Corporate Breed

By Robert Kline

What happens when "Minnesota Nice" collides with corporate greed and ambition? White collar crime is only the beginning.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Kline
• Release date: May 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301189359

Robert Kline

Raised in Philadelphia, transferred to Minnesota by 3M, had 2 successful novels published in early 90s, retired from 3M in '93, started Valley Forge Wood Products upon retirement, it is an online mfg and retailer of engraved items, embarking on extended writing career selling ebooks.

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Corporate Breed

Robert Y. Kline

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Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Robert Y. Kline

License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Epilogue

Chapter One

Madeline Budnick didn't have to venture out on such a dismal night. Aw, you don't have to go and do that, Maddy, Elmer objected half-heartedly.

If I don't, then who's gonna? she asked.

Madeline could have parked herself comfortably in front of the old Zenith and listened to the boring drivel of the weatherman but she wasn't about to be deterred by a tiny blast of Arctic air. Madeline Budnick was a born and bred Minnesota wife, a throwback to the stiff breed that populated and tamed the frigid region over a century earlier. There were things that simply needed doin' — not things that needed doin' 'weather permitting'. The day I let a little chill in the air keep me from doin' my chores is the day you can stuff my old bones in a hole, she'd say to anyone who questioned her resolve. So she pulled on her orange mackinaw and calf-high boots and trudged out the back door of the bungalow to the truck parked in the driveway.

Three dark and slippery miles later, in the parking lot of a strip mall housing Nelson's Drugs, a pizza place, a liquor store and a barber shop, she angled the pickup into a slot in the near empty row, nudging a wall of soot encrusted snow with the bumper. She shut down the engine and the tired old Ford hunched its fenders and shuddered. Colder'n a well digger's patootie, Madeline muttered to herself then she shouldered the door open and lurched onto the tarmac, leaning into the brisk wind as she trekked across the icy lot. Seconds later she bustled into Nelson's Drugs and shook like a wet dog.

Nasty out there, the checkout girl by the door sympathized. She was a pony tailed blonde with made-up eyes and a crooked nose and Madeline blinked at the discrepancy.

Nippy, Madeline admitted then she unbuttoned her mackinaw and made for the back of the store where the pharmacists dispensed their healing wares.

It was a short list, only four items on it. There was the prescription for that ornery fungus, the one in a place so private that she hadn't even told Elmer about it. Shoot, he'd only make a joke about it and maybe even tell his friends at the tavern. Her cheeks, already red from the cold, burned even brighter when she handed the slip to the young pharmacist but he glanced at it impassively and said it would take a few minutes.

Next on the list was a three pack of 100 watt light bulbs. Only one bulb had failed, the one at the foot of the stairs in the basement, but burnouts, like deaths, seemed to come in bunches of threes so she'd be ready. Minnesota women were practical.

And she needed a new book to read. Last night she finished a Tom Clancy thriller. She read it in less than a week and harbored a tad of guilt about that. All the grueling time it must have taken that poor man to write it and she read it between Sundays. It didn't seem quite fitting. She hoped to find one by LaVerle Spencer, the lady who lived up the road in Stillwater. There were four displayed on the shelf but she'd read them all so she picked up a Steven King. A bit of scariness helped to ward off the dark and the cold. The book was as thick as a doorstop and would take two weeks, maybe even longer, to finish.

And she had to pick up the eye drops for Elmer. That's why she had ventured out on such a bitter night in the first place. His eyes were smarting from staring at his danged computer screen all day long. Land sakes, Elmer and his danged eyes. But it was a mild hypochondria by comparison. Virginia Monteiro's husband had been crabbing about a fiery rectal itch since the day he turned sixty. At least Elmer's complaint was a tad more refined.

To the right of the prescription window was a gondola of health aids including some items that Madeline thought should be packed in plain brown wrappers and hidden out of sight behind the counter. My lands, she thought, what about all the youngsters who shop here? What they must think!

On the middle shelf were five brands of eye drops displayed side by side. One brand commanded three facings, 'Eye-so-cool'. The name rang a bell. Sure, that was one of the products made by that outfit over in Roseville. Shoot, they were local folks. Minnesota people. Might as well throw them the business as give it to some fancy New York outfit with big wigs who rode around in German cars. She plucked it from the shelf and stepped to the pharmacy window where she picked up her prescription and paid the young man for her other purchases.

Have a nice night, Mrs. Budnick, he said as he handed her the bag.

Sure, she thought. It's colder'n a witch's patootie out there, Elmer's eyes are smarting and my crotch is crawling with fire ants. She nodded crisply. You too, she said as she buttoned her coat and headed for the door.

* * *

Jaysus, the dock man moaned, puffing steam as he pulled the door closed, it's cold 'nuff to freeze your thing off. He wrapped his arms around his middle and shivered.

The foreman didn't look up from the desk. Any sign of the truck?

Nope. But as long as I'm getting paid by the hour, I don't give a rip if he takes all night.

The foreman shook his head. That's the trouble with you guys, you got no ambition.

The worker flipped him the bird.

They were inside the warehouse by the small door at the end of the loading dock. It was adjacent to a high corrugated overhead door where they loaded and unloaded eighteen-wheelers. There were six such doors, each opening to a concrete platform where goods were loaded and unloaded. Raw materials came in and finished goods went out. Cough drops, lip balm, tooth paste, eye drops, mouth wash, deodorant. That was the business of MPC — Minnesota Personal Care Products. Bad breath and BO were out. Fresh breath and armpits were in and MPC was taking a profitable bite of the proceeds.

You don't suppose he broke down again, do you? the dock man asked.

The foreman shrugged disinterestedly. He sat in a slat back chair at a grey metal desk. Shipping documents and rubber stamps and pads.cluttered the surface. A four tier metal file cabinet was behind him. Atop the cabinet was a family photo and two bowling trophies. The small office was lit by the yellow glow of an overworked goose-necked desk lamp. A six paned window, opaque with frost, looked out to the concrete loading platform. He shrugged again. Not my problem. Anyway, I get paid by the hour just like you. How 'bout a game while we're waiting.

Sure, the dock man answered. I can use the dough.

Both men were on the wrong side of forty. The foreman's face was heavy and deeply pored, his nose red from sun and bourbon. He wore baggy jeans and a purple sweat shirt. The dock man wore a plaid shirt and khaki pants. He was lanky as a puppet, had crooked teeth and a nose like a hawk. They both pulled the four till midnight shift by choice; the foreman because it was a soft shift, the dock man so he could lay tile during the day to pay off the new bass boat that had yet to see action. The foreman tugged open a drawer, pulled out a deck of cards and began to shuffle with practiced hands. The dock man stepped to the window and cleared a small circle in the frost of an upper pane with the tip of a finger. He put his eye to it and leaned close, his nose almost touching the glass.

You gonna play cards or aren't you? the foreman complained.

I thought I saw somebody out there.

Sure, a polar bear.

No, really, I thought I saw somebody over by the trailers.

The foreman pushed wearily from his chair and stepped to the window where he drew his own circle in the adjacent pane. I don't see nobody, he said.

Way out by the rigs, the dock man coached.

At the far end of the lot, three tractor trailers, two Peterbilts and a Mack were parked side by side, dormant giants slumbering in glacial moonlight.

I still don't see nothing, the foreman said.

The dock worker cupped his hands over his circle and eyed the stark terrain. I don't see it no more either, he admitted.

Maybe it was a dog, the foreman said. Or maybe a deer. One of the drivers told me he saw a deer in the yard a coupl'a nights ago.

Yeah, the dock man agreed, probably only a deer.

Sit down and get your money out.

The manufacturing plant closed at five and then a skeleton crew stayed on and palletized the afternoon production, making it ready for next morning shipment. They went home at seven leaving the dock man and the foreman on duty to handle late shipments and deliveries. These two gabbed, read the paper and played gin rummy. They were organizing their cards when the foreman suddenly stiffened. Did you hear something? he asked.

The dock man rolled his eyes. This is great. I'm seeing things and you're hearing them. This job's gonna drive us both nuts.

No, really, the foreman said, his brow now furrowed with concern. I thought I heard a motor cranking up. He stood and stepped to the window. His first circle had already glazed over and he cleared a new vista with a sweep of his forearm. The three tractors faced him head on from about fifty yards away. A cloud of smoke belched from the stack of the middle tractor. Son of a bitch, he exploded, somebody's swipin' a rig.

You're shittin' me, the dock man said, hurrying to the window.

As they gaped in astonishment, the massive Peterbilt inched from its slot and lumbered forward, gaining momentum as it crossed the frozen yard.

What's that crazy son of a bitch doing? the dock man asked then he sprung to the door and jerked it open. Cupping his hands to his mouth, he stepped to the front of the loading dock and shouted into the icy night, Hey you simple son of a bitch, what the hell you think you're doing?

The truck was bearing down, its motor roaring in protest. Plumes of smoke erupted from its stack and a cloud of snow sprayed from the tires. The foreman ran to the dock man's side and stared.

What the f —-!, he said then he gasped when the driver's door opened and a figure tumbled from the cab.

Holy shit, he shouted and he turned to run back into the office.

The dock man spun also and was almost to the door when the truck's front tire mounted the outside service steps. The cab twisted fiercely, crushing its fender against the bulwark as the grill rammed the entry door. A shaft of wood splintered from the jamb and shot through the air like a javelin, burying itself in the dock man's neck. He crashed to the concrete floor and gurgled helplessly.

The foreman cringed behind a pillar as his co-worker's life spurted away in a crimson fountain.

* * *

Stan Crowley wore a gabardine top coat that had once been fashionable. It had buttons and straps and buckles and a plethora of pockets. Brenda gave it to him on his birthday three years ago, happy to retire a hoary London Fog that Stan had worn to tatters with the simple explanation that, It works. Now, the new coat was in tatters and sullied by countless splashes of slush and wine and mud. Crowley didn't notice things of that sort.

Crowley himself had once been fashionable in a craggy sense but he too had become tattered over time. He was once tall and wide at the shoulders, tapered at the belt and once walked with the sinewy stride of a wily predator but now he shambled along like a wounded scavenger. His rugged face had been creased by sun, his eyes piercing points of blue ice but now his face was puffy from booze and his eyes were damp and dazed. He shuddered as a blast of Arctic air swirled down Hennepin Avenue and froze his nose hairs. He stepped into a shadowed store front, reached into a slash pocket and pulled out a flask of Cutty Sark. He hadn't yet descended to the seedy three dollar wine of the street people.

Because Crowley was not a street person. Street people served no useful purpose. Stan Crowley labored in a useful role and the street was his venue.

He took a generous swig and winced as the spirits seared his throat then he recapped the flask and stuffed it in his pocket. Fumbling in another pocket, he pulled out a folded sheet. He opened it with numb fingers, glanced at it again and his face hardened as it always did.

Despite the chill, Hennepin Avenue teemed with life. Showgoers from the Orpheum hurried by, heads bent into the knifing cold. Bar hoppers between stops, raucous teens, blatant hookers, rueful bums — Hennepin Avenue wasn't ready for sleep.

Have you seen this man? Crowley asked, holding the copy at arm's length as two couples approached. They were well dressed, probably hurrying to a black Cadillac that would whisk them to Minnetonka. What chance was there that they would recognize the character depicted in the police artist's rendition? But maybe he mowed their lawn or took out their dock. That's how police work was done. Turn over every stone.

One of the women glanced at the picture of the smirking black man but her husband snatched her elbow and tugged her away, mumbling about derelicts. Crowley huddled back against the wall and shuddered.

Have you seen this man? he asked .

The passerby was a stocky young man in a windbreaker. He took the paper, studied it then shook his head. I don't think so, buddy. Sorry! Then he handed the paper back and strolled off, seemingly unaffected by the chill.

Two young black men approached and Crowley stiffened. He studied them as closely as his rheumy eyes would allow. He didn't have to glance at the drawing. The face was embedded in his consciousness. Narrow eyes, flat nose, heavy lips, thin mustache, contemptuous smirk. Neither of the approaching men resembled the drawing. They each wore long cashmere overcoats and sported gold earrings. One wore a wide brimmed leather hat with a tan band, the other a black beret. They sensed his scrutiny and glared, shifting from a pragmatic hustle to a defiant stroll.

Crowley extended the paper. Have you seen this man? he asked, the timbre of hope at odds with his wretched appearance.

The man in the leather hat pulled up short. The other snatched the paper away, glanced at it then shoved it back. What if I have. What's it to you, Whitey?

I'm looking for this man, Crowley said evenly. He'd confronted the attitude so often it had lost all meaning. Have you seen him?

The other man stabbed a bejeweled finger at Crowley's chest. Hey, I seen this dude before, Percy, he said.

Say what?

Yeah, ain't you the pig that likes to kick black ass? Ain't you the one they call the ninja cop?

Have you seen this man? Crowley persisted.

The man shot a glance at the paper. Sheeeet, man, everybody knows all us niggers look alike. That boy could be my brother for all I know. Then he wrinkled his nose in disgust. You don't look so tough to me, Ninja Cop. In fact, you look like a piece of shit. Don't he look like shit, Percy?

Percy looked hard at Crowley then glared at his friend. You shut your mouth, fool, he ordered then he reached for the paper. He smoothed it and studied it closely, finally shook his head and handed it back. Never seen him, man. Sorry. Then he grabbed his friend by the arm and pulled him away. They had gone ten paces when Percy looked back, his eyes conveying sad respect but Crowley didn't notice. He had already backed against the wall and pulled out the flask.

As evening deepened, winter's ferocity thinned the sidewalk traffic. More then forty people were shown the drawing. Most were startled and averted their eyes as if Crowley, like the ubiquitous Christmas bell ringers, was invisible. Some feigned attention then shook their heads and hurried on. A few asked why he sought the man but Crowley only repeated, Have you seen him? and they shook their heads and moved on, mumbling or chuckling.

A man in a black overcoat with a yellowed clerical collar suggested that Crowley, Put vengeance out of your mind, my son. Forgive those who have caused you pain. They have laid a stone of despair on your path to everlasting life.

Thank you, Crowley muttered.

The man patted him on the shoulder, met his eye in everlasting friendship, handed him a leaflet and left.

Crowley crumpled the flyer into a pocket, and took another pull of scotch. His eyes teared as the alcohol scorched a path to his stomach. He looked at his watch. The numbers floated in a haze. He blinked away the fog and breathed a lung full of winter. It burned his throat and made him cough. The effort turned back the Cutty, pumping it up his neck, making him retch.

"Fuckin' bum!' The voice quivered with malice.

Crowley hacked wetly and turned. There were three of them, a species of urban vermin that Crowley didn't comprehend. He understood the strutting gangbangers shouting mothafucka this and mothafucka that but this new form confounded him. Even before his brain became numbed by alcohol, Crowley couldn't conceive what motivated the suburban punks who shaved their heads, punctured their flesh, bound themselves in leather and wreaked havoc on the defenseless who were unfortunate enough to cross their path.

The taller of the three had spoken. His head reflected the glare of incandescents and a mammoth pin speared his cheek. His companions were cut from the same bolt; leather, pins, chains, buckles, boots, sneers.

The leader stood as tall as Crowley though not as wide. His skin was pale, his eyebrows almost white, his dark eyes seething with contempt. I said you're a fuckin' bum, he spat.

A puke bag, another added, this one swarthy and Mediterranean, his lip curled in loathing.

The third stood with arms folded, legs spread. He shook his head and sneered. The smelly bum wasn't even worthy of his disdain.

Crowley had seen it all before. He had seen them strut, harass, intimidate, hurt. In another life he had rousted and collared them. He had roughed them up when their brassy contempt overwhelmed his patience. And he was aware of the dire potential of their viciousness but it didn't matter. Only the mission mattered. Turn every stone.

Have you seen this man?

The swarthy one ripped the paper from his hand. He looked back and forth between the picture and Crowley.

Crowley waited, his eyes blank and watery.

The boy crumpled the paper and tossed it in the gutter.

Crowley didn't flinch. He had more copies.

The boy sneered. He looks like a dick head, just like you, only he's a nigger dick head. Then he coughed and spat a gruesome wad that fouled Crowley's chin and shoulder. He ignored it.

The taller one loomed close. You gonna take that shit? You don't deserve to live. You're a fuckin' leach. You beg for nickels then you buy a bottle of cheap wine and get shitfaced. He reached out and patted the overcoat pockets. A savage grin split his face. Lookit this. He stuck his hand into the slash pocket and brought out the flask. Hey, hey, he taunted. The bum must'a hit the lottery. He tossed the flask from hand to hand.

The booze was Crowley's defense against the bitter cold and bitter memories and he reached out in desperation.

The boy drew it back then hurled it against the wall where it cracked in half and spilled it's precious contents.

Why did you do that? Crowley asked, bewildered.

The young man's eyes blazed and his nostrils flared. You don't ask me why I do anything, you fuckin' bum, he shouted. I do what I want, then he shot a fist at Crowley's chest, sending him staggering into the wall.

I think the puke needs a lesson in manners, the swarthy one suggested and he reached into his pocket.

Crowley watched groggily as the boy slipped the heavy metal rings over his fingers and a distant alarm nipped at the uncomprehending fog that clouded his thoughts.

Grinning savagely, the boy cocked his arm and his fist shot forward.

A piercing siren suddenly screamed in Crowley's brain. These creatures attack like wild dogs and rip they their prey to pieces. They kill.

And who would find Brenda's murderer if Crowley was dead? Who would brave the cold and show the picture? His mission was threatened and the threat triggered a dormant reflex.

Crowley bobbed instinctively and the blow glanced harmlessly from his cheek. His own arm exploded in a move the boy hadn't anticipated. Bums don't fight back.

His outstretched fingers stabbed into the boy's widened eyes. He gasped and clawed at his face. As the boy stood blinded, Crowley plunged a knee into his crotch then lifted his other knee into the boy's descending chin. There was a stomach turning crunch.

It happened too quickly for the others to react but, with the currency of surprise already spent, Crowley was vulnerable. Instinctively, he crouched, left arm extended, right arm raised and cocked, hands bladed.

Crowley tried to focus. He saw two assailants, then four, then two swimming in wavy circles. He shook his head and the images steadied and sharpened.

A hand flashed out. There was a distinctive click as the blade spat from its sheath. Scum, the boy muttered as he lunged.

Crowley sidestepped and kicked at the boy's feet. He stumbled to the sidewalk and the knife skittered free. As the boy groped for the weapon, Crowley spun and exhausted his remaining energy. The tip of his worn cop shoe connected squarely. The boy's lips split. His teeth erupted from their sockets. Blood and grit filled his mouth. His scream emerged a muffled gurgle, drowned out by the sudden screech of tires.

Lights flashed, voices pealed and doors slammed. Crowley turned and the lead sheathed fist of the third boy exploded in his face.

Then he slept.

If he's that tough when he's drunk, I'd sure as hell hate to mess with him when he's sober, the black cop said admiringly as he eased the squad car from the curb.

Moaning softly, head propped on a scratchy blanket, Crowley sprawled across the back seat. A rivulet of blood trickled from his nose. His eyes were swollen shut, his forehead red and welted.

I still think we should have run those punks in, his partner said. He was young and idealistic, paunchy with straight dark hair and slightly slanted eyes. The other cops called him Won Ton which he accepted with good nature.

Now what good would that do? his partner asked. George Goines was in his twelfth year with the Minneapolis Police Department. He was tall and trim. His face was square, his chin strong, his hairline receding. He wore wire rim glasses that gave him a look of academia . This man — he jerked his thumb towards the back — ain't gonna press charges and besides I don't want them skinheads bleeding all over my nice clean car.

Won Ton shook his head. I think he's a disgrace to the force.'

He ain't on the force no more, Goines reminded him. Besides, he never was on this side of the river. He was a Saint Paul cop.

What's the difference. A cop's a cop in my book.

Your book don't count.

Won Ton didn't buy it. Crowley's one of the worst bums on Hennepin Avenue. I don't know why you feel you got to bring him home.

Let's just say I don't mind doin' it, Goines said simply.

Well maybe I do, Won Ton shot back. Why doesn't he get a job? Why does he have to get shit faced every night and pester people with that goddamn picture?

Goines shot his partner a warning glance. The man's got his reasons.

We all got our reasons. Charles Manson had his reasons. As far as I'm concerned, the guy's a disgrace. He was even a disgrace when he was on the force.

Won Ton, you don't know shit, Goines erupted, turning on his partner with eyes blazing. You was still in diapers when Crowley was makin' good busts. He looked in the direction of Saint Paul. He took more bad guys down than you ever seen in your worst dreams.

Good busts, Won Ton snorted. He was harassing people. He was beating the people he was paid to protect.

Goines' lips curled and he shook his head. You know all about it, don't you? You know all about it 'cause you read that shit in the paper.

Does that make it wrong, just because it's in the paper? Won Ton asked.

Goines' foot gained weight as his temper rose and he had to back off the pedal. That all depends on who wrote it, he answered softly, his anger subsiding. Some of them newspaper people think every time a black guy gets his head busted by a cop that the cop is a Kluxxer. I can tell you sure as shit that ain't right. He paused and recalled. 'Specially ain't right about Crowley. For every black dude that hates his guts, there's five that wanna give him a medal. He twisted and glanced at the sleeping figure. The Ninja Cop, he said fondly. He was good, Won Ton, he was real good. We could have used a couple like him on our side of town.

If he was so good, why did they write those things?

You mean that nonsense about him beatin' up on black folks? That's bullshit, Won Ton. It's one hunnert percent bullshit.

Crowley moaned again.

You heard how his wife bought it, didn't you? Goines asked.

Won Ton nodded. The story had been front page in both cities' papers for three nights running.

Goines recalled it anyway. She was doin' charity work at a soup kitchen near the bus stop in Saint Paul, one of them places where street people go for a free meal. The place closes at eight o'clock. She finishes cleaning up and she's walkin' to her car. He paused. It's only fifty feet away, fifty goddamned feet. She's putting her key in her door when some junked up son of a bitch grabs at her purse. She tries to hang on and the son of a bitch knocks her down. Goines wasn't really telling Won Ton the story. He was repeating it for his own benefit, reminding himself what they were fighting. The son of a bitch pulls a gun and shoots her in the head. Shoots her in the fuckin' head, he rasped, slamming his fist on the wheel. He took a deep breath, let it out. The man never got over it, he said, looking toward the back again, and who can blame him? Next thing you know, he starts drinking. Then he starts rousting punks with a little more muscle than was needed. He kicked some ass. But do you think they gave a shit about what happened to his mind? Do you think they gave a shit about what happened to his woman? Nah! They just piled on like that asshole, Paul Whiner. They tried to get him kicked off the force, but he wouldn't give 'em the pleasure. He told 'em to stuff their job and he quit.

All through Goines' soliloquy, Won Ton sat quietly and stared at the passing brownstones. Who was he to lecture a black man about repression? Five minutes later, Goines stopped in front of a brick apartment building near the Mississippi. Won Ton offered to help his partner carry Crowley to his room but Goines declined. He could handle it himself. He wanted it that way.

* * *

Madeline Budnick tucked her secret prescription in the medicine cabinet behind her hair spray and put the eye drops on the counter with the rest of Elmer's paraphernalia. She changed into her flannel pajamas, threw on a terry cloth robe and trudged downstairs to the living room.

I got your eye drops, Elmer, she said as she stretched out on the couch with her new book. They're in the bathroom. She fixed the pillow under her head. They're called Eye-so-cool. That company over in Roseville makes them.

You're too good to me, Maddy, he said. My eyes are burning so bad I can hardly watch TV. Elmer pushed from his lounge chair. He still wore the rumpled pants and white shirt of the business day but the shirt was unbuttoned and he wore slippers. I'm gonna put 'em in right now, he said and he shuffled toward the steps, tickling her toes as he passed.

Madeline was pleased with his touch and his comment. Small kindnesses were the glue of their marriage. She stretched, wriggled into familiar dents in the cushions then read the jacket copy. She was just starting page one when a ghastly scream shattered the evening calm.

Chapter Two

MPC manufactured and distributed creams and lotions and ointments and gels designed to soothe, exfoliate and beautify. More familiar than the company name were the brand names on the store shelves. Names like Lip-so-cool and Eye-so-cool and Cheek-so-pink brought nods of recognition from shoppers but don't bother to ask who made the stuff. That didn't matter. Unless you were a stockholder or an employee.

Jimmy Faber and Max Tripp were employees.

The meeting was being held in the employee's cafeteria, a festive room with molded chairs, gaily colored tables and wall posters depicting exotic vacation hideaways.

Do you think it was on purpose? Tripp wondered. Speculation about last night's accident at the loading dock dominated the gossip.

I don't think so, Faber answered. He was drinking machine made coffee from a Styrofoam cup. Why would anybody want to do something as stupid as that? He shook his head sadly. And poor Nate. He had a couple of kids and one in college, gonna be a veterinarian or something like that. If you ask me, I think it was just a weird accident.

Could be, Tripp said, unconvinced.

All right, let's knock off the chatter and get this meeting going. Charley Carbone was a folding machine operator on the packaging line. He was also the shop steward and spoke for the union employees. Getting elected wasn't his idea but, once there, he sank his heart into it. He was stocky with thick black hair and a voice like a table saw. Yo, he shouted, you guys wanted this meeting so how about canning the crap so we can get started.

The announcement was met with smiles and shrugs and frowns. In the silence following Charley's message, Max Tripp shot up his hand. I got a question.

Yeah? Charley said with thin patience.

It's about these rumors goin' around, Tripp said. Some people are sayin' there's gonna be layoffs.

I've heard the same thing, Charley said. That's what this meeting's about. I'm seeing Anderson this afternoon to talk about it. If there's any truth to the rumors, Anderson will own up to it.

Ed Anderson was the Manufacturing Director. Fair, tough, respected, he was one of the pillars supporting the smooth relations that usually existed between labor and management.

Then what happens? another voice asked. Darnell White was lead worker on the dispersion mixing crew, captain and leading scorer on the company basketball team, captain of the slow pitch soft ball team. Black man. If there's a layoff, the last ones hired are the first ones fired, isn't that right?

Carbone shrugged. That's the way it works, he admitted, but I don't think we ought'a get all worked up about anything until we got a handle on the facts. That was the attitude that earned Charley the support of co-workers and the respect of management.

That's easy for you to say 'cause you aren't on the short list, White went on, but you know who is.

What are you trying to say, Darnell? Charley asked.

I'm saying that the company's been here for umpteen years but it wasn't until a coupl'a years ago that there were any blacks working here. And since we're the newest, we're the ones who'll be getting the pink slip, isn't that right?

Keerist, tell it to the chaplain, Tripp grumbled and White shot him a menacing glance.

I don't know what's gonna happen, Charley said, but you can bet there's gonna be a helluva lot of negotiating before anybody gets laid off.

Race relations had never been a problem at MPC. By the same token, Darnell White was correct when he said that, until recently, there hadn't been many blacks employed but it wasn't due to a calculated policy. It might have been different had Jeff Fernwood Senior ever tried to woo workers from the inner city. But he hadn't. Jeff Senior was a fair man and a respected boss but he never felt that it was industry's role to create social policy.

Upon the founder's death two years ago, Jeff Fernwood Junior assumed his father's chair and quietly began to rectify the racial balance. MPC employed four hundred and thirty-six workers and, although the mix was skewed toward white and Lutheran, that was only because those were the demographics of the northern suburbs. Darnell White was aware of that. But he was also the unofficial voice of the twenty-six black employees and it was his role to keep their needs at a high level of corporate awareness.

You just remember that when you talk to Anderson, White said.

The black man's words sounded harsh but Charley wasn't offended. He knew how the game was played. Darnell had to make his stand the same as Charley did but beneath the pose, Darnell was a team player.

Other hands were raised and other employees voiced their concerns and, after ten minutes, the workers, mollified that their fears would be addressed, finished their coffee and went to their posts.

But Charley Carbone stayed behind, his face dark and troubled. He knew the difference between hallway gossip and ominous rumor. He didn't like the vibes. Since the day he joined the company, MPC rode a wave of prosperity and optimism but he sensed a descent. He hoped he was mistaken. He shrugged his thick shoulders and walked back to the floor to tend to his machine.

* * *

Jerry Attles sat at the table in Paula Billings' office, shifting uncomfortably from one plump cheek to the other. He stuck a finger under his collar and peeled it from his damp neck. The more relaxed he attempted, the tighter he appeared. He was beginning to wonder if the tete-a-tete was such a good idea.

He came upon the idea in the cocktail lounge at the downtown Marriott in Miami. The bartender, in search of an above average gratuity, instantly grasped the essence of Jerry's problem and helped him devise a strategy. It seemed so logical at the time. Of course, at the time, Jerry already had downed three bourbon Manhattans and was midway through another. Now he wished he had never met the bartender but there was no turning back.

The best way to approach the discussion, he reasoned soberly, would be as a sudden afterthought — Oh, by the way, Paula —, seemed like a good ice-breaker. He timed his approach to the coffee machine to coincide with Paula's return from the morning staff meeting. Oh, by the way, Paula, I just had a thought and I wonder if we could chat about it when you have a minute.

Sure, Jerry, she said. Let me get a cup of coffee and we can talk right now. If you're free that is.

Oh yeah, sure. Here, let me buy.

She smiled her thanks as he plugged his change into the slot.

How do you take it? he asked then, struck by the double entendre, his ears reddened like a naughty child's.

Fortunately, Paula's mind didn't travel in the same bawdy circles. Just black please.

In her office, she waved him to a chair then sat across from him at a round oak table. She had ordered the table the day she was promoted from Personnel Manager to the new role of Director - Human Resources. Conversation around a small table was less intimidating, a coffee klatch, two buddies swapping yarns over a beer. There was no obvious hierarchy around a circular table and that served her method. And being a woman made it even more important. Human Resources was the corporate confessional. It was here where people got interviewed, hired, fired, advised of an urgent phone call, counseled about a breach, exercised affirmative action, denied sexual harassment, swore off booze. There were some who thought the topics that needed discussion were too sensitive or too crucial to be addressed by a woman. Of course, they never said it aloud but Paula knew how they thought and that only made her job more interesting.

What can I do for you, Jerry? she asked brightly but before he could answer, the phone rang. She smiled an apology. I'm sorry, Jerry. I'm expecting a call from Ed Anderson. Do you mind?

While she answered the phone, Jerry struggled with his dilemma. How does one tell a female personnel director that his immediate boss was a bitch?

Jerry Attles was the National Sales Manager, an important role in the hierarchy of the corporation. Middle Management. Below his level on the organizational chart were the supervisors and the worker bees, the people who actually made and sold product. Above him on the chart were the Directors who were paid significantly larger sums of money to perform the more cerebral functions that made the business tick. And above them all was Jeff Fernwood, President and Chief Executive Officer.

Jerry was comfortable with how the system functioned. Workers did things. Supervisors taught the workers and helped them do things. Managers made sure that the things being done were the proper things. Directors decided what things should be done in the first place. And Jeff Fernwood read the reports and allowed it all to happen.

Paula Billings was a director and Jerry Attles was a manager. Director trumped manager. That created certain reservations in their business relationship. Paula, being a woman, further complicated things. She was also an attractive woman and he had mentally stripped her of both her title and her tasteful business attire but he had performed that mental ritual on virtually every female in the company and no one was the wiser. His secret fantasies caused no harm.

Paula hung up the phone and returned to the table, shaking her head in exasperation. I'm sorry, Jerry. There's always something happening at the plant. Now what were we about to discuss?

Jerry noticed how gracefully she held herself. She was pretty though not voluptuous but dainty and feminine. She wasn't like Sue Daniels. Sue Daniels was the caricature for whom the word BITCH was created. Jerry worked for Sue Daniels and he despised her. That's why the helpful bartender in Miami suggested that he go to his personnel manager and tell him — Jerry didn't (couldn't) admit that his personnel manager was a her — tell him that he can't work for the bitch any longer. It sounded like a good idea at the time. And now here he was and he wished he wasn't.

I hate to bother you with this, Paula, it's really no big deal. It's just that — it has to do with —. And now he suffered his greatest fear, that in discussing his problem his voice would falter, his throat would constrict and he'd be unable to deliver the simple words. Grown men didn't do that. Little kids do it. But it happened to Jerry. It had been occurring sporadically ever since Janice took a hike. That's how Jerry alluded to the painful divorce. Yeah, the old lady upped and took a hike. He'd toss out the line with a clownish smirk and a dismissive wave then he'd turn away or bring a drink to his lips to conceal the mist that suddenly invaded his bloodshot eyes.

Thirty-two years they were together, most of them good years, especially the early ones. The years before the booze. Not that Jerry was an alcoholic. Not at all. Sure, he'd have a few pops after work, maybe a couple at lunch, but that went with the territory. Sales was a thirsty job and clients expect your presence, even on nights when you'd rather be home with your shoes kicked off reading the evening paper. But try telling that to Janice.

Paula saw the mist in his eyes. Are you having some kind of trouble with the job, Jerry? she asked. She didn't probe with syrupy sympathy. She quizzed briskly, head cocked to one side as she leaned forward to catch the answer. There was a man's pride involved here and she respected that.

Well, it's not exactly trouble, he mumbled. It has to do with — with —.

There it goes again. A fist had jammed hard against his Adam's apple, garbled his words and squeezed his face into a shameful grimace.

Shit, he burbled and he took a deep breath and turned away, gazed at a clown painting on the wall above her credenza. He was mortified.

Does it have to do with Sue Daniels? Paula helped. She had heard the rumors.

He nodded without looking at her.

Paule smiled slightly. Does it have something to do with Sue being a bitch, she asked, lending a lightness to the question.

Chuckling in spite of himself, Jerry tugged a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes then he faced her. How — how did you know I was gonna say that?

Call it woman's intuition, Paula said with a friendly smile. Then she waggled a finger at him. But I never said that, did I?

Said what? he replied, eyes wide with exaggerated befuddlement. He was pleased to be part of the conspiracy, comfortable with Paula's gracious camaraderie. This lady is good, he realized, very good. He now understood why she had been elevated to the Director level. If his sales reps were half as proficient at breaking down barriers, perhaps he'd be making forecast and sleeping better. Maybe he'd even be drinking less and feeling better in the morning.

He smiled wanly. Yeah, you hit it right on the head. 'Head' rang like 'hade' as he slipped into his Texas dialect. I don't want to get into personalities or anything like that but I was wondering if there isn't some way to juggle the organization so I could work for somebody else. You know I only have a few years before I take a hike and it'd be kind'a nice to live them without havin' this knot in my stomach all the time.

Paula leaned back and nibbled at the end of a pencil, looking for an answer if not a solution. That won't be easy, she finally admitted.

Jerry nodded. I didn't think it would.

Jerry Attles was fifty eight years old, the last half of them hard years. He looked even older. The job had exacted its toll in both mind and body. He was tall and dangerously overweight, soft and doughy. His skin was pasty and he had the puffy red nose of a drinker. His fingers, if not tapping a tattoo on the desk, would be brushing an eyelash or tugging an ear lobe or knuckling his nose. Paula was tying her own knot of anxiety just watching his painful ordeal.

How about if I report to Brendon instead of Sue, he suggested.

It was not a good suggestion but Paula considered anyway. Brendon Marsh was the Director of Planning and he did help with sales and marketing but he also coordinated with the lab and manufacturing and he assembled the Strategic Plan for the entire organization. It was an stretch of logic for Jerry to report to him. Jerry knew that. And Paula knew that he knew it. But how desperate he must be to even consider such a resolution. Jerry was fifty-eight and Brendon was what — thirty-four or thirty-five? And Jerry was a good old boy from Dallas and Brendon was a college educated black man. He really wanted out from under Sue Daniels bitchy thumb in a serious way.

Let me think about it, Jerry, she stalled. Off the top of my head, I can't think of any way to have the Sales Manager report to anybody but the Marketing Director but I promise to check it out.

Thanks, Paula. I feel kind'a silly about loading you down with this but it's something that's been in my craw for a long time.

I understand, she assured him.

Say, he asked, did you hear the one about the —-.

Paula listened dutifully and laughed on cue.

* * *

Ed Anderson glanced at his watch, a digital Timex with a plain leather band. Charley Carbone was due in two minutes. He stacked his files in a tray and tossed a pink 'While you were out' slip in the waste basket. He liked order in everything. Order implied efficiency and that suggested accomplishment. Ed respected accomplishment. His office reflected that, from the framed certificates on the walls to the trophies on the credenza. To his left was a framed likeness of Vince Lombardi and a quote explaining, What it takes to be No. 1. Ed read it often.

Ed's door was open and Charley Carbone stepped in and shut it. Wordlessly, he dropped into the chair in front of Anderson's desk. The absence of social graces wasn't a show of defiance. The two had many meetings, always straight to the point and businesslike. They respected each other's time. They respected each other. Charley fights for his guys, Ed would say in defense of Carbone's hard-line advocacy. Anderson's a stand up guy, Carbone would tell the union members when management motives were questioned. Each, under reversed circumstances, could see themselves in the other's shoes and each would operate exactly as the other did.

There was no time wasted in sparring. Is it true? Carbone opened.

Depends on what you're hearing, Anderson parried.

Layoff talk.

Anderson nodded gravely. It's possible.

Carbone frowned. "We