have done it. Notwithstanding Patrick’s argument that not only would going public provide capital for investment, it would also make anyone who got in on the ground floor very rich, there was no goddamned way Hammond was going to let a bunch of investment bankers and mutual fund managers, not to mention the fucking securities commissions, tell him how to run the business he’d spent his whole life building. Besides, he was already rich. So would Patrick have been if he’d been patient, if he’d given Hammond a little more time. He just wasn’t ready to let go. Not yet.
“Sir?”
Hammond opened his eyes. Merigold was still there, as bland and obsequious as ever. “What?” Hammond snapped.
Merigold blinked. “I’m sorry. If you’d rather, the Oswald situation can wait.”
“No, I’ll take care of it now. Who’s her supervisor?”
“His name is Arthur Somes.”
“And did he make a pass at her?”
“Apparently he’s propositioned a number of women in his office. Ms. Oswald is the only one who’s complained.”
“And this Oswald, she’s good at her job?”
“According to her co-workers, she’s competent and conscientious. They like her.”
“Who’s next in line for the supervisor’s job?”
“I suppose she is.”
“Then find some excuse to let him go and give her the job.” Merigold nodded. “But make sure she understands it was her complaint that cost him his job. Now, get out. And send Muriel in.”
At 6:40, Shoe parked in his reserved space in the underground garage of the headquarters of Hammond Industries, next to the empty space that still bore Patrick O’Neill’s nameplate affixed to the concrete wall. The Hammond Building occupied the same block in the heart of the Vancouver business district as had the original headquarters of H&L Enterprises. That dowdy old structure had been torn down in the eighties to make way for this glittery new edifice.
When Shoe had first washed ashore in Vancouver in the early seventies, he had taken what work he could find—barroom bouncer, professional wrestler, deckhand on a salmon boat, landscape gardener—before landing a job with a private security firm as a night security guard in the old H&L Building. It hadn’t been the most promising of careers, but it had vaguely resembled police work. It had also afforded him plenty of time to read and, on his days off, to “mess about with boats,” as Ratty in Wind in the Willows put it.
It was also how he’d met William Hammond, then co-owner with his father-in-law, Raymond Arthur Lindell, of H&L Enterprises, at the time the twelfth largest privately held corporation in Canada. After Shoe had been fired by the security firm for running personal errands for Hammond, Hammond had hired him as his chauffeur and general dogsbody—his “dofer,” as Hammond had put it. Twenty-five years later Hammond Industries, as the company had been renamed after Raymond Lindell’s death, had become the eighth largest privately held corporation in the country, and Shoe still worked for William Hammond, although his personnel file now described him as “Senior Analyst, Corporate Development.” He was taking a couple of weeks off, though, to look after some long overdue personal business.
When he pushed through the glass doors into the executive reception area on the twenty-third floor, Muriel Yee smiled at him from behind her desk. Muriel was slim and long-legged, with delicate features, a flawless ivory complexion, and glossy jet hair. She was forty-one, but didn’t look a day over thirty. Shoe thought she was the most exquisitely beautiful woman he’d ever known.
“I’ll just be a few minutes,” she said, tapping at her computer keyboard. Her voice was soft and surprisingly deep, but not at all masculine.
“We’ve got plenty of time,” Shoe said. The concert didn’t start until nine. He dropped into the casual chair beside her desk. “How was your weekend?”
“You know what he had me doing?” she said. “Nothing. Not a damned thing. But he had me doing it here. Just in case.”
“You shouldn’t let him take advantage of you,” Shoe said. Muriel had 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
