by David Chill
The quarterback barked out signals and took the snap from center. He dropped back to pass, but then suddenly turned and handed the ball to the running back on a draw play. The back darted through the line, but a defender from the secondary raced up, dove at his ankles and made a shoestring tackle, tripping the ball carrier enough so he stumbled and dropped to his knees. A smattering of applause came from the sidelines and Demetrius Goffney grinned as he jumped back on his feet.
A few plays later, the quarterback took the snap and dropped back to pass again. This time there was no fake. But he made the mistake of locking his eyes on a particular receiver. It was an easy tell, if a defensive back was alert. The quarterback was telegraphing the play, and a quick-thinking defender could take advantage of it. And when Demetrius jumped the route and stepped in front of the receiver to make an interception, I momentarily forgot I no longer was his coach, and raised both my fists high in the air. There wasn't anyone between Demetrius and the goal line, and he outran everyone on the field to the end zone.
"Now did you teach him that trick?" came a familiar voice behind me.
I turned to see Cliff Roper smiling and nodding at me, clapping his hands in appreciation. Cliff Roper was a hugely successful sports agent, the type of character that the USC coaching staff had been trying to keep players away from for years. Somehow, he always found a way in.
"I taught him to read the quarterback's eyes," I said. "The good quarterbacks look you off. But it's a tough skill for a kid to learn. Defensive backs can capitalize on it if they see it coming."
Cliff Roper looked at me curiously. "You were a good coach. Dumb of you to give up such a lucrative gig."
I shook my head. "You say the nicest things."
"Just giving you some free advice," he said. "You always take these things personally."
"You bring out the best in me," I said dryly. "But as long as you're here, let me ask you something."
"What's that?"
"Demetrius Goffney. What do you think of his NFL chances?"
Cliff Roper thought about this for a minute. You can practically sense the database in his mind working at pulling up his file.
"Look, the kid was a four-star coming out of high school. That meant he was good, not great. He can play, but he doesn't have the athleticism to be a top pick. I figured him to run a 4.5 in the 40. But I may have to clock him again. He sprinted past everyone on that last play. Even blew by Allen Powell, the tailback, and he's a legit 4.4 guy."
I looked at him. "Allen wasn't sprinting all-out. And he wasn't using his arms properly when he was running. The arms have to be in synch with his legs. Yeah, you should clock Demetrius again. I helped him with his running mechanics. He probably picked up some speed in the past two years. People don't think it's possible for a college guy to get faster, but it is if you run the right way."
Roper peered at me. "Geez, maybe you oughta get work as an agent."
"Job doesn't seem that hard," I said. "Compared to others."
"There you go with that nasty tone again. Look, you want the topline on Demetrius? Okay. He's got a shot at being drafted, late-round pick. He might catch on, every pro team is using a nickel package these days, whether they want to or not. They have to. Offenses are passing the ball more and more. Got to have that fifth defensive back in there, otherwise the quarterback can pick you apart. These guys are essential now. And Demetrius makes plays. In the NFL, that's all that matters. People think a nickel back comes cheap, that he's just a benchwarmer, but talk about ancient history. I'll tell you something. A good nickel back is worth a lot these days. That what you wanted to hear?"
"Pretty much," I smiled.
"Glad I could be of service. I'll send you a bill. Or maybe you can just put in a good word with Demetrius on my behalf. I'm always looking to add to my stable. I'm sure you're still talking with him. Guys like you think that once you coach a player, you're his coach for life. I'll bet when the Bulldog called you after you graduated, you still snapped to attention."
"I guess that's true," I admitted. I sometimes forgot that deep down, beyond the tough and brittle facade, Cliff Roper was really smart.
"Of course it's true," he said dismissively.
"By the way, how's Honey?"
Roper peered at me again. Any mention of his beautiful daughter drew suspicion. "Honey's Honey. She's great. She's doing fantastic."
"Still with Disney Channel?"
"Nope, she's at the Parks now. Director of Marketing for Disneyland."
I let out a low whistle. "Pretty good. She's moving up fast."
"Of course she is. She's going places. And let me remind you, she's half your age and out of your league. I know you still have designs on her. Forget 'em. Stick with that smoking hot wife of yours. You'll thank me one day."
Staying faithful to my wife was something I didn't need the likes of Cliff Roper to remind me to do. I didn't recall how many times Roper had been married, but it was more than a few. I said goodbye and watched the rest of the practice from the other side of the field. After the practice, I went up to Demetrius and said hello.
"Hey-hey, Coach B! Glad you stopped by today. You see that pick-six I got?"
"I did. Great move. You made some plays."
"Just trying to improve. Get better. What brings you over here?"
"Gave myself a treat. I love watching practice. Also wanted to see how the budding screenwriter was doing in his other career, the one away from football."
"Well, I optioned my screenplay, but the guy who bought it just got arrested for some triple murder or something. Hollywood's a weird place. I have to figure out how to get the rights back."
"Uh, yeah. You might want to try your hand at a new script. Maybe something less gruesome. Write from your experiences."
Demetrius laughed. "Are you a script consultant now?"
"No, just someone who hates seeing cops get wasted at the end of a movie."
Chapter 17
The next few days were spent relaxing and catching my breath. Then I wrote my report for BMB, omitting the part about Jack Beale being alive and well in Australia, and making only discreet references to possible financial irregularities at Laputa. I sent it to Nick Roche, along with an invoice for eight days of work. A few weeks went by, and I finally received a Fed Ex package that contained a healthy check, clipped to a handwritten note from him, saying he would like to see me. It was written on a gold slip of paper with the BMB logo at the top. The name Nick Roche appeared near the bottom. Just below it were the words, Chief Executive Officer.
I set up an appointment for the next day. A pretty assistant, different from the one who escorted me up the past few times, led me to the top floor of the BMB Tower. And instead of bringing me to the office that Roche previously had, we walked through a series of glass doors, a uniformed security officer stationed at one of them. I nodded at the officer; he looked at me suspiciously in return.
"Burnside," Roche said, standing up from behind a large and distinguished maple desk. His office was now twice the size of his previous one, and the corner location provided views of the mountains to the north and the ocean to the west. He shook my hand and grinned a confident grin. Pointing to a black leather couch, he motioned for me to sit down. He sat next to me.
"Congratulations," I said. "I hadn't read anything about your promotion to CEO."
"There will be a press release in the next day or so. But thank you. Your report was instrumental. As was your detective work."
"So that was quite a nifty move. I thought you said the board was looking for an outsider this time."
Roche nodded. "They were at first. Too many failed CEOs that were promoted internally. But they all came out of the production end, not the finance side. The board finally decided that if we're indeed a real business, maybe we should have a businessman running the show."
"I wonder what my role was in all this," I mused. "I hope I played my part well."
"What you uncovered about Eric Starr
was critical, obviously. And after Malcolm's arrest, there was absolutely no way the board was going to hire anyone with even the slightest hint of black marks."
"Mind if I ask you a few things?"
"Shoot," he said and smiled. "Figuratively speaking, of course."
I smiled back. "What did you know about all this when you hired me?"
"Not everything," he shrugged. "I knew Patty was making a third-person sexual harassment claim against Malcolm. And I knew Malcolm was having an affair with Kitty Strong. I knew Hector was, shall we say, indelicate, in the way he approached Malcolm with this information. An executive needs a lighter touch. It's all about how you communicate things. It's too bad Hector didn't have that skill. That might have saved his life. Malcolm wouldn't have had the need to go after him so recklessly. Running him over? That was monstrous."
"Indeed it was. So was what happened to Jay Strong. And to Kitty."
"I know. Certainly, none of that was anticipated. I thought Jay and Kitty would have just gotten a divorce. Lord knows, Jay was no angel. They had a bad marriage. But he let pride get in the way. The decisions we make, well, they can have truly catastrophic consequences."
"You've obviously made some good ones. Here you are. You landed on top."
"For now, anyway," he said. "This job obviously has a lot of turnover. I heard a joke once. There's this new CEO, first day on the job. Walks into his office and he sees three letters on his desk. There's a note from the previous CEO saying wait a year before opening each letter. So he waits a year and opens the first. It says "Blame everything on me." After the second year, he opens the next one. It says "Reorganize and lay off a bunch of people." And after the third year he opens the last one. It says "Write three letters."
I chuckled. "Cute. Bet you're not going to tell that one around the office."
"Nope. But I'm moving a little quicker. They don't give you three years any more. I have to take some big steps. Patty Muckenthaler's out. Can't have someone on my team who's after my job. I'm also letting a number of senior people go. And I've asked the entire board of directors to submit their resignations. I'll only accept about half, there are some smart people on the board I'd like to keep. But there are a few who have outlived their usefulness. Friends of past CEOs have no place here anymore."
"Let me guess. Lucas Kanter won't be retained."
"No, he'll move on and teach or write or whatever it is he does. Everyone understands. After promoting Malcolm, and even considering Eric Starr for the CEO job, most of the board members are truly embarrassed. Shaking up the board will send a message to everyone in the company that things have changed. There's no room for screwing around here."
"So how much did you really know about Eric Starr? Before you hired me."
"I had heard the rumors of excess partying at Laputa. And also about the incident regarding his partner's wife. Jack Beale's disappearance was troubling. No one ever found out what happened to him."
"You believe the police reports that Beale drowned?"
Roche shook his head. "Too suspicious. The body was never discovered."
I started to wonder how much Nick Roche really knew about Jack Beale. And his girlfriend Wanda. And whether Roche had buried the bone and hoped I would go find it.
"Can I ask if the name Anna Faust rings a bell?" I asked.
Roche smiled broadly. "She was the HR Director here a few years ago. Then she moved on to Laputa. She's now running her own business. We stay in touch. When Eric Starr's name was first floated as a CEO candidate, I gave her a call. She was ... helpful."
"And Steve Reinhart?" I asked innocently, knowing that Roche had donated to his political campaign. Public information was just that.
"Well now. You've added things up quite nicely. Anna couldn't tell me everything, but she pointed me in the direction of the City Attorney. I've known Steve for a while. It's good to have a politician in your corner."
"Or your pocket."
"You could say that, I suppose. I knew you were good. I thought you might have spiced up that report you wrote on Eric. Something about Jack Beale being alive and well in Australia. Something about Eric paying him off before he helped himself to a pile of cash from Laputa. But I'd say everything worked out for the best. For us, anyway."
"No need to ruin any more lives," I said, not especially liking Nick Roche's clever ability to jerry-rig the situation. Jay Strong had given his brother-in-law an apt name. Slick Nick, indeed. "And my job wasn't to publicly destroy Laputa, these things will often go the way they're supposed to go. Karma and all that."
"Quite right," he said. "Jay was spot-on when it came to you."
"I guess for the public, some things will have to remain shrouded in mystery. There's been enough human carnage from this case. Jack Beale is happy Down Under, and his wife Darcy is comfortable, albeit without getting half his money. So it goes."
Roche continued to smile. "I understand. And on a final note, it looks like Eric Starr is leaving Laputa soon."
I raised my eyebrows. "What's he doing?"
"Officially departing the corporate world. Moving to Napa Valley, starting a winery."
"Sounds like the party is moving up north," I commented wryly.
"He'll just drink himself into a stupor. Eric didn't really want to be a businessman anyway. That's what his father did and he hated his father. But he and Jack cooked up this idea for a business and it took off. Surprised both of them how much it took off. They treated the startup as a joke. In fact, you know how they came up with the name Laputa?"
"No," I peered at him.
"It's Spanish for whore."
I gave a low whistle. "My, but you know a lot about what's going on in this town."
"I know a little bit about everything. It's how I got to where I am. I keep my ear to the ground."
I waited. There was something more on the agenda. A newly crowned CEO like Nick Roche didn't spend time making idle chit chat. At least not with hired hands like me.
"So," he said. "You're probably wondering why I asked you here."
"I am."
"As you know, we have an opening for a Security Director. I think you'd make a good one. I need someone smart, someone who knows people. Someone who knows when to talk and when to be quiet. I think you have those skills."
I started to laugh. "Knowing when to be quiet is not one of my strong suits."
"Nevertheless, I like you. And I need someone who knows what he's doing. And with Hector's unfortunate demise, I need to fill this position quickly, and with someone good. You were a model officer on the LAPD for 13 years. I know, I checked. You had a bad patch at the end. But we all fall down. It's how you get up that counts. And you've landed on your feet. I'd like you to come work for me."
My first instinct was to roll on the floor laughing. The idea of Burnside, the wisecracking gumshoe being employed in a corporate environment was not something I ever, in my wildest dreams, could possibly imagine.
"Look, Mr. Roche ... "
"Call me Nick. And I know what you were earning at USC. I know, because I know what Jay was earning, and it was sizable. I'm willing to match it. And I'll make you a Vice President, reporting straight to me. It's a sweet deal."
I sat back. Suddenly, I had no desire to laugh. Three years ago, I had never dreamed I'd be making that kind of money, and then Johnny offered me the coaching job at USC. And after I stopped coaching, I never thought I'd get a high-paying opportunity like it again. The Security Director job wasn't a clean fit and I had some serious doubts. If it were just me, single and alone, I might have turned him down on the spot. But with Gail and Marcus, the calculus had changed. And I kept hearing the voice of Coach Bulldog Martin, and his astute words that as you get older, opportunities come along less and less frequently.
"I'll admit, that job is more secure than the one I have."
"Trust me on this. Being a corporate executive is far better than being a Private Investigator. With all due respect, that job isn't worth a plug
ged nickel."
I looked at him. "All right, Nick. I'll think about it."
*
A few weeks ago, I had conned Marcus into eating Cheerios for breakfast, in exchange for a future dinner of waffles. He reminded me of this, his keen memory a startling reminder of how kids can be absolute sponges when it comes to retaining information. I hadn't bothered to run this by Gail, and her raised eyebrows told me I should have. But, I reminded her, I did make a promise. Marcus was watching us, and a little smile started to form. I got the feeling he was processing something about how to effectively negotiate.
Roscoe's House of Chicken and Waffles is another uniquely L.A. institution. There are about a half-dozen outlets scattered around the region, and they've been in southern California for many decades. We went to the original one on Gower, right in the heart of Hollywood. At first blush, the thought of eating fried chicken and waffles doesn't quite mesh, but the pairing works better on a plate than it does in your mind's eye. Some things are like that.
I once heard chicken and waffles referred to as America's answer to Peking Duck, and there are some similarities. Crispy, succulent meat offset by a sweet topping and wrapped in pillowy dough, made for a surprisingly good meal. Whether placed in a rice cake or in a waffle, whether doused with Hoisin sauce or maple syrup, this mixture of sugar, salt and fat was a divine combination. A dish where the sum was greater than the individual parts. Marcus had no complaints. Neither did I. And after a few bites, Gail too, had given in.
"All right," she said. "I admit this is good. Not what I expected. But good."
"Got to keep an open mind," I said as I cut up pieces of chicken and slipped them onto Marcus's plate. He used his fingers to fold them inside a piece of maple-soaked waffle and then dipped the concoction into melted butter. He didn't need instruction, his sense to do this was almost primal.
