by David Boyle
Ilene ran her moist tongue over her dry lips, straightened out her jacket. “You’re…you’re right. Thank you…for…everything. I mean it.”
“Please… don’t thank me. Thank Jack and Carolyn.” Darla went toward the door.
Ilene looked at the table and then back at Darla. “Excuse me, but I don’t have your business card.”
Her hand on the doorknob, Darla pivoted slightly, enough to make eye contact with Ilene. “I’ve never had one, in all these years. People know how and where to find me. My business has never suffered. And my family appreciates the boundaries, if you know what I mean.”
Ilene nodded, yet she seemed dumbfounded. As Darla left the room and went out of sight, Ilene realized that she had never offered her business card to her new client. But for the first time in years she wasn’t as alarmed as she had been in the past about forgetting something so trivial. She had more pressing matters to look into.
She went quickly to the lobby and stepped into the phone booth, removing the receiver from the cradle. With jittery fingers she pressed the buttons. An answering machine came on. Jack’s voice brought joy to her ears, to her heart, to her entire body, cleansing its impurities. The machine beeped; Ilene decided to leave a message: “I…I know you’re working. I hope…hope…you’re having a good day. I’ll be there in the morning. I’ll get an earlier flight. I…I know I haven’t said this in like…forever…but…it’s true…you make me so happy. You and Carolyn both. I know I’ve said this before, but things are gonna be different. I mean it this time.”
Ilene hung up the phone. She stepped out of the phone booth, smiled—a smile infused with the anticipation of pending change. She went outside. A minute later another woman entered the booth. But before she could make a call, the phone rang. She picked it up. “Hello?”
“It’s too late,” Jack said brusquely. “We’ll get the lawyer. I’m tired of your—”
“Easy does it,” the lady said. “I think you’ve got the wrong number, sir. This is a phone booth at The Stratford. Who are you looking for?”
“Shit! Son of a… I thought you were my wife.”
“Who’s your wife?”
Jack hung up.
Outside, just beyond the front walk, Ilene paused in her journey to her room and marveled at the scenery around her: the vigorously growing trees on the hillock next to the building, the bold-colored flowers hugging their trunks, the steady stream of the fountain splashing onto the scalloped concrete basin, rivulets of water stippling the edges, the freshly cleaned windows scintillating in the sun—the wonders of the day staring back at her through the gleaming glass.
Taxis and a tour bus pulled away from the main gate. The child Ilene had seen earlier pushing his gum into the carpet was walking with his mother across the street, a lollipop in his pudgy fist. Though the front of the hotel was rather busy the whole world seemed to be going by her in slow motion, as if she were hallucinating. Ilene had much to consider, plenty of obstacles to overcome in order to bring order and meaning to the unruliness her life had become. She was prepared, though, to make a commitment, regardless of how hard it would be, or the resistance she might face. Thoughts of Jack and Carolyn whirred in her head, reminding her of a string of failures she could easily atone for if her intentions were pure, sincere, long term. She didn’t want to give up her job. But what were her options? It was time to go back to her room and come up with real solutions—and time to put her family on a pedestal, if it could be done. It was time to sell herself back to Jack and Carolyn. How good a salesperson was she? Everything she’d learned thus far would soon be put to the test.
THE EMBEZZLER
Lloyd Fairbush closed the door behind him and stepped forward into the executive office of Theodore P. Honeycut, CEO. He knew precisely why he had been asked to appear before the president but did his best to tame his nerves. At each side of Honeycut’s immense, polished oak desk stood the firm’s upper brass: their suits freshly pressed, their eyes staring Lloyd down scornfully through round, wire-rimmed eyeglasses. Honeycut got up from his high-back leather chair, took a step to his left, and fastened the button on his suit jacket. He had an athletic build and confidence to complement his physical stature. His men stood near him, erect, like soldiers protecting their leader. Lloyd started to sit down.
“Oh no you don’t, Mr. Fairbush,” said Honeycut. “I want us to stand eye to eye.”
Lloyd, standing rigid and silent, put his hands in his pockets.
“Nervous are we, Fairbush?” Honeycut asked.
“No, sir,” Lloyd said, fully aware that Honeycut sensed his discomfort.
Honeycut snarled. “You should be nervous, you thief. You’re looking gaunt too, I might add. I’m looking at the pathetic downfall of a bean counter. The job does have its detriments, I see.”
Lloyd Fairbush stared at the floor. The two men flanking Honeycut’s desk were grinning. As Honeycut began pacing the room, his hands held at ease behind his back, he fondled the bulky ring on his middle finger, a gold band worth tens of thousands of dollars. “When did it all go wrong, Lloyd? Huh? Does your family know what kind of man you are? Do they know why a hundred thousand a year isn’t good enough for you?”
Lloyd’s stomach lurched, his attention drifted away to a painting on the wall behind Honeycut’s desk. It depicted a group of executives around a table, the two men in the center shaking hands, smiling as if they had just closed a deal. “Yes, sir, they do. They know the real me.”
Honeycut inhaled deeply, exaggeratedly, and turned to face Lloyd, folding his arms at chest level. “Do you know why I don’t put a bullet in your brain?” Then, motioning toward his men, “Or why I don’t send them to hammer you senseless?”
Lloyd shook his head no, and started to feel a sudden pressure in his chest. Perspiration oozed from his forehead.
“Of course you do, Lloyd.” He made a dramatic circle with his arms, as if about to hug an imaginary giant. “Because I’d lose all of this. And I can’t have that, you gutless sneak.”
Lloyd’s mouth was parched, though his upper body was saturated, his silk shirt absorbing perspiration from his clammy flesh. The goons’ positions in the room hadn’t changed at all, except for the one on the left, who adjusted his tie ceremoniously, as if smothering an urge to pounce, or worse. Honeycut took a few steps toward Lloyd, keeping about six feet between them. Lloyd felt lost and frightened.
One of Honeycut’s men passed his boss a small, leather-bound book. His patience quickly thinning, Honeycut ripped the book from his grip and opened to a page. He ground his teeth. “How’s your hearing, Lloyd?”
With his eyes glazed and bloodshot and a look of vexation distorting his face, Lloyd said “Fine, sir.”
“Splendid. How does the sound of half-a-million dollars ring in your ears? Do you hear that? Huh, thief? You thought I’d never uncover your racket?”
Lloyd swallowed, the sensation coarse, streplike. A water cooler stood across the room next to an oversized refrigerator sealed by a see-through glass door. Through the clear glass, he saw racks full of various beverages yet he was powerless to slake his thirst, not here, not now.
“It’s all right, Lloyd, stare at them. You’re thirsty, is that it? What can I get you?” he asked with cold, deliberate sarcasm. Honeycut scowled, looked Lloyd up and down, appraising his frailness. “Coke will do, I assume. You need to replenish the calories that fear and overwork have burned.” He handed the can of soda to Lloyd but Lloyd hesitated. A jumble of nerves on the fritz, he seemed uncertain of whether he should take it.
“Oh, come on, Fairbush. Don’t be shy. You had no problem pilfering my hard-earned money—my sweat and blood—but now you exhibit reluctance to accept a dollar-fifty can of soda?”
Lloyd bit his tongue, grabbed the soda, snapped it open and drank from it. He was actually glad he did, the drink relieved the sandpapery sensation in his throat.
“Now, back to business, Lloyd.” Honeycut groaned, becoming increasingly agita
ted. “Is there anything else I can get for you before we proceed?”
Lloyd sensed his boss’s lunacy. He held the can at his side. “No, sir.” His visage revealed shame, alarm.
“Here’s how it’s going to go down, my man,” Honeycut said. “You’re going to tell me where my money is and how I can get it back, and, in turn, I’m going to spare you considerable pain.” He leered at Lloyd, his striking blue eyes unwavering, afire with maniacal intentions. “Emphasis on the word considerable, Lloyd.”
Lloyd nodded meekly.
“Can you produce receipts right now, or any kind of documentation for that matter, Lloyd, telling me where my fucking money is?”
Again, Lloyd shook his head no.
“Very well, then, Fairbush,” Honeycut said, returning to his chair. “Is it that you think I’m playing with you, or that you simply don’t give a shit? I seek answers, Lloyd. Either way, when this meeting is over, I never want to see your sickening face again. On the other hand, if I get my money back, you can sidestep a landmine. I await your rejoinder.”
Honeycut leaned back in his chair. Lloyd looked at his boss, astonished by his imposing body language. Honeycut wasn’t a big man, but he had an unsteady, almost maddening presence about him, a part of his personality Lloyd had seen glimpses of before, but never this close up. Witnessing it firsthand would rattle anyone. Lloyd took deep breaths, trying to remain calm. For the first time he uttered something substantial. “I want to come clean, sir,” he said, sitting down in a chair opposite his boss.
Honeycut chuckled. “You’ve brought me grief—disgust, Lloyd. You’re a lowlife parasite who is going to make amends on my terms…or else.”
Lloyd’s stomach became twisted and bound as the seconds passed. The urge to barf growing stronger, he dismissed it as best he could, not knowing for how long though. Staring ahead, he held himself together.
“I’ll get this ball rolling, Lloyd. When you started here, you told me you had about ten grand in the bank. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” Lloyd answered.
“Okay then. A month ago I saw your wife in the city. She was driving a brand new top-of-the-line Corvette. Is that also true?”
Lloyd blinked a few times. His throat had become dry as desert sand. He sipped from his can of soda. A dramatic pause. “Yes…it is.”
“Did you pay for that, Lloyd?”
Lloyd placed the cold can against his warm cheek, breathed in and out. “I used the rest of my money, and yours, sir.”
“Mother…fucker,” mumbled Honeycut. “You were willing to risk a spotless record, a promising career, to get mixed up in this shit? As a man, as a businessman, what were you thinking? Do you even have an excuse for your atrocities? Traitor!”
A tear slid down Lloyd’s sallow face.
“Don’t get all emotional on me now, thief. You put yourself in this quagmire… and you’re going to have to finagle your way out. Your tears don’t sway me. I detest employees who play me. You copy that, Fairbush?”
Lloyd felt nausea mounting as he nodded in response to the question. He wiped tears away, licked his cracked lips. Sweat stung his eye, causing him to blink it clean, fear and tension keeping his hands tight on the armrests.
Honeycut slammed his book shut. “You see, Lloyd, that car accounts for only a fraction of the money you stole from me. I don’t like being stalled for answers, or in this case…confessions. So, I’m going to ask you to tell me where my money is. Then, you’re going to divulge how I can reclaim what is mine.”
Honeycut’s cronies hadn’t moved an inch. Lloyd sank into his chair, not knowing what was going to happen next. His feet shuffled nervously on the floor. The men stared straight ahead at the wall behind him, statuelike, alert, ready to obey their master’s orders should he request action be taken. Lloyd gathered his thoughts, put his can of soda on the floor, and removed a handkerchief from his inside pocket. With the cloth, he wiped his wet face, he couldn’t fight the urge any longer. “The truth is, sir, that I gave your money to various charities.”
Honeycut peered at the ceiling, tightened his grip around the arms of his chair. “Is that so, Lloyd? All of it?”
“Yes, sir. I can provide you with names of the organizations and contacts, but it may be difficult to get the funds back. Asking for a charity to give back a gift will downright tarnish your image.”
Honeycut’s eyes spread wide with disgust, his face flushed scarlet. “Don’t tell me how I should or shouldn’t proceed, Lloyd. Who do you think you’re talking to? Be grateful that I don’t lunge across this desk and rip your god damn head off right now. What are the charities?”
Lloyd replied, his voice gravelly. “American Cancer Society and the Association for Battered Women.” He pulled a pen and pad from his jacket and scribbled down the information, then placed the document on the edge of Honeycut’s desk.
“How much did you give them, Lloyd?”
“A hundred-seventy-five thousand each. That accounts for every cent.”
“Why the ritzy car for your wife, you son of a bitch?”
“Sir, I…I wanted to give Sally a parting gift of sorts, something I could never have given her before I had this job.”
Honeycut appeared stupefied by Lloyd’s answer, his eyebrows arched. Lloyd kept talking, but his tone became smoother, more balanced. “That was her dream car and I wanted to surprise her. When I first met Sally, she’d been battered by her ex. All the money in the world couldn’t change that but I still married her. On the other hand, if she’d had the wherewithal, she could have escaped the situation and survived on her own. She has given me the best years of my life, Mr. Honeycut.”
Honeycut rolled his eyes, scoffed. “This world is unfair, Lloyd. Get over it and pay up. And you will pay….one way or another.”
“There’s more you should know, sir.”
“Dazzle me, you mindless cretin.”
“My family is going through a tough time… I…I was trying to do a good thing. These charities are close to my heart and I could never—”
“Give it a rest, Lloyd. If you think you’re pulling at my heart strings, you’re mistaken. That’s your fucking problem. The money, the riches I’ve worked so hard to accumulate, will be given back to me, every… single… cent. You’re going to do the leg work and collect, tell them what you are: a piece of garbage who stabs people in the back. I can’t risk my reputation by knocking on the doors of a charity.”
“Your reputation?”
“Watch yourself, Lloyd. I have a short fuse—dangerously short.”
Lloyd chuckled faintly through his nose. “You put small companies out of business, sir. You received sizable tax breaks and gave money to those Wall Street thugs that, instead, could have helped those under financial strain in this community. The Monroe deal you made last year wiped out my neighbor’s company—you outright stole his clients while his business was crumbling. If you call that a reputation then so be it.”
“You have no proof of that, Lloyd. Let me spell it out for you. You have until the end of business today to get my dough, or I swear I’ll roast you like a pig.”
Lloyd’s eyes swam around the room. Honeycut pointed at him threateningly. “I won’t be made a fool of, Lloyd. You don’t want to incur my wrath. And, just so you know, Mr. Philanthropy, you will be followed by my men until the job is done. How’s that grab you?”
“I don’t care, sir. I’m not going to do anything you ask.”
One of the goons pulled back his sports coat, revealing a pistol with a silencer.
“Do you really want to play this hand, Fairbush? No one will hear it when the lead shreds your temple. No one will find your body. I know how to maneuver in ways you can’t imagine. You’re out of your league contradicting my demands.”
Lloyd, drained and becoming wearier, stood, straightened, wiped his face. “Do you know why I’m not scared of you, Honeycut?”
Honeycut stood. Making his way around the desk, his eyes rounded with fury. �
�You think you have balls, Lloyd? You’re merely digging your grave.”
Lloyd responded. “I’ve always made it a practice to keep my private life to myself. But… I will tell you this now. The timing is perfect.” He exhaled forcefully, stammered. “I…I am dying of cancer, Honeycut. My prognosis is thirty days, at most. I wanted to do something honorable before I left this world, give to those impoverished, in need, desperate like me and my family, and I wanted to watch you squirm once you knew you couldn’t get your dirty money back. The look on your face was worth my embezzling efforts.”
The goon approached Lloyd and shoved the barrel of the gun into his chest. “Go ahead,” Lloyd said, his hair sweaty and plastered to his forehead, the veins on his face dark green, pronounced, his hands shaking. “I’m not going to get that money, sir. I refuse. Kill me now if you want, end me right where I stand. You’ll be doing this terminal cancer patient a favor.”
Honeycut walked up to Lloyd and pulled the gun back from his chest. “Actually, my victory will be knowing that you’re suffering as the hours pass, withering away to nothing each and every day. And, by the way, Sally can keep the car—she’ll need it to drive you to your deathbed. Get the fuck out of here, out of my life, before this trigger pulls itself.”
Lloyd knocked over Honeycut’s lamp and then left the office, though he never made it home that day, as Theodore P. Honeycut meant what he had said: “I know how to maneuver in ways you can’t imagine.” Sadly for Lloyd Fairbush, he was robbed of the opportunity to say goodbye to his loyal wife, Sally, who loved him immensely in sickness and in health.
THE SHADOWS KNOW
