The Shadow Box (39 page)

“Count your blessings, Michael,” said Moon when
she left.

After four years with Shearson, he was recruited by
Lehman-Stone. They had learned that he had a good work
ing knowledge of business German and they needed a specialist in West German offerings, primarily in the area
of chemicals and Pharmaceuticals. The job would involve
considerable travel. That was a welcome change from
Shearson where he stared at a computer screen all day with a phone at each ear. And the money was double.

At Lehman-Stone, he worked with three West German
clients but, eventually, the needs of the business forced
him to concentrate on one firm in particular. Adler-
Chemiker AG. Or AdChem. It was a fast-growing pharma
ceutical company, based in Munich with branches in the
Far East. Lehman-Stone held a major position in the com
pany's stock and had raised much of AdChem's start-up
and expansion capital.

He was now thirty-five, doing quite well, but getting
increasing heat from his Uncle Jake about not having
started a family.

“Michael.. . not that I'd think any the less of you ...”

“I'm not gay, Uncle Jake.”

“Who said gay? Did I say gay?”

Groan.
“Come on. Let's have it.”

“Why is your bathroom pink?”

“Because the
tile
is pink, Uncle Jake. It was that way
when I moved in.”

He picked up a magazine that was on the coffee table.

“Art & Antiques?”

Michael lapsed into Brooklynese. “You wanted I should
get refined.”

“Not
that
fucking refined.”

“I'll run out and get
Playboy.”

“That bathroom . . . why don't I send over some Ital
ians? They'll rip it out and make you something nice.”

“I'll handle it, Uncle Jake.”

“You got a girlfriend? Someone special?”

“I'm working on it.”

“Michael . . .”

Megan had dropped one hand to his thigh. She kept the
other on the wheel. He snapped out of it.

Her slip was just ahead. He released her and turned to
get a stern line ready.

“No, no,” she said quickly. “You feel good where
you are.”

“So do you. But aren't we going to dock?”

‘“Let's stay out a while longer.”

Michael wasn't sure what Megan had picked up on. Or why she wanted to stay out. Maybe girlfriends. Maybe
marriage.

He shouted in his head,
Hey, Megan. Want to get mar
ried? Raise a couple of nice warlocks? . . . Just
kidding . . . Or what the hell. Maybe I'm not.

“Could you hear that?” he asked her.

“Hear what?”

“Nothing. I thought we ticked the bottom back there.”

“Michael?”

“U
m
?”

“Say some of it out loud.”

“You
did
hear me. Didn't you?”

“No. Not the way you think.”

Oh, well. Where was he?

Oh, yeah. Marriage.

First there was Uncle Jake, nagging that it was time.
Then there was Bart Hobbs, that prick, going out of his
way to make it happen. He wasn't sure how much of this
he was inclined to tell Megan.

Hobbs, for some reason, had taken a sudden interest
in him. Checking his work. Asking questions about him,
particularly of the executive who had recruited him to
Lehman-Stone. Michael wasn't concerned, especially. He
assumed, in fact, that he was being considered for a
promotion.

Early one evening, Hobbs called him into his office. As
he entered, Hobbs covered up a blue vinyl folder that was
on his desk. Michael recognized it as a personnel folder,
presumably his own.

Hobbs stood and switched on that permanent half-smile
of his. He extended a hand. Michael shook it.

He just wanted to chew the fat, he said. Get caught up
on how things are going generally. Michael doubted that
there was much he didn't know but he briefed him any
way. He could see, however, that Hobbs was not really
listening. Whatever was actually on his mind, he was danc
ing around it. That was not unusual. Bart Hobbs, as a rule,
was not one who would attack a subject head-on if he
could help it. He did ask, however, what Michael found
so uniquely fascinating about AdChem.

It seemed an odd question. It was not as if he had
begged for the assignment. AdChem, however, was a huge,
far-flung operation, it was minting money, and Michael
was helping it to make even more. The work was interest
ing, even important, but he was hardly manic on the sub
ject. Still, when your boss wants to hear enthusiasm, that's
what you give him. He spoke of how rewarding it was to
work with a company that did well while doing good.

“Excellent,” Hobbs said when he finished. “Keep up the good work, Michael.”

He offered his hand again. Fallon pumped it and turned
to leave. Hobbs said “Hmmph.”

Michael stopped. “Was there something else, Mr.
Hobbs?”

“Fallon.” Hobbs said the name as if to himself. He cocked his head. “Michael, did I hear somewhere that you're related to Big Jake Fallon?”

 
“He's my uncle. Do you know him?”

  
Hobbs shook his head quickly as if to say, ”A different
set entirely, dear boy.” Aloud, he said, “He's quite a
character,   though,  from  what  I've   heard.  Did   your
uncle . . . steer you into this, um, line of work?”

  
“Far from it. But he did say go where the money is.”

  
“Well, the old scoundrel was right.”  Still the half-
smile.   “Ah, when  I  say  scoundrel,  I  don't mean  to
impugn . . .”

”I know you don't, Mr. Hobbs.”

“Good job, Michael. Go enjoy your evening.”

A week later, Michael had a new assistant. It was Bron
wyn. She had transferred in from the London office and
she was absolutely breathtaking. By the end of another
week, Michael knew that either of two things would hap
pen. He would marry this girl or he would make a total
ass of himself in the attempt.

Part of it was the voice. Everyone knew that he'd al
ways been a sucker for a
n
upper-class British accent. He
had one himself when he came home from England but
only until Jake said, “Nice accent, Michael. Goes with
your pretty pink bathroom.”

Beyond the voice, she had those amazing violet eyes
and a wonderfully open smile. And smart? Talented?

“Quite an accomplished young lady,” Hobbs had told him. “It seems that she'd trained since childhood to be
come a concert pianist. But when her parents lost two
homes to the Lloyd's of London debacle, she decided
she'd try her hand at making money instead. Headed
straight for the London Exchange where she soon made a
name for herself. That's where we found her.”

A part of him wondered whether it was really Uncle
Jake who found her. That was silly, of course. It was just
that Hobbs had suddenly brought up Jake's name and now,
out of nowhere, here's the kind of woman who, except that she's a Brit, Uncle Jake would have
bought
for him
if he could.

As an inflexible rule, Michael avoided relationships with
female employees of the firm for all the usual reasons. He
avoided them within the industry at large because such
relationships tended to become exploitative or competitive
very quickly. A good rule. But to hell with it. They were lovers before the second week was out. Bronwyn had al
ready moved in with him.

Hobbs had mentioned that they'd had trouble finding an
apartment for her and that she hated living in a hotel. Too
many hookers coming and going, too many male guests
hitting on her every time she takes a meal in the dining
room. Michael had a spare bedroom; he asked her if she'd
consider using it. She thought it over and said yes. He couldn't believe his luck. But, she insisted, it was to be
strictly temporary. He had his own life and she would not
dream of interfering with it. She'll be out like a shot at
the first sign that she's a bother. Fair enough, he told her.
Strictly temporary.

But that day, he rented a Steinway for her and ordered
a new mattress for himself. By the end of the weekend,
she was sharing it with him. Bronwyn, incidentally,
thought the bathroom was just fine as it was.

Bronwyn.

It's Welsh. He looked it up.

It means “Fair breast.”

But he would gargle with Drano before he'd share that
little tidbit with Moon or his Uncle Jake.

When Jake came by that night to meet her, it was Bron
wyn who did most of the pumping. She wanted to hear all about his nephew. What was he like as a boy? How
did someone raised in Manhattan grow up to be such a
gentleman? His parents must have been very special peo
ple indeed.