Chapter 27: In His Name

MORE OF SOMETHING MORE,

a story about a salesman trying to establish himself,

 a CEO scheming to buy out his father's influence

    and the woman important to each 

27

    As the limo sped from the mansion, Bill observed in the mirror valets who seemed to lean into the frame and think, “Did I see that?” In the back, he saw Slade hunched and looking forward, an angry knot on his brow. He pressed the accelerator and the CEO fell back against the seat. In the opposite corner Helen lay upright with the vacant eyes of a forgotten doll. He was driving them to the downtown condo; that much was clear. What to do with the elephant in the rear, less so.

     He stopped at the gates and after they swung open, turned onto the two-lane road that would connect to the freeway. On a weekend afternoon people were around, which told him he’d be working late. He let off the pedal. All those people eating and drinking at the wedding and he could only manage a nip.

     “Why are you slowing down?” Slade’s eyes met his in the mirror. He pressed on the pedal, swerved across the dashed white line to pass a car then returned to the lane. They reached a small business district where he tailgated a white SUV and honked until it pulled over. Racing to the next stop sign, he let off then sped through the intersection. The houses were crowded close and after navigating a lateral arc, they went onto the freeway.

     The entitled had their ways. From bouncing at the clubs he saw them carry expectations easily and in the open, which convinced others of their status. But stand in the way, and they let loose holy hell. That worked when the other guy was afraid of being embarrassed. He liked waiting for somebody to cross the line, then pop! a bloody nose. Their feelings were what really stung. He saw it in their eyes.

     Slade had his way, and he was boss. Follow orders or else, though Bill considered “else” an option to pursue another occupation. The world had plenty of bosses. He’d do whatever he had to in his name, but didn’t want anything sticking to him. “What about him, Mister Slade.”

      “Use your imagination.”

      “My mind goes into dark places. Tell me.”

     “I don’t want him bothering me or her again. Tell him then dump him. What’s wrong with you?”

     “This is the third time.”

     “Be more persuasive.”

      “Maybe if he didn’t have a reason to come around.”

      “This is business.” He glared out the window.

      A thump like a shifting load came from the trunk, followed by punching and kicking sounds. “He finds the release and everybody will see.”  He moved behind cars headed for the off-ramp, which fed into an intersection. He made a right then jerked the limo forward. The pounding stopped for several moments before starting again as they passed fast food restaurants and gas stations. He turned into a small road, pulled into a drive to change direction then pressed a button below the dash.

     The trunk sprung open and Atom Green popped out. He did a frantic 360 before rushing the cab and pounding the fender. The limo screeched away. Slade was watching the chauffeur. “What are you so satisfied about?”

      “The way he self-deported didn’t cost me a thing.”

       “It will if he bothers me again.”

       “What about her?”

        Helen had slipped to the floor and was reaching out blindly. Slade pulled her up and resettled her on the seat. She brought her hands to her face, seeming to pull something away. “When we get to the condo, use the underground garage. I’ll take her from there. ‘Too much champagne, poor girl.’”

The next chapter will be posted by January 22.  
The characters and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

Chapter 23: Outside Looking In

MORE OF SOMETHING MORE,

a story about a salesman trying to establish himself,

 a CEO scheming to buy out his father's influence

                                                and the woman important to each

                                      

                                                                       23

            

     Atom Green glared at the phone then dropped onto the sofa of his Manhattan Beach condo. Since resigning from Slade, he had not tried for another position and was consumed by thoughts of Helen. Her unwillingness or inability to respond -- he wasn’t sure which-- created a kind of panic, forcing him to confront the fear of being on the outside looking in. His time working in the background at the restaurant compelled him now to seek the main event and the greatest prize. At Slade he enjoyed the status of top salesman, the competitive camaraderie of the agents and the out-sized bonuses. The meta of Helen encompassed them all; she was the greatest prize.

       He changed into slacks, white shirt and blue blazer, then inspected himself in the mirror. He brushed back his quill-like black hair and flashed a smile that competed with the shirt and conveyed the electric exuberance that charmed others. Confidence recharged, he left for the drive downtown.

     After parking his Mercedes coupe in a lot a block from the Wayfare, he walked quickly to the hotel and through the lobby to the elevator where he keyed in the code.

     The smell of smoke should have been a warning, as well the dark figure propped at the end of the corridor. Intent on his mission he continued to the door and pressed the buzzer, and the figure approached. “You’re not allowed,” it said and grabbed him by the collar just as the door opened. Helen peeked out. “Bill! What are you doing?” The chauffeur stunned Atom with a rap to the back of the head and dragged him to the elevator. Helen followed, pulling at his black tunic. “Stop!”

      Momentary pleasure at seeing Helen vied with the distress of being manhandled. He was six feet and toned, but the other man was larger and apparently used to hauling heavy loads. He twisted and flailed as Bill pressed the button and blocked out Helen. When the elevator opened, he threw him in. “You’re not allowed.” The doors closed.                                                     

      Later, back in the car, his phone lit up and HELEN flashed on the screen. She apologized, and said she didn’t know why Bill was in the hall. He insisted that they meet. 

     “There’s something I need to finish first.”

     “The wedding?”

     “Partly. Don’t try to see me until I call. Promise." 

     The call was as brief as the encounter in the hallway. Thoughts of the wedding filled him with dread. He and Dave Forester traded places at the top of the sales chart and a friendly rivalry had developed, so much so that he was to be in the wedding party. Slade’s hostility quashed that. Dave was embarrassed, but his family was friends with Slade’s family and had the closer bond.

      Having the CEO of the company host your wedding would seem to confer a guarantee of success and he had dreamt of such a benediction. Now all he could think of was Helen with Slade at the wedding. Slade, who had the power to damn and bless, held Helen in his thrall. His mind contorted to deny converging associations. He needed to be present to prevent the unimaginable, and would have to sneak into the Palisades mansion.

     He searched his phone for the number of someone who was possibly more excited about the wedding than even the bride or groom. Lola McIntyre picked up on the first ring, and he explained the situation. She was on board enthusiastically. He cautioned, “Don’t tell Slade or anyone close to him. You know who I’m talking about.” She agreed and promised to get back to him. It was a risk he had to take. Lola had helped him connect with Helen the first time. The hitch was her workplace boyfriend: Bill.

                       

 The next chapter will be posted by August 21.

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

    

Chapter 20: Lunchtime

MORE OF SOMETHING MORE,

a story about a salesman trying to establish himself,

 a CEO scheming to buy out his father's influence

                                              and the woman important to each 


 

                                                                      20

          Lola McIntyre sat at the usual table, waiting, as others took their spots in the break room to empty paper bags and unseal plastic containers. She had observed the night-before preparation ritual in advance of a long morning commute, but the ham-and-cheese-on-white stayed in her oversized purse despite her growling stomach.

          Once, at the point of reaching in, Bill had stepped inside the door and stood there in the black broad-shouldered tunic that sent a charge through her. He jerked his head and she followed him. Though lunch turned out to be fast food eaten in the limo, it was the most romantic noontime she could remember since high school so, in hope of another lunchtime summons, she waited as long as possible.

          Mailroom Joe dropped a wrinkled brown bag on the table and took a seat. His white ear buds were in place under stringy brown hair that touched his shoulders. Then Stockroom Bob came in, looking neat in checkered short-sleeved shirt that showed off his muscles. A Tupperware man, he placed a rectangular container and two small round ones before him, nudging one into alignment. “Aren’t you eating?” he teased. She nodded, eyes fixed on the door. Then Bill entered.

          “Driving Slade to the Palisades. Not much time.” He pulled an apple from his pocket and bit in. The statement from the tight-lipped chauffeur triggered questions and conversation about the CEO who was going to tour the mansion owned by an ally, where Dave Forester’s wedding would take place the next month. Joe mentioned the fancy hand-lettered envelopes that had passed through the mailroom. Lola averred they were the invitations then expressed excitement over who’d receive them, followed by depression for being excluded. “It’s a big event in the company. It's not right we don’t get to go.” She tossed her head and the charms on her bracelet jingled. The blonde wave plastered to her face did not move.

          “I’m going.” The chauffeur wasn’t the kind of guy to boast of such things. Lola blinked rapidly and began to plead. Joe seemed to wake from a slumber. Even Bob, who liked things in their proper place, displayed a kind of expectation. “You want to go? You have to work.” He looked around the table. They were unanimous. “I’ll tell the caterer.” Lola shouted “Hooray!” to smiles all around.

          Bill headed for the door, and she hurried after to push him into the hallway. She whispered, “I want to tell you: I’ve been to the condo.” She paused for effect but the face beneath the shaved head did not crack. “Helen asked me. It’s lovely! The view! The furniture! You should have taken me. Listen. Let’s go together. What do you say?”

          “She lives there.” Before she could object, he added, “After work she doesn’t go to an apartment or anyplace else. She stays. When she goes out, she comes back. I got to go.” He left her staring with mouth wide open. She had thought to zing him; instead her mind was racing to catch up: Slade buys the condo, transfers Helen. She must be (blank). She dates Atom, then he leaves because (blank). Bill is following so (blank).

          As a storyteller, Lola strived for certain effects but right then wasn’t sure of the gist. Delighted to deliver pithy comments to elicit laughs, her subjects often were the same as on TV comedies. She favored stories that ended happy after frustrated desire. She wasn’t good at drama. With something of graver import, her voice croaked to a halt mid-sentence, forcing her audience to complete the thought so they'd believe she knew more than she was willing to say.

          Her mind drifted. A zero-minute commute, nice! Helen dreaded transferring to the condo, and now lives there. Funny, yes? Wanting to laugh, she felt something crawling up her back. She headed to her workstation. Good stories start as first drafts. She was wont to try hers out on Mimosa Liang, the co-worker in the next cubicle. Her qualifications were that they didn’t share the same friends, she tended to hone in on consequences and had an easy-to-read face.

          Petite with long black hair and dark eyes, Mimosa liked living on the happy side, so seeing Lola approach evoked a frown. As she listened her face expressed a holy sorrow. “The poor wife! At home with the kids, while he spends time with the other woman. That’s humiliating! No wonder we never see her, or else he keeps her away so she doesn’t find out. What would she do? The kids have priority, sure. I didn't think Helen was that way, but he isn’t so sure about her if he’s having her followed. I could see her liking Atom. He must have been a threat. I don’t like this. It’s not pleasant. Somebody’s going to pay. Why are you telling me this?”

          Signaling confidentiality with a finger to the lips, Lola retreated into her own cubicle with a better sense of inevitable crash and injury. She blushed thinking about workplace romances, but was thrilled more than cautioned, certain of being beyond the flack zone where she could watch harm-free.  

 The next chapter will be posted by September 4..

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

Chapter 13: Stay

                                                                

MORE OF SOMETHING MORE,

a story about a salesman trying to establish himself,

 a CEO scheming to buy out his father's influence

                                            and the woman important to each

 

                                                                      13

                        

     Helen felt cold and said to his back, “Stay.” Atom twisted around to train on her his brown eyes and smiled. He fell back into bed where she wrapped arms around him and pressed against his heat.

     She had made the condo her home, though much was in storage, and squirreled personal items into drawers and closets. Maid service helped maintain a tidy, unlived-in look. On her increased salary, she could afford her own place but hated the idea of paying rent when the condo was free. Atom was unaware because he never saw her “at home”. Usually, they made love at his place, but that Sunday night the condo was closer, so he parked his Mercedes coupe in the SOQ spot of the underground garage. The absence of the limousine signaled the all clear.

     Another thing he didn’t know was her intimate relationship with the CEO. Their liaisons often took place after investor parties. Then, Stephen always had someplace to be and left first, which suited her. Even before moving in, she made it clear she’d rather leave in her own car than be dropped off. Now he never offered and she’d sit on the settee in the expansive bathroom, wearing a green silk robe and brushing her auburn hair until he departed. Only then did she prepare for the next day, and sleep.

     But that morning with Atom beside her, she panicked. Monday meant Bill coming over with investor checks. She shook him by the shoulder but he wouldn’t rouse so, bringing knees to her chest, she pressed her soles against his back and thrust. He tumbled to the floor. His head popped up with a look of sleepy astonishment. “You’ve got to go. Hurry!”

     He grabbed his underwear on the way to the bathroom, where he splashed water on his face. He returned to the bedroom to finish dressing as Helen smoothed the zebra-motif bedspread. He tucked a white cotton shirt into pre-faded designer jeans then approached from behind to buss her neck. She pulled away. “Go!”

     Departing with an amused smile and aglow, he thought it just as well: he had calls to make if he were to repeat as Salesman of the Quarter. He ran a hand over his dark hair with the part in the middle. His clean-cut good looks were such that he could have stepped into a business meeting right then but for the clothes. In the garage, he passed the limousine and noticed a thin thread of smoke coming from the window.

     Bill waited for him to drive away before exiting the limo. His eyes winced at the unfamiliar sight of Atom Green leaving early on a workday morning. “From where?” He had an idea and dropped the butt to the ground, adjusted his black tunic, then reached inside the cab for the manila envelope.

     He had gotten used to Helen being in the condo on Mondays, so instead of going in and putting the envelope in the safe, he simply handed it over. The difference was less effort on his part and of no consequence. When she opened the door, he scrutinized her less-than-neat hair, bulging eyes and sweatshirt and jeans.  She took the envelope and shut the door. He thought of the salesman and made the connection. How would Slade take that news, when pilfering a valuable statue didn’t faze him?

     Stephen Slade, seated in a high-backed leather chair, displayed a sneer on his pale angular face. Others did not intrude on his routine. He didn’t offer a chair and gestured with his hand to get on with it. Bill didn’t like what he was feeling so served it raw: “That salesman, Atom Green, is screwing Helen in the condo.”

     “How do you know?”     

     Bill’s black-and-white worldview and the desire to make him squirm erased any doubts he had in the telling. Slade leveled opaque eyes on the chauffeur. His sneer became sinister. “What else?” Bill shook his head and left.

     The CEO in expensive gray suit and burgundy loafers ran his finger on the back wall wainscoting, as though checking for dust. A button triggered the release that revealed the hidden door through which he passed into the corridor leading to the skywalk and the Wayfare Hotel.

     Bearing the confidence of ownership, he punched in the code to enter the condo where the panoramic window admitted a city view. His nose twitched at vapor in the air, which he followed into the bedroom and then the bathroom. Steam still coated the shower walls, but she wasn’t there. He returned to the bedroom and stared at the bed. His mind sketched in the pair of them and he reached to strip away the bedspread. Wrinkled sheets and the thought of another man infected his thoughts. He exploded. “Not on my dime!”

     In a frenzy, he searched for proof of what he didn’t want to believe. What he found was more proof of Helen: silky panties, assorted socks and neatly folded jeans. In the closet hung the dresses she wore to the parties. Though logical her things would be there, the quantity surprised him. To his way of thinking the condo was a workplace but these indicated a private dwelling space --where unwanted people might visit. He had to set her straight.

                    

The next chapter will be posted by March 22. 
 The characters and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

Chapter 12: Compassion

     

MORE OF SOMETHING MORE,

a story about a salesman trying to establish himself,

 a CEO scheming to buy out his father's influence

 and the woman important to each 

12 

     Bill drove the limo up the curving drive to the mansion with the rose-tinted facade. Two columns framed heavy double doors of the front entrance that did not appear to get much use. He was already pissed that Slade had interrupted his week off to demand a pick-up, now the mansion reminded him of those above-ground shrines in New Orleans cemeteries. His brother recently passed and the family was caught short of money for the burial. That pissed him off too.

     Aching bones he had lain into a tub never rose on their own. Police and EMT arrived and then the coroner to haul dead weight to the mortuary. The ringing in his ears was the register scoring another profit and Bill, who lived on a cash basis without much to pawn, fell back on what he knew. He called in a favor and took possession of a brick. He cut it, dealt it and was in and out before anyone could respond, which was a good thing: the streets were vicious now.

     He switched off the engine and stepped outside where the King County heat swamped him. The sun reflected off his shaved head and his dark suit clung like a winding cloth. At the door, he leaned on the bell but the oversized tomb did not respond. About to blast the bell again, he heard soles slapping hard surfaces. The door swung open to reveal a small gray-haired woman in floor-length white robe: Slade’s mother, Rhea. “Can I help you?” He explained and she invited him in. Two adolescent boys peeked around a corner to scrutinize him before disappearing. “Have a seat in the library. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

     Shelves of books filled the walls around leather armchairs beneath a high ceiling, and on a small round table he spotted a small statue about six inches tall, jade green and female, apparently though not certainly.  Vertical creases in the gown conveyed motion. Two hands held an upturned vessel.

     “That’s Kuan Jin,” said Rhea, handing him a glass of lemonade. “The Bodhisattva of Compassion. Bodhisattvas vow not to enter nirvana until all the other beings of the world do.” She gave him a what-do-you-think-of-that look.
     “I don’t know nothing about bootyfatwas or nervyana.” He sipped the cool beverage. An indulgent smile crossed her face. “Being compassionate is the point. I’ll see what’s keeping Stephen.”
     Alone again, Bill stared at the statue and thought of his other job as bouncer: “Crowds behind the rope line don’t wait to be last. ‘Me first. Damn the rest.’” His stubby finger tapped its head. “Toys for rich people.”

     Heavy footsteps approached as he slipped it into his pocket. He turned to see Stephen Slade dressed in tan slacks and an striped shirt. With blue blazer draped over one arm, he carried a briefcase and Blackberry in the other. “Let’s get going.”

     Down the drive and through the gate that closed remotely behind them, Slade focused his attention on his mobile device until a pothole rocked the limo. He shot a look at Bill who was unapologetic and thinking, “Go to the sticks and this is what you get.” Thirty minutes later they reached the highway leading to the interstate. Bill held up the statue. “Look familiar?”

     Annoyance then mocking scorn flashed on Slade’s face. “Don’t tell me you want to stick it to the dash.”

     “You don’t know everything you own. This was in the library.”

     “What’s it doing here?”

      “Mrs. Slade was telling me about compassion.”

      “Keep it.”
     “What’s it worth?”

      Slade was dismissive. “Ten.”

     Bill slid the base across the dash until the head bumped the windshield. “It don't fit. I don’t want it.” Slade’s eyes narrowed.

     The CEO entered the lobby holding the figurine like a soda bottle. “Worth enough,” Bill thought, “to bury someone but they wouldn’t suffer if it broke.”  Thinking how Mrs. Slade would alert her son to the theft, a laugh rumbled inside him. “Been blamed for worse.”      

    

The next chapter will be posted by February 8. 
 The characters and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

Chapter Six: Morning Break

MORE OF SOMETHING MORE,

a story about a salesman trying to establish himself,

 a CEO scheming to buy out his father's influence

 and the woman important to each 

 6

     Nine-fifteen meant morning break. Lola McIntyre pushed through the doors of the lunchroom to take her place at the table near the wall and watch everyone coming in. Wearing snug brown skirt and carmine red blouse, her sandy blonde hair was clipped short over yearning brown eyes. A charm bracelet jangled on her right wrist.
     Employed at Slade for ten years, the staff was the subject of her gossip that ranged over absences and work habits, marriages and affairs, waistlines and diets, conflicts and complaints. New people added to her amusement but also contributed to anxiety.
     She was invested in routine. Her job as billing consultant engaged the mind just enough without hurting, and lent self-esteem when explaining ins-and-outs of premium billing to baffled clients. Difficult calls could be passed on to a supervisor, thereby sustaining her good spirits. But someone new might be her replacement, so she listened for the slightest sound of ground giving way, easy in the lunchroom’s bright lights where conversations bounced off the yellow walls of the L-shaped room with twenty tables and a bank of vending machines.
     Shy when by herself, she counted on a coalition of willing tablemates. Stockroom Bob arrived next. In his thirties with muscular arms covered in tight blond curls and hair cropped close to the ears, he wore cotton trousers, steel-toed shoes and red-and-blue checkered shirt. As he sat, he scraped a crumb from the table. “Morning, Lola.”
     Next came lanky Mailroom Joe, whose ubiquitous earphones were like life support. Wearing jeans, black t-shirt and backwards cap trapping stringy hair, he stepped just inside the swinging door, then stopped to gaze into his handheld. When the door tapped his bottom, he expressed surprise – then moved the rest of the way inside. He sat wordlessly, his greetings assumed. Lola by then was squirming like a schoolgirl.
     Instead, Betsy Murray came in. The petite executive secretary, who was about Bob’s age, fed quarters that ka-plunked into the coffee machine’s register. Lola called, “Come sit,” and she was going over when Bill kicked through the door.  Tossing his cap on the table, he turned a chair backwards to sit then craned his shaved head, looking each of them in the eye. Betsy inched her chair away. Lola tried to calm herself.
     Before her was a measure of the company. Stockroom Bob, for one, had a part in uncovering the supply cabinet overstocked with Wite-Out. Rank and file of nail-polish-sized bottles in colors of pink, blue, yellow and white were on hand despite the advent of the digital age. The Underwriting secretary derived comfort from placing orders and wouldn’t acknowledge the waste. Bob brought it to management’s attention. The secretary departed not long afterward. And Mailroom Joe, who could match mail to people sending or receiving non-work-related items, provided material for endless speculation: credit card bills, scented purple envelopes with no return address and magazines in brown wrappers. What did such routing conceal? She had always to coax him for information, but the effort worthwhile. That morning she started with Betsy. “So what’s going on upstairs?”
     The secretary cupped hands around her coffee and cast eyes to the ceiling. “The execs are always coming and going. I see Stephen the least, in the mornings usually. Sometimes I don’t see him the rest of the day. The others think I’m busy with him and don’t ask. I feel useless.”
     “Trade you,” Lola quipped, eliciting laughter. She turned to the chauffeur. “Is he on his Blackberry when you’re driving in?” He shrugged. “I keep my eyes on the road.”

     “What else, Betsy?”
     “We hired some mucky-muck consultants who are planning to upgrade our systems. ‘For the new century’, they say. Their presentation’s like geometry.”
     “Was Stephen there?”
     “Oh, yes. They make nice in front of Stephen, but think he’s hiding something. They’re afraid of being left out.” She stood. “My relief’s probably pulling out her hair.” She stepped away through the room now busy with people and conversation.
     A goofy grin spread across Bill’s face. “You’re all going to be replaced ---with robots. Nobody’s going to have a job. Then you can stay home and watch soap operas. The plans were in the back seat. Circles and lines and dollar signs. No people.”
     Lola gave him a sour look. “No drivers, either.”
     “Good! Then I can get out of this monkey suit.” He beamed like a precocious child, causing her to laugh and blush. Though married with a teenage son in the suburbs, she nurtured a crush for the big man, who seemed like the spicy reward for long commutes. The thought of the flirtation upending her life was part of the thrill, with every gesture fraught with the question --How far will I go?
     They would meet in the limousine parked in the underground garage, which occupied an outlined spot near the elevator. Foot traffic was minimal after early arrivers filled the first level, but every car had to pass going to the lower ones. Roaring engines in the low-ceiled chamber made her skittish, as did the windows lowered a crack to let the heat escape. In semi-privacy, she explored a fantasy: gazing into his eyes, she saw reflections of the young offenders on the TV news, something wild though cleaned up and in uniform.
     The first time she felt like a teenager gone to a forbidden liaison, with the sound of echoing heels her trailing conscience. Seeing cigarette smoke escaping the window, she nearly turned back, but he flung open the door. Inside, her brassy persona vanished and she sat tongue-tied with knees pressed together.  He laughed, reaching a meaty paw to pull her over. She turned to jelly. They pressed close, but a passing car made her pull away. “Too hot,” she said. “Somewhere else maybe, not here.” He grunted and lit another cigarette, as possibility hung in the air with no place to land. They continued to meet without advancing the relationship, but on learning about the condo, she grafted onto that. Now face-to-face in the lunchroom, she asked again, “When?” 
     “What?”
     “You know.”
     “Then you know the answer.”
     She squalled at his putting her off, while the others watched, thinking they knew what was at stake but not sure. “She’s there all the time, almost like she lives there. Sometimes when Mr. Slade goes up, he doesn’t ask me to wait.”
     “Well, I’ll tell you something for free. He’s not the only one she spends time with.”
     “Who?”
     “Take me and I’ll tell.”
     “Unless,” he slapped the table, “I figure it out myself.” Bob jumped up, saying he had to get back, and Joe slinked off behind him. The consultant and the chauffeur rose, her face angling toward his. But as her eyes closed, she became aware of a gathering stillness: the chatter had stopped. With eyes closed, no one could see, but that was fantasy. Instead, she patted his chest and made for the door, propelled by a press of eyeballs. Break time was over.

           

The next chapter will be posted by June 1st April 13th.. Already posted.

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

Chapter Five: Snake

MORE OF SOMETHING MORE,

a story about a salesman trying to establish himself,

 a CEO scheming to buy out his father's influence

 and the woman important to each 
 

5

     “Snake,” hissed Helen, pausing at the condo window to look westward to the proximate location of the apartment she shared until that very morning with her boyfriend.
     They made the trip to Los Angeles on a vision Kelly had painted: “Your face could be famous, and I could broker some deals and make loads of money.” Though she would have been content in the Midwest, he was thinking on a larger canvas, with fame the tempting apple. She bit freely, and they set out. He landed a job at a bank, and she the one at Slade Insurance. While she settled into a routine, he wouldn’t, his entrepreneurial sense excited by lines of people leading to pots of gold, he was convinced. He struck out to sample each one, and their schedules drifted apart.
     His manner and appearance changed from clean-cut business student to long-haired hipster contemptuous of her success. He abetted her distrust of Stephen, but when she grew to admire him, the while broadcasting a litany of perks, he needled her. “You’ll pay in the end.”
     She had had enough and was stuffing her carry on when he walked in. “Laundry? Now? We’re going to brunch.”
     “Do what you want. I’m leaving.”
     He grabbed the handle and flung it into the wall.  “We have a lease.” She retrieved the carry on and continued to pack. He pushed her clothes onto the floor. “Did you hear me?”
     “Leave me alone!” He was taken aback and stared sullenly until she finished. “So the bill’s come due.” She wheeled the bag through the door. “I’ll come for the rest later.”
     She would stay at the condo. Stephen had never said one way or the other, but she felt she could burrow neatly within the clean lines without attracting attention. Moving from the window, she went into the bedroom to unpack and afterwards called the cleaning service to schedule three days instead of one.
     Next morning, she heard the knob rattle and the sound of a fist slamming the front door. Serenely, she rose from the bedroom computer to disengage the bolt and find Bill the chauffeur.
     He was a large man, over six feet, whose bulk was barely contained within the black outfit with Gothic flying shoulders and button-up tunic. A black cap was pushed back on his shaved head where bushy eyebrows sheltered lethal narrow set eyes. Frustration contorted his face.  “What are you doing here so early?”
     “Computer work. Do you have something for me?” Reminded of the manila envelope he carried, he gave it up reluctantly. “I usually put it in the safe.” She deadpanned, “And I usually take it out.”
     Her humor seemed to take the edge off, though his eyes still flitted suspiciously beyond her. She pushed open the door. “Want to come in?”  He peered inside. “No. That’s alright.”
     Back in the bedroom she knelt beside the floor safe, twirling the dial then swinging open its door. She extracted the passbook and the tally and then unfastened the clip on the envelope. Fanning five checks like a poker hand, she calculated their worth: short of a million. A shadow of disappointment crossed her brow, which vanished with a giggle. Once, they totaled over a million, and ever since she played the expectations game. It thrilled her to be so close to streaming capital –Stephen’s phrase. Surely this was where she should be. Every addition told her so, bringing his dream closer to realization. She would aid his effort, and the proof of success would tell in his attitude.

                                                                          -ii-

      He couldn’t have known, though he acted as if he did. After the party, instead of going with the investors to the club, Stephen had Bill ferry them away, leaving them alone. Rustling in stiff silk and bare shoulders, Helen peered out the window at the twinkling lights. If he meant to stay, she had no choice but to nestle in the warmth of the successful night and out-wait him.

     “I’m calling for something to eat,” he said. “What do you want?”

     They sat on a banquette with the lights low and cool Brazilian playing on the sound system. Still corporate in suit jacket, he obsessed over plans. “At Forester’s wedding, I’ll hold the greatest-of-the-great investor parties with the Palisades mansion as loan and leverage, in rooms away from the ceremonies where they won’t interfere. I’ll show the old man. I treat my people well, though he complains about his favorites. He can’t see reality: the capital flowing in to flush him out. He has no idea.”

     “Can you keep him from knowing?”
     “When it happens he’ll know.”

     “At the wedding, I mean.”
     "The fool’s so intent on harmony, he’ll lap it up. The mansion has two wings and a central area. The investors will be in the east wing. I’ll say a few words to get things started then come back. Funny really. He takes pride in overseeing things, but doesn’t see it’s passed him by."
     Room service was a white-coated waiter, whom Helen directed in unloading a cart bearing plates beneath silver domes. When with servile bows the waiter retreated, Stephen took his place at the table while she went to freshen up. When she returned her auburn hair was fluffed and her eyes glistened. Strategic applications of perfume competed with aromas rising from the plates. They chewed with mouths but devoured with their eyes, until he breached the silence.
     “I depend on your loyalty. Every man tries to corner and win you over. I see them talking, some of it I hear and the rest I can imagine. Don’t believe them. They want someone inside feeding them information. Don’t let them steer you wrong.”
     Her words were lighter than air. “Rely on me.” He tossed down his napkin and extended his hand. Later, she begged modesty allow her leave last, and so he left her in place.

  The next chapter will be posted by March 9th.. Already posted.

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