“I’m putting this at the top of my list,” Badger announced.
“You don’t have to—”
“It’s at the top of the list,” he stated firmly, “because it needs to be.”
“Okay,” I smiled. His entire list was filled with number-one priorities. “I appreciate it.”
“You’ll be hearing from me soon,” and he hung up.
With Badger off on his assignment, I turned my attention to the paper I found in one of the self-help books in Jeanette’s room. It was a photocopy of an old newspaper article from 1961, most likely from its society pages. It was a few-paragraph story about the divorce of Carl Valenti of Carson and his wife Sheila Valenti, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Richard Hawks, also of Carson. They had been married for eight years. It mentioned Valenti’s development company, the same one that some years later he would grow into the premier homebuilder in Orange County. It made no mention of children.
I spent the better part of my day playing detective on the internet trying to answer why Jeanette would be so interested in her grandfather’s first marriage. That meant skipping out on two touch bases and on a status meeting with my co-manager, Paul. I didn’t regret the latter. It spared me from having to endure hearing about yet another solution to the obesity epidemic.
It was fairly easy to track what happened to Valenti after the divorce. He remarried within a year to a younger woman, also from Orange County. They had one child, a little girl they named Meredith. The new Valentis became a fixture of the society scene in Southern California for three decades. Their names were attached to a full book of charitable organizations, saving everything from the South Bay to rescued greyhounds. The second Mrs. Carl Valenti died peacefully in her sleep in 2000 from complications of pneumonia.
Finding out what happened to his first wife, Sheila, proved a challenge. She and Valenti apparently met at Cal State Fullerton. She was Carl’s senior by several years. They married one year after they first met.
Sheila came from an established family in Orange County. There were several mentions of her father and his small manufacturing business in industry publications and business journals. He served on the town council for three terms in the city of Fullerton and was a senior officer in the local Lions Club. Her mother was a prominent figure in the Pioneer Society, a sort of D.A.R. for Californians. All these details portrayed a very comfortable, upper middle class life. But there the details fell off. The chroniclers of society life in Los Angeles eradicated Sheila post the divorce.
One thing I found, or was noticeably absent, was the mention of Fullerton on the long list of non-profits and charities Valenti was involved in. There were at least half a dozen educational foundations and universities that benefitted from his largesse. But not Fullerton. An interview with him on his business career made one mention of dropping out of school in his freshman year to pursue a start-up business venture. Sheila was his senior by several years. Perhaps she had completed her degree.
I checked several alumni news publications and eventually found a handful of Fullerton graduates named Sheila. More digging and photo comparisons led me to a Sheila Lansing of Pacoima. Some ten years after her divorce from Valenti, she married Fred Lansing, insurance salesman from Sun Valley. The public narrative for the Lansings was four decades of quiet existence — a fund drive for the local church, a fender bender at the intersection of Alto and Briar, second prize in a chili contest. Fred died in 1998. They had no children.
Sheila’s address hadn’t changed in forty years from the house on Fountain Street in Pacoima. I decided to make the drive out there to talk to her. I called Hector and told him to meet me out front of my building.
“I’m here,” he told me.
“What do you mean?” I asked. I moved to the window and pressed my forehead against the pane. Fifty floors down I could see a black sedan parked in the red zone and the driver standing by the passenger door. “Wave your hand.” The figure down below did as I asked. I wondered how long he had been out there. I didn’t like the idea of having a driver and really didn’t like the feeling that I was being watched. “Okay, I will come down.”
“He that is already corrupt is naturally suspicious,” intoned a voice behind me. I slowly turned around to see a smiling Pat Faber sitting on the counter in my office.
“Hey, Pat,” I spoke casually. “What brings you here?”
I wasn’t sure how long he had been there and how much he had heard. The suspicious comment worried me some but not too much. That was just “Pat being Pat” as people liked to say.
Pat Faber made his reputation on folksy aphorisms. Apparently, he used to vacation in Montana and that credential alone granted him the credibility to spout country pearls like, “The owl of ignorance lays the egg of pride” and “You can’t buy the wrench until you know what size pipe you’re working with.” They had the resonance of something profound but couldn’t stand up to three seconds of reflection. However, that didn’t matter as far as his career was concerned. Pat quickly built an image of the “Wise Sage” and he rode it straight to a senior director role. That development would cause much anguish for scores of associates.
It was a firm rite that on every big project someone would recommend you “run it by Pat.” With that single request you were sentenced to hearing another of his homespun summations of your challenges that was either incorrect, incomprehensible, or both. But that’s not what you told him. Given Pat’s standing at the firm, the responses were much more supportive and included words like “game-changer,” “unique perspective,” and “out-of-the-box thinking.”
Eventually, Pat began to actually believe in the myth of Pat and he became a mockery of himself. It was, after all, a lofty image to uphold, and Pat felt the need to live up to it at all times. The aphorisms fell into overuse; they became hackneyed and tired. The projects associates had to run by Pat soon were of less and less significance. And eventually, Pat just became some weird guy spouting nonsense to the team determining what brand of coffee to serve in the break rooms. This was my direct report.
Pat fittingly chose to sit on the counter and not the formal chair. There was a forced casualness to the decision. “I was up in Washington in May,” he began. I pulled a chair up and gave him my full attention. One learned to be wary of “shootin’ the breeze” conversations in Corporate America — those often were the most lethal. “You know I have a cabin on the Columbia?” he asked, and my stomach fell out. He was about to give me the salmon story.
“Sockeye are running this week,” he started. “The river was just boiling with fish. You don’t have to be an angler to land a twenty pounder, you just need a line and a hook and maybe not even that!”
“That’s terrific,” I commented but couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to match the word. “Must have been quite a time.”
Pat didn’t acknowledge my comment. There was a story to tell and by god he was going to tell it.
“My last day there I went off the main river and followed one of the feeders deep into the woods. I can’t tell you how far I hiked, must have been a few miles. I was exhausted like them sockeye in the river. We were one at that moment.”
“I bet,” I said.
“Onwards, I drove. And the deeper into the woods I went, the greater the number of sockeye that couldn’t make it grew. Remember, these beasts came from Alaska. It was the journey of a lifetime, thousands of miles. You’d see them in the eddies hiding in the shadows of the rocks. You figure they were resting, getting their bearings, but the majority were just giving up. Some didn’t have what it takes to make it. Quitters didn’t want to go on and finish the run.”
Pat looked up at me, and I knew exactly what he was talking about. The salmon run was his on-the-nose metaphor for our collective corporate careers. We were all on the journey from Alaska to the Puget Sound, into the mouth of the mighty Columbia, ten million strong. Up the river we went, promoting our way from one tributary to the next until the run has thinned to just a few, deter
mined sockeye who would finally lay that retirement nest egg that ensures their stock will continue for future generations. Humans have an enduring capacity to attach grand meaning to meaningless things. What Pat neglected to say was that after the salmon lays its egg, it dies before it’s able to enjoy it.
Within the narrative of the Great Sockeye Run was a not-so-subtle message questioning my commitment. It was just the nature of things that anyone who made it to the finish line naturally believed everyone else sought what they fought so hard to get. And thus the idea that some people didn’t want that same glory was wholly unpalatable. He looked at me like I was one of those scared quitters circling peacefully in the cool, dark waters of the eddy until the game was over. And he couldn’t have been more accurate.
I never wanted the career. This salmon had wanted to turn back at the mouth of the Columbia. But at a certain point it becomes too late to retrace my steps. A modicum of competence had gotten me to a certain level, at which point I pulled off to the side of the great journey and bided my time. I was safe and happy and out of the spotlight until Bob Gershon retired. That changed everything. Suddenly, there was an opening in the department for a senior leader, and they wanted to see if I would go for it. I had no choice.
“I’m glad you stopped by, Pat.”
“Oh?”
“This morning I asked my admin to find some time on your calendar,” I lied.
“Is that right? What did you want to discuss?”
“Pat,” I said and choked down the faint taste of bile in the back of my throat, “I’m the man to run the group.”
A MAN AND HIS PIGS
Hector checked his watch with a slightly annoyed look as I approached the town car. I ignored him and gave the address for Sheila Lansing’s house in Pacoima.
We pulled onto the 101 and fell into a brisk 20 mph pace. My mind immediately went to the conversation with Pat. Now that I was committed to getting the lead role, I had to actually come up with some ideas to warrant giving it to me. Truth was I was drawing off a barren field.
I focused my efforts on the two great motivators — fear and greed. If I could find one of those things that could either get them to salivate or to soil their shorts, I would have no problem through the interview process. Do both at the same time and they’d be talking about director material. The problem was that there were so few fears left. Most had been eradicated from Corporate America — health issues associated with smoking, threats of lawsuits for discrimination and sexual harassment.
I knew what Paul, the perpetually-thin man who never worked out and loathed anyone above fifteen percent of their body mass index, would pitch. He’d pimp the noonday run-walks he organized which no one showed up to, weight loss seminars that always started out strong but suffered from attrition after only a few days, and one cockamamie idea that associates travelling between one or two floors were required to take the stairs.
In Paul’s defense, the medical costs associated with this small subset of people far exceeded the combined totals of the rest, and it wasn’t even close. But it always felt like there was something more to his fixation on this “terrible disease,” something that went far beyond the costs he could save the company. Every new idea was positioned with a false sense of concern — “these poor folks are really struggling and need our help” — that I never believed came from a genuine place. Of course, that could have been because I hadn’t had a fresh idea in ten years and was merely envious of the in-roads he could potentially make with senior management.
I was so wrapped up in my brainstorm session that I barely noticed we had pulled off the highway and had entered the residential neighborhoods of Pacoima. Hector navigated us through the bedroom community to a quiet street one block from the looming foothills.
The street was in the middle of a wholesale rejuvenation drawing largely off the well of young professionals new to the home ownership game. And while its youthful neighbors had fully embraced the home improvement movement, Sheila’s house stood out like a stalwart. It seemed content with its generic concrete driveway and occasionally-mowed crabgrass despite the yards around it displaying an elaborate design of river rock, succulents, and PVC fencing.
I rang the bell a few times but got no answer. A nosy neighbor working on a finicky sprinkler head called out to us. He wore an over-sized landscaper’s hat common among Mexican gardeners but the person underneath was very white.
“They’re not home,” he said.
I walked over to the fence that divided the lots.
“Do you know Sheila Lansing?”
“Sheila?” he repeated like the name was foreign to him. “Yeah, I know Sheila. But she doesn’t live here anymore. She moved into an elder care home about three years ago. No one takes care of the yard,” he said with remorse. “Such a shame. It could be a really nice house.”
“You don’t happen to know which home?”
He eyed me closely, but he eyed Hector even closer.
“Who are you guys again?” he asked.
I made up some story about a property management company working with Sheila and her estate. We’d worked mostly with her lawyer but needed to meet with her about some matters. That lifted his spirits as he envisioned a future where the dump on his right would stop dragging down his property value. He ran inside to get the information I wanted.
“Yard’s been a bit of an eyesore for a while now,” he said and handed me a slip of paper. “It’d be great for the neighborhood.”
***
The Calvary Convalescent Home was a two-story structure that resembled a converted motor inn. It was just off the 210 Freeway in a semi-commercial area on Foothill Boulevard. We parked under a carport that once served as a loading zone for vacationers to unpack their luggage. The air was hot and dusty and recalled the brittle desert winds of autumn.
The lobby was populated with furniture you’d find at any hospital, dentist office, or clinic — the medical industry had a singular approach to furnishing. Old display racks that once held pamphlets for local attractions now contained flyers on estate planning and funeral services. I approached the front desk where a woman who was close to becoming a resident smiled up at me.
“I’m here to see Sheila Lansing,” I informed her.
“Did you have an appointment?” she asked.
I responded that I didn’t, that I was a family acquaintance and that if she had the time, would like to spend a few minutes with her.
“Don’t you worry about that,” she smiled. “Our residents always appreciate a visitor. Any kind.” She called out to an overweight Filipina in maroon scrubs. “Tala, can you please show these gentlemen to Ms. Lansing’s room?”
I turned to Hector, but he was already headed for the door and back to his car.
“Well,” I said to the attendant, “I guess it’s just me.”
I followed the woman down a linoleum-lined, fluorescent-lit hallway. We passed a small chapel where a pre-dinner service for about five residents and their attendants was in progress. I tried to make small talk with the nurse but she wanted no part of it. She silently led me out to a second floor balcony that ran the length of the building. Ten or so cushioned glider chairs separated by dusty potted palms looked out on the parking lot below. Straight across was the freeway and its ever-present traffic. If you closed your eyes and thought long enough you might just mistake the sounds of the cars for the lapping waters of the South Bay.
The sun was just creeping over the roofline, and a male attendant lowered blinds before the glare fell on the residents. I followed my escort to the last chair where a slender woman sat with her hands clasped over her lap. You could see the former beauty under the poorly-applied makeup and sweater much too heavy for the temperature outside. I thanked the attendant, but she waddled off without acknowledging it.
“Not the friendly type,” I commented.
“Don’t mind her. She’s just angry that she’s fat and doesn’t have a man,” said the woman and put out her h
and. “I’m Sheila Lansing.”
“Chuck Restic.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Restic?” said the voice, wary of a reverse mortgage pitch or some other scam to bleed money out of her.
“I was hired by your ex-husband to help him find his granddaughter,” I said.
Her frail hand went limp in mine.
“She’s in trouble,” she said more as a statement than a question. She seemed to get lost in the thought.
“Do you know her, Mrs. Lansing?”
“Yes,” she answered and motioned for me to pull over one of the plastic chairs. “I met her last year.”
“How did you meet?”
“Here,” she answered. “Right here in this building. She was part of a school program that put volunteers into the community.”
Jeanette’s school was some twenty miles from here. There must be a hundred other such convalescent homes between the two. “Us old biddies get lonely and a voice in person, any person, is very welcome.”
I glanced down the balcony at the other visitors and wondered how many were family and how many were just strangers trying to do a good deed.
“Did she know who you were when you first met?”
“She said she didn’t.”
“But you don’t believe that,” I finished for her.
“No.” Sheila unclasped her hands. “She knew but pretended to be surprised. It came up in the most comical way, like bad acting on a soap opera.”
“Why do you think she sought you out?”
“Other than our mutual relationships with Carl,” she answered, “I can’t figure out why.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Oh, I don’t know. We talked about almost nothing of much significance — things going on in school, some boy she had a crush on, a new movie, kid stuff. We would talk for hours, right here with her in that chair.” She reflected on the moment. “All these visitors are here to provide comfort to us buzzards but it always felt like I was the one comforting her.”
The Eternal Summer (Chuck Restic Private Investigator Series Book 2) Page 5
