worked for Hammond Industries for sixteen years, not as long as Shoe, but longer than anyone else in the office save Bill Hammond himself. For eleven of those years she’d been Hammond’s executive assistant.
“I’m well paid,” she replied. She shrugged and grinned, black eyes mischievous. “Besides, it’s not like I have a husband to go home to, is it? How about it, Joe? You know what they say about Chinese women, especially the old-fashioned kind. They make the best wives.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Shoe said. “In case I ever meet one.” She wrinkled her nose at him.
Muriel was about as old-fashioned as the computer on her desk. She’d never married, but until about a year ago had been more or less permanently engaged to an engineer from Hong Kong. Shoe didn’t know why it had ended and wasn’t going to ask.
“Is that a new jacket?” she asked.
“I bought it this afternoon,” he said. “Along with the shirt and the tie. I would have bought new slacks, too, but they didn’t have time to make the alterations. The girl in the store said I looked very dashing.”
“She has excellent taste,” Muriel said. She shut down her computer. “I really appreciate this, you know.” Her date for the concert, she’d told him, had had to beg off at the last minute.
“I like Bach,” Shoe said.
“It’s Brahms.”
“Oh?” Shoe said. “Forget it then.” Muriel made another face at him. Shoe gestured with his chin toward the closed door to Hammond’s office. “He’s still here?”
“Oh, yes,” Muriel replied. “But I wouldn’t go in if I were you. He’s in a truly pissy mood. Charles is with him.” She stood. Shoe stood with her. “Give me a couple of minutes to change,” she said. “Then we can go.”
A lean, flint-faced man came into the reception area.
“Good evening, Miss Yee,” he said.
“Good evening, Mr. Tilley,” Muriel replied.
He turned to Shoe. “Mr. Schumacher,” he said coolly.
“Mr. Tilley,” Shoe replied.
Del Tilley was Hammond Industries’ Chief of Security. In his mid-thirties, he was of average height, which made him at least a head shorter than Shoe, but he held himself so stiffly erect that he seemed taller. He had close-set yellow eyes, his hair was buzz-cut to within an eighth of an inch of his scalp, and his ears stuck straight out from the sides of his head like the handles of Shoe’s mother’s consommé bowls. He wore custom-made black cowboy boots, the high-heeled kind, not the flat-heeled city boots. Shoe thought they might have had lifts in them.
Two years ago, shortly after Del Tilley had joined the company, acquired along with a building security and maintenance firm Hammond Industries had taken over, Shoe had been working out on the treadmill in the small exercise room the company provided. He was almost done when Del Tilley had come in with one of his massive security gorillas, a former BC Lions line-backer named Ed Davage. Both men wore judo gis. Tilley’s had a black belt. Davage’s belt was green. The two men did some stretches, followed by some formalized routines, then began to spar. Davage, not as tall as Shoe but broader, looked slightly embarrassed whenever he let his boss throw him. Still, Tilley’s martial arts prowess was impressive.
When his half-hour was up, Shoe shut down the treadmill and started toward the shower. Del Tilley disengaged from his sparring partner with a bow.
“I heard you used to be a cop,” he said to Shoe. He kept his distance so he wouldn’t have to crane his neck to look Shoe in the eyes.
“A long time ago,” Shoe said.
“You must still remember some of your cop training,” Tilley said.
“I suppose I do.”
“Would you care to spar?”
Shoe looked at Ed Davage. His dark face was impassive. His bulky musculature was imposing. “No, thanks,” Shoe said.
Tilley’s jug-handle ears had reddened. “Not with him,” he’d said stiffly. “With me.” A grin, quickly gone, had tugged at the corners of Davage’s mouth.
Shoe had felt his face colour. “Sorry,” he’d said. “Some other time, perhaps.”
Ever since then, Del Tilley had treated Shoe with stiff formality bordering on contempt.
“Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Tilley?” Muriel asked.
“No, thank you, Miss Yee,” he replied. He looked at Shoe. “However, since you’re here, Schumacher, perhaps we could take the opportunity to discuss some organizational changes I have in mind.” Keeping his expression carefully neutral, Shoe waited for Tilley to explain exactly what sort of organizational changes he had in mind. Finally Tilley said, “In light of Mr. O’Neill’s resignation, I’m going to suggest to Charles Merigold that your responsibilities be transferred to my department.”
“Your department?” Shoe said.
“Yes,” Tilley said. “Despite your rather grandiose title, your duties are essentially investigatory in nature and as such fall more properly into my bailiwick.”
“Your bailiwick?” Shoe said.
“Security,” Tilley responded. “And I think Mr. Merigold will agree with me.”
“I’m sure he will,” Shoe said amiably. “There’s one little problem, though.”
“Oh? And what is that?”
“I don’t work for Mr. Merigold. I work for Mr. Hammond.”
Tilley’s face hardened. “I was under the impression,” he said tightly, “that you reported to Mr. O’Neill. He was VP of Corporate Development, after all.”
“An understandable error,” Shoe said, smiling. “Given my rather grandiose title. But an error nonetheless. However, don’t let that stop you.”
“I won’t,” Tilley replied. He turned on his heel and stalked off down the hall toward his office.
Shoe looked at Muriel, who shrugged eloquently. Picking up a small overnight bag, she said, “Mind the fort while I change.” She headed toward the women’s washroom.
Shoe was minding the fort when Hammond’s office door opened and Charles Merigold came out. Merigold was Hammond Industries’ Managing Director. He was a handsome, somewhat effeminate man in his late fifties, whose suit looked as though it had been made an hour ago. Did he ever sit down? Shoe wondered.
“Hello, Charles,” he said.
Merigold nodded. “Is Muriel still here?” he asked in his smooth, modulated voice. Shoe said she was. “Mr. Hammond would like to see her.”
“I’ll tell her,” Shoe said.
“Thank you,” Merigold said and went into his own office.
