Foam

By Robert Neil Baker

It is 2009; the auto industry is imploding. Charlotte Kirby and car manufacturer customer Bill Arnold's romance gets hopelessly caught up in the intrigue and in-fighting over her new urethane foam. Can it save her company and his career? Who is bent on ruining the project, violently if necessary? Charlotte loses an important player to a suspicious accident, and another defects to a rock band. Bill’s bosses and co-workers at his struggling employer launch selfish agendas. A friend dumps one key co-worker for another. The lovers are challenged by thefts, assaults, kidnapping, and a laboratory disaster. Time is running out, can they unmask the villain and learn the true secret of the foam?

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: May 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781509214402

Book preview

America

Chapter One

Butt Benson was drowning. He had been certain of few things over thirty-three years of life, but had no doubt as to his current situation. He did not know how to swim, and he was drowning.

In his drug-clouded mind were some other doubts, like why had he fallen out of the boat? Or did that guy push him? Why did he feel so heavy? What had they put in his drink? Where was Bill Arnold—dead? Well, Butt was sure going to die, die on the Fourth of July. Why would he waste time thinking in rhymes, if he was drowning? His brain was fogged in, and nothing made sense.

His feet touched the bottom of the lake with his head below the water. Something was wrong with the life jacket. It weighed a ton. He fumbled at the clasps, opened them, and slipped out of the jacket. That was better.

From some mental recess, the athlete in him took over the brain, and instructed him to bend his legs, leap upward, break the surface, and get a gulp of air. He didn’t get much air, but maybe enough. He heard the boat speeding away and saw a light under a cloudy midnight sky. Did light equal shore? After he drifted back down to the bottom, Butt marched along the floor of the lake, jumping periodically to the surface to gain a fraction of oxygen. He would die, if not with his boots on, at least with his powerful legs in motion, walking toward the light.

****

At the far end of Swan Lake, Bill Arnold heard muffled sounds. A speeding powerboat violated the nighttime no wake ordinance. Someone was out after midnight and with the air temperature only maybe sixty degrees. He set aside self-pity over losing the second girlfriend in six weeks and his job, and wondered who had the balls to break a rule his octogenarian host, Carl Kirby, had established for his lake.

He lay awake in an expensive but sparsely furnished guest room. The only personal or family item was on the dresser, a photograph of Carl, dated thirty years ago taken in front of his original plastics plant and office. A large sign over the front door proclaimed the company name, Kirbythane. Carl was smiling confidently, close to six feet tall with classic Irish good looks.

There were more hushed boat noises, hardly more than an engine-idle although drawing close. Maybe all this nocturnal traffic was normal. Bill turned out the light and climbed back into the frilly queen-size bed. He was nearly asleep when he heard a loud crashing of glass. What the hell? Did it come from Charlotte’s house? No, it was much closer. It was in this house, Carl’s house, below him in the kitchen.

Bill pulled on his jeans and, feeling a bit foolish about it, armed himself with the large wrench from the toolkit he’d brought for the road trip. He went into the hall. Butt Benson’s door was closed, not that he needed backup he told himself. He headed down the back stairs of the great house wishing he’d armed himself with the hammer not the wrench. He needed to stop second-guessing everything.

As he approached the door to the kitchen with light dimly reflected off its oak cabinets and marble-topped counters, he heard three male voices, all screaming. Carl’s registered at once. Marco’s took a split second longer. But who was the third man, and what the hell was he doing to them?

****

Charlotte Kirby was awakened from a fitful sleep by the sound of breaking glass coming across her lawn. What? Most likely Grandpa had been restless again, gone into his kitchen to clean up from the party and then dropped something—something big and heavy. Well she was not about to get dressed and go next door to help. Bill could help him, or Butt Benson could. Since they were all so good at making a mess, they may as well hone their cleanup skills.

Chapter Two

Monday, June 15, two and a half weeks earlier

Charlotte was with her father, Milton Kirby, who wore his pastel golf clothes at the office. An expensive fountain pen she had snapped in two in her angry frustration wept slowly into the calendar blotter on his desk, obscuring the June, 2009 heading. She watched Dad watch the ink spread, knowing he was unwilling to move close enough to her to stop the pen’s hemorrhaging.

She said, Dad, we’re in a Great Recession. North American Motors may stop paying us at any time. We have to lay someone off, and not just that poor janitor who spilled solvent on your golf bag.

Okay, how about our accountant? We had to file two amended tax returns last year.

That had been Dad’s fault, she remembered. No. It’s the first time he’s had a problem. What about letting that drama queen I.T. woman and that foul-mouthed customer service guy go?

Uh-uh. I can’t figure out my new computer without her, and he’s the best shot on my golf foursome. If only we could do without Marco Patel. We pay him more than the two of them.

He was going to say more, but she shushed him as a slightly built but darkly handsome young man tapped twice lightly at the open office door and walked in. Dad stared at him in irritation, but he didn’t seem to notice. Charlotte transferred her attention from her father to their young chemist. Yes, Marco?

"I have finished the ultra-lightweight car seat foam. Here." Marco beamed widely as he held forth a one-quart paper cup filled with polyurethane foam, still warm from the chemical reaction that created it twenty minutes earlier.

Milton, in a burst of speed uncharacteristic for a paunchy fifty-three year-old, lunged around his desk to take this Holy Grail of urethane. Charlotte watched suspicion turned to excitement as he cradled it lovingly, pressing at its crowned top surface. He queried Marco, Seriously? It’s done? You’ve measured the density?

It’s at a pound per cubic foot, maybe less. The chemist pushed a thick forelock back into place on his perfectly proportioned upper brow.

Charlotte wrested the sample from her father’s hands. It weighed scarcely more than an empty cup. And the strength values are all good?

The Mechanical Lab will run the tests, but they’ll turn out fine.

Charlotte calculated how many dollars and kilograms this foam would take out of a typical overweight set of car seats. It was a lot. She smiled at him. Well done, Marco.

Milton, a little reluctantly, reached out and pumped his chemist’s hand for the first time she’d seen. This could get the bank off our back. Can we show it to North American Motors right away?

Charlotte thought she saw a look of panic in Marco’s too-handsome face, but it passed. Sure, no problem, take it to NAM. I’ll get those mechanical tests started.

As soon as the door had closed on the chemist’s designer-labeled skinny jeans, Milton said, Charlotte, this is huge. This’ll save us from Deriva-Bank liquidating us. The timing is perfect since I was going to have lunch with Vlad tomorrow anyway.

Charlotte winced. She found Vlad Hendrickson, the NAM buyer for car seats, neurotic, grasping, and ethically challenged. Vlad may not understand what we’ve got. The guy isn’t technical. He can’t work the hands-free phone in his car.

I think I’ve got him trained, but I guess you’re right. We need someone from their engineering department. I’ll ask Tommy Traxler to join us.

Out of the frying pan into the fire. Tommy could screw up a three-car funeral. They owed him, because he had gotten them the first contract with NAM years ago, but he hadn’t done anything right since. Dad, Tommy has been really busy since Deriva-Bank took over NAM. They may have him in engineering, but his degree is accounting and his background is marketing. We need someone with actual technical credentials.

Milton scowled. All right, we’ll invite that bright new guy we met during our Memorial Day party at the yacht club. What was his name? Bill Arnold?

That was his name, the nerdy motor-head, the one she’d thought was captivated with her until she realized he was merely overawed by her knowledge of inboard marine motors. She knew more about racing sailboats than stink boats, but that hadn’t interested him, and she doubted the man could get excited about a contest not based on maximum extraction of horsepower from an internal combustion engine.

Still, she couldn’t shoot Dad down again. Bill Arnold was way smarter than Vlad and way less dangerous than Tommy. That will be fine, Dad. But let’s not go too fast. No one understands why NAM is still in business, unless it’s because they fell into the hands of a bank that’s stupid even by Wall Street standards. Maybe we should try to get some interest at Ford or one of the transplants.

Later. Selling it to Ford could take months, and our cash flow is good for a couple weeks.

Finances were the one part of business Milton really understood. She nodded slowly and handed the treasured cup of foam back to her father. Fair enough, we’ll start with NAM. Call Vlad. Tell him you need him and Bill Arnold. She made a mental note to check if NAM had paid their bill this month.

Dad had Vladimir Hendrickson on speed dial and got him at once. He made his proposal and then his face darkened as he listened. Where did you say Tommy sent Bill Arnold? No, I never heard of it. And Tommy’s out in New York with the Deriva-Bank money-lenders? Aw, damn it. We’ll have lunch as soon as Arnold is back in town, all right?

He set the telephone down and turned to her with an open-handed gesture. Bill Arnold is in South America, He’s an engine guy and Tommy’s got him visiting a cup-holder supplier down there, can you believe that?

She forced a look of disappointment, but she was glad of a delay so she could vet Marco’s work, and she reassured her father that a couple days wouldn’t matter. As she left him, Dad was fondling the foam sample with a dreamy look in his eyes. She suspected he was mentally home at Swan Lake, showing her grandfather the magical foam sample and rubbing Grandpa Carl’s skeptical face in it.

She needed to get back to business and its problems. Like making sure Marco Patel had it right. She loathed his arrogant self-assurance, narcissistic preening, and quasi-punk haircut. But in chemistry he was a near-genius who—if he had a scrap of tact or discretion—would have been bid away from them by a major chemical company long ago.

Marco Patel was an ethnic Italian. When his father had landed the family in this country, he’d overheard the immigration official complaining to a co-worker about the Federal Government benefits the man’s Native American neighbor was getting. This excited Marco’s father, who was unaware of the dual American use of the term Indian. He assumed the official was talking about preferences given to folks from the Asian subcontinent, and took the opportunity of their arrival here to change the family name from Patillo to Patel. But it had produced no subsidies from Uncle Sam and cost them only confusion.

Those Patillos who had arrived in the U.S. earlier and who had sponsored his family were either outraged or amused by the Patels. Marco apparently didn’t care, and made little effort to keep in touch with any of his family, although he claimed he telephoned his father on birthdays and major holidays.

Charlotte made her usual end-of-the-day tour of the plant floor, finally passing by Marco’s lab. She was about to go in when she heard him speaking on the telephone. If you think I did it too soon, that’s tough. I’m doing what I have to do to survive. You need me more than I need you on this deal. He turned, saw Charlotte, and his face went white. He continued in a subdued voice, My boss is here. I’ll call you back.

He hung up and favored her with a sickly smile. Sorry, personal call, ah, my idiot stock broker. I need a better guy.

Didn’t everybody these days. Are the mechanical tests all arranged?

All taken care of, boss.

Great. Have a good weekend.

You too.

Charlotte got a coffee and took it to her office. She stood and looked through an unwashed window at the parking lot where arrogant weeds penetrated the lowest-bid asphalt she had told Dad was going to be too thin. Dad was cheap. The only thing he’d done first class, since he had a passion for music and sound systems, was the intercom system linking their offices with the three labs in the building. She used it now to call the mechanical lab and confirm they had started testing Marco’s foam.

Unable for two hours to focus on anything but the new seat foam, Charlotte left on time. Marco passed her at the door smiling that wide and probably insincere smile. They repeated wishes for a good weekend. His gait was rapid, not his usual strut as he went to his exotic retractable hardtop car. He pulled out quickly, and she waited on the sidewalk for him to pass. He’d come close to running a couple people down since getting this over-powered toy. After he’d gone, she stepped off the curb and headed to her Cadillac CTS. Entering her own car, she heard the sound of a distant crash.

A block from her parking lot she found Marco off the road and well into the curbside patio of Leisure-Life Outdoor Furnishings. His car had folded several lounge chairs in a tortured pattern and knocked over a table, umbrella and six more chairs. He extracted himself from his car, toppling another table as he emerged. Charlotte parked at the curb and hurried to help him from the car. He lurched wildly until she steadied him against the fender. Marco, what happened to you?

Oh, wow, I’ve been having these killer headaches, and they come on so suddenly.

That’s no good. Did you black out?

I must have. I don’t know. I remember I turned on the radio. But my head is clearing. I’ll be fine. I think so, anyway.

Not much conviction there. Have you seen a doctor about the headaches?

Doctor? Oh, right, yes, I will tomorrow morning. Don’t you ever worry about me, Charlotte. It’s probably nothing.

She looked at the ruined deck furniture. The place was closed—a sign announced still another death in the owner family. This clan of proprietors was not famous for their industry, and had claimed enough tragic demises in the last couple years that there ought not to be any of them left. You need help getting out of here?

No, thanks, I’m good, really. I’ll leave these folks a note and stop at the police station to report it.

He looked wan. Drive carefully. Good luck with your doctor.

He gave her a sickly smile. As she drove away, he had a piece of paper on his hood, apparently writing his confessional note—or faking it.

****

Jorge Schmidt pocketed the cell phone and smiled at his young helper. Helmut, Patel reported back from the U.S. He finally listened to me and has quite come around. He faked a car accident in front of Charlotte Kirby so she could rescue him and he could tell her he’s been having massive headaches. In a day or two, he can become ‘ill’ and the work on the foam will stop. It was brilliant. He bit his lip. He shouldn’t have praised Marco because Helmut was so jealous. But it had been brilliant.

What kind of accident? Helmut asked. Then, hope rising and excitement bringing out his Spanish accent, Was he much injured?

No, he crashed into some lawn chairs.

Helmut snorted in derision. What a sissy. I would have driven into an oak tree or a transit bus to impress Charlotte Kirby.

Yes, you are much more heroic than Patel.

Also I am younger and more handsome. Helmut studied the photographs of Marco Patel, Milton Kirby, and Charlotte Kirby he had been given. Charlotte is very beautiful with such supple thighs. I find her truly exquisite.

"Don’t even think about it. Why do I put up with you? Have you started my dinner?"

I cook sauerbraten, your favorite. What legs Charlotte has! Do you think she would find me attractive?

Your mother does not find you attractive. Mention Charlotte that way again and you are fired.

Your wish is my command. But perhaps you could tell me why you seek control of her company. You and Ramon have a perfectly good company in El Diente, a larger one, so why Kirbythane?

It is personal.

You make everything personal. It is an obsession with you.

Do not presume to lecture me, Helmut. The lad was a wise ass. But the Kirbythane plan was on track, and there were only a couple things left to do when they got back to Michigan.

Chapter Three

Bill Arnold sat at the bar of a small hotel in the minor province of a tiny country. He marveled that North American Motors could have a parts supplier in such an unlikely place as Ciudad El Diente. He wondered why Tommy Traxler had been in such a panic to send him to South America and inspect a cup-holder supplier plant with which they were having no problems. Company travel had been restricted for nine months, ever since the 2008 stock market crash.

Maybe the bank told Tommy to send him to El Diente. NAM, their employer, was a minor player in an auto market now about one-half its former size and, with the U.S. Government pulling the strings, owned by Deriva-Bank. There was a heavy dose of government meddling, too, but Deriva-Bank was so clueless they made the federal guys look good. NAM needed to get bought by a company with cash in the till; Microsoft would do nicely.

There was another possible explanation for this trip. The industry’s best cup-holders were coming from here, from El Diente. Perhaps he was acting as Tommy’s spy. Tommy found this supplier himself long ago and was insanely proud of the accomplishment. Since everyone’s job was at risk at NAM, his personal bailout scheme might be to set up his own cup-holder company, something that should go a month or two before he ran it into the ground.

Ciudad El Diente wasn’t a bad little town. The community had experienced an influx of educated and well-funded Germans in 1945-46. It occupied most of a tooth-shaped peninsula with above average beaches that were attracting North American and German tourists.

Bill’s only companion in the Bavarian-style bar room was the trim-figured and over-dressed hotel manager, a convivial fifty year old at least seven inches shorter than Bill, who was just shy of six feet on a good day. Mr. Joseph was a car guy who was delighted to talk with a patron from Detroit, and overly generous pouring the scotch. So, Mr. Arnold, tomorrow you visit Lopez y Schmidt. I assume you meet with Ramon Lopez?

Yes. Tommy, my boss, has always dealt with him. Tommy has never met Jorge Schmidt and wants me to get to know him, but I’m told Schmidt is unavailable.

It seems that it is always so. Do not fear, Lopez runs the company and has enough personality for two. He runs for office here and will lose, but will get the women’s vote. And you will love his car, a fantastic new Audi.

That led to a lively discussion on German luxury vehicles. After thirty minutes, Bill excused himself with thanks to his host. Back in his room, he read about five pages of a crime novel before nodding off. Near midnight, he was awakened by the sound of fire trucks. From his window, he saw a string of lights racing up the hill, inland, away from El Centro and the harbor. Whatever was burning, it was in the direction of the Lopez y Schmidt factory on the bluff above the city. When he drove out there in the morning, he might see the remains of whatever had burned. Ashamed of that ghoulish attitude, he fell into a deep sleep.

****

The early telephone call interrupted one of those naked-in-public sex dreams in the nick of time. It was his host. Mr. Arnold, this is Mr. Joseph.

Was the hotel manager doing the wake-up calls himself? Good morning, Mr. Joseph.

Good morning. Mr. Arnold, I am very sorry, but there has been a disaster. The Lopez y Schmidt plant burned during the night. The damage was very great.

That’s awful. Were there injuries?

It is not yet known for certain.

Perhaps they are too busy, but can you try to get me either Señor Lopez or Señor Schmidt?

The manager said he would try. He had numbers for Lopez’s home, cell phone, office, and election campaign headquarters. For Schmidt, he had only a business number in the plant that had just burned. Bill rushed through breakfast hardly tasting the food and headed to the manager’s office. Any word?

Mr. Joseph reached to his pate to scratch his head, seemed to remember he might displace the new toupee, and caught himself. It gave the appearance of a man checking to see if his head was still in place. No, Bill, I could not find either of them. A fire captain is of my wife’s family and I telephoned him. He said they cannot reach Lopez or Schmidt either. It is strange.

I think I’d best just go out there. Bill retreated as he saw Mr. Joseph about to utter a protest.

He got his rental car, a Korean job that was vanilla but too good for its price, damn their eyes, and drove up the hill to the plant. The main gate was barred and manned by an unfriendly bullet-headed cop who spoke only Spanish. He pointed vigorously back toward town. Bill saluted this petty tyrant, drove peaceably around the first bend and started looking for another way in. He found what appeared to be a construction road from a recently completed expansion of the plant.

The road was overgrown but navigable. In seconds, he had crested the rise above the site. He got out of the car and looked down, squinting into the brilliant morning sun. To the left, he could see the water-filled open pit that gave sparkling azure testimony to the original mining activity there. The plant site was to the right. The building was really gone! A concrete block shell and a few pieces of steelwork survived undistorted by the extreme heat, but NAM’s highest quality parts supplier was gone.

A few fire and police vehicles were parked near the ruins, and six or eight people were poking around. Remembering the hostile gendarme at the main gate, he cut through the trees hoping to get a better look at the disaster without detection. He came in view of a secluded road from the parking lot to the gravel pit. An emerald green Audi stood at the road’s end at the edge of the pit. A panel truck with a tasteful Lopez y Schmidt sign on its side was parked behind it. That Audi had to be Ramon Lopez’s car, so he had to be around, right? Bill would introduce himself and get the full story from the top. Screw the officious cop at the gate.

Below him, a large man appeared, opened the trunk of the Audi, glanced in, closed the lid and climbed into the truck. As Bill descended the hill, the truck moved to the back bumper of the Audi. He watched aghast as it pushed the gorgeous machine through a few wisps of shrub and sent it hurtling out of sight into the water of the pit. He was thirty steps into a downhill scramble to confront the madman who would destroy a car like that when the driver exited the truck cab with a rifle and adjusted a scope. Bill stopped in his tracks as the big man swiveled the gun uphill toward him and sighted it.

Aw, come on now. Even in Texas they don’t shoot trespassers any more. Bill waved in what he hoped was a both authoritative and friendly fashion and took