someone off from his tenth-story window every once in a while, especially when his gastritis was playing up. Like that good-for-noth’n bum at the Metro corner always begging for money. He would be the first to go. Then that jogger who thought he owned the sidewalk. Then the hippies cleaning windscreens at the traffic lights, even when you told them you’d got no loose change to pay them. Ping. Ping. Ping. All three gone to meet their maker courtesy of Sniper Louis, the only CEO with big enough balls to rid the city of its filth.
He laughed a little. Sniper Louis. That was a good one.
While he took a couple more imaginary potshots from the window, the noonday sun peeked from behind a drifting cloud and shone directly into his eyes. He winced with pain. The burning from his stomach had turned up a notch like some goddamned internal boiler running on solar energy. Cursing, he yanked the drapes and tipped the remaining Kwel-Amity straight from the bottle into his mouth, then made his way back to his chair crunching the pill into sharp little shards that stuck between his teeth.
Goddamn it, he grimaced, these buggers tasted awful.
At the desk he chased the bitterness down with a swig of scotch from the bottom drawer, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He slipped his thumb between two shirt buttons to give his sternum a massage. The skin felt hot and sweaty, as if a boiler really had been fired up beneath it. Still grimacing, he took another swig of scotch for good measure, and as he tilted his head he caught himself staring back.
“I know, I know. It’s getting worse,” he said, thumb-massaging his sternum. He could still taste a lingering bitterness in the back of his mouth, so he took another swig of scotch. “I need to see the doc again.”
The portrait behind the desk kept staring its frozen accusation. The painter had captured all his best features (as he had been paid a goddamn fortune to) – his dark hypnotizing eyes; his broad shoulders; his expansive chest – and had managed to minimize his less noble attributes – his double-chin; his overhanging gut (Waistline, dear, it’s a waistline!); the thinning patches on his scalp. Done a pretty damn fine job, too, he might add. At the time he was posing for it though, he had reckoned the idea of wearing a laurel and toga was kind of prissy, but the painter had assured him that the Caesar look with the backdrop of ancient Rome oozed the essence of success and power he needed in his line of work. Louis had paid him cash straight away. Best goddamn five grand he had ever spent.
He tossed the empty drug bottle into the bin beneath the desk and took a final swig of scotch before putting it back. Just as he sat down, his secretary buzzed on the intercom. The image of her abundant cleavage drifted in front of his eyes like two un-tethered helium balloons. “What is it?” he said.
“David Epstein’s on line one for you.”
Goddamn it, he had told her he was busy. No interruptions. Wendy would have understood. Now there was a damn fine secretary. Damn fine woman too. Not keeping her at the firm was the only thing he truly regretted. These young women nowadays didn’t understand what a boss needed. He should have sacked Sarah ages ago, although he had to admit she was a hell of a lot better than the previous one. Frumpy bitch was nothing but trouble from the day she started. Stirred up all sorts of legal mess the company didn’t need, and was still stirring. Damn shame they didn’t make secretaries like they used to. In fact, you weren’t even allowed to call them secretaries anymore, were you? Personal Assistants, PA’s, or some or other bullshit term for someone who didn’t type or do anything of the “personal” nature Wendy used to provide.
The red light on Button-1 kept flashing. “What does Epstein want now?”
Sarah’s voice fluttered across the intercom: “Didn’t say. You know he won’t leave a message. He’ll only talk to you.”
Louis rolled his eyes and said, “Okay. Okay. I’ll take it.” He picked up the handset and punched the flashing red button. “This had better be good,” he said to Epstein. “I don’t wanna hear the contract hasn’t been signed.”
There was a pause on the line from the LA office. Either it was a bad connection or Epstein had taken fright. “That’s what I want to talk to you about,” Epstein said eventually. Louis had been about to growl at him to speak up. “Collins wants another week to think about it.”
“Think about what?” Louis thumbed his sternum. “He’s had six goddamn months! We need that signature! We’re hedged to our teeth over here. If he doesn’t do it today, there won’t be any goddamned contract to sign. D’you hear what I’m saying?”
Epstein paused again. “I’ve been my persuasive best. The guy just won’t put pen on paper. I think he’s holding out for a higher offer.”
“What kind of bullshit is that? We’ve already doubled our original bid. We’re the only ones interested in his goddamned business and we’re not offering one more cent than what’s already been agreed. Tell him he can take it or leave it.”
“Do you really mean that? I thought…”
Louis rolled his eyes and gritted his teeth. “No, I don’t really mean that,” he said. “Of course we’re not going to let him go. We’re in too deep.” Still massaging his chest as he had, Louis could feel the thumping of his heart against his thumb. Then, remembering his favorite line from The Godfather, said: “Make him an offer he can’t refuse.”
Epstein paused again. “What does that mean?”
“Just do what you’re paid to do. Get the signature on the contract.”
Louis slammed the handset down and clasped his hands behind his neck. Tilting back in his manager’s chair, he released the pent up air with a long exaggerated sigh. Hells bells, he thought, the garbage was really piling up today. It was never ending.
Still, he had faced worst and gotten through in one piece, hadn’t he? He was a goddamn survivor. History had proven that.
CHAPTER TWO
Coup-d’etat
HIS memory of the attempted coup-d’etat was a little hazy, what, nearly two decades ago now. He couldn’t remember exactly who was in attendance or where they were sitting, he couldn’t even remember all of their names, but he certainly remembered Johnny Winterbottom and the guy who had almost choked to death on the ice cube. He could actually picture the scene in the boardroom, now that he thought about it. The blinds were drawn, just as he liked it, the bare white walls reflecting the artificial light as though they were glowing with radioactive energy. Suits and ties occupied all thirteen seats around the table (no skirts or “power suits” back then, not on his board of control), except for one, the one next to Johnny at the other end of the table, the only vacant bay in the parking lot. He hadn’t known it then, but that empty seat had saved him.
“We’ve… got something else on the agenda,” Johnny Winterbottom had said that Friday back in ‘84.
Louis had already stood, tired and cranky at the end of another long week of eight-till-late. “This isn’t protocol. The meeting’s over,” he said, then hit upon the most likely reason for the delay. “Is it the damn unions again? I thought we’d fixed that last month. Does that greedy bastard Peterson want more money?”
A couple of vice presidents shuffled in their seats and fidgeted with their ties, eyes fixed to the new mahogany desktop. “Not… exactly,” Johnny said.
There was something in the way
