge.

Now that something had happened, he strained against the mold, the implications flashing. But he’d been preparing for months.

“Let’s talk to Bill.”

*

Leaning on the limo, Bill pressed the blade of a knife into the nail of his middle finger. As he scraped, Ulysses and Lola watched, one impatient for his full attention, the other relishing the belligerent nonchalance.

Not happy about being cornered, he didn’t deal with suits, except the CEO. The small man with glasses kept tossing questions. He grunted, another man wanting Helen. Screw Lola. He can’t arrest him, didn’t pay him, either. He’d heard enough.

“This is how it’s gonna be: you can’t use the limo. Cops come, I go, and Mr. Joyce don’t know nothin’.”

He flung the last word thickly off the tongue. No objections raised, they huddled to plan.

Chapter 19: Rescue

...the improbable trio frees Helen...


Bill slapped the blackjack into his palm; the bone-bruiser drew their attention.

“What’s that for?” whispered Lola.

“Oswald.”

“If necessary,” Ulysses cautioned.

“I got more necessary here,” he said, patting the bulge in his jacket. “But don’t ask.”

“Hurry.”

“Let me.”

Taking the tin and cloth, Lola daubed Bill’s cheeks and brow, the face paint blending with black dungarees, jacket and watch cap.

“Okay.”

Ulysses pushed the control on the dash. The light went out.

Midnight. On a small road not far from the ranch house, they sat in a rented limousine behind a large bush and Lola’s Corolla. So quiet and dark that someone watching would spot them, light was their enemy, as was the unknown. Who occupied the house they didn’t know, or about Helen’s well-being her second night there.

Earlier, driving the CEO home, Bill tried to learn more. He suggested taking him to see her, but he said no, emphatically, and asked why he cared. His bonus, he lied. Joyce warned him not to mention her again. So they assumed her presence and carried out the next steps in the plan.

Ulysses edged the limo up the road headlights off, the dashboard’s orange glow tinting his face. On reaching the highway there wasn’t any traffic, though in the distance high beams like white cones glided through the night. He switched on the low beams and turned. Traveling quickly, they reached the ranch house road before anyone came by.

He turned and got out. All anyone would notice was a chauffeur approaching a gate. If locked, he’d go back for the bolt cutters. He pushed it open. Switching off the headlights, they advanced cautiously.

“There’s the bend. Let me out.”

Lola crushed Bill in her embrace and then he scampered off the road and out of sight. Ulysses monitored his watch, allowing time to traverse the desert terrain and come up from behind.

If necessary, he had said and believed. Violence was something other people did. Though if he couldn’t trick Oswald into giving her up, they’d force him. Bill was ready to, but he didn’t want bloodshed.

Call the police, whispered the small voice in his head. A law-abiding man with clear conscience would pick up the phone, punch in three digits and explain away the disbelief in the dispatcher’s voice. Then she’d promise to send a car, and he’d stare at the walls. That felt too much like passing on an obligation, and he didn’t trust the authority with the generic name to handle something he held so dear.

At fifteen minutes, he switched on the high beams and pushed the pedal to the floor. Tires roared against the road. On reaching the house, he slammed the brakes and honked the horn three times. Lola bounced around the back as they settled six feet away, broadside to the front.

“Ow.”

“Sit back. He’ll see you.”

They waited. The house stayed dark and still. He pressed the horn three long blasts to get attention and alert Bill.

“I have to go in.”

Assuming the attitude, he approached and listened for movement. He rapped the door hard and leaned on the buzzer. After awhile, he heard a stumble and a shuffle then a voice.

“What?”

“The chauffeur to pick up the girl.”

The door opened a crack and a groggy-looking Oswald appeared. He stared at him, then at the limo and back at Ulysses.

“Nobody said.”

“Mr. Joyce ordered me to get her.”

Wedged between the door and jamb, with hair unruly and ruddy lips puckering, he made no show of moving.

Ulysses demanded, “Hurry up. Get her.”

Instead, he gestured to the limo.

“He in there?”

“He sent me.”

“Why don’t he come?”

The floorboards creaked. He turned and Ulysses pushed inside. Oswald took a blow to the head; even so, he wheeled around to land a fist to the jaw and Ulysses fell, the taste of blood in his mouth. Then Oswald joined him on the floor, unconscious.

*

When they released her, Helen rushed into the front and fell over the couch. Picking herself up, she saw Bill and screamed, then circled the room like a trapped bird.

“We’re taking you home,” said Ulysses.

But she fluttered around until he pinned her arms, then she broke into sobs.

“Lola’s here. I’ll take you to her.”

He walked her to the limo where Lola consoled her. Realizing she couldn’t be left alone, Ulysses agreed to care for her.

Leading the small caravan with Bill following in the Corolla, he practiced what to tell his wife. He kept reordering the words, then listened for the effect:

“Look Penny, what I brought home.”


The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.


Next chapter will be posted February 19.