Bitch Slap

by Michael Craft

  I pondered these matters with some gravity when I awoke that Tuesday morning, Neil still asleep at my side. Similar thoughts traced through my head an hour later as we sat in the kitchen with our friend Doug Pierce, enjoying a breakfast routine that was repeated almost daily. By the time we had parted company, each of us starting our separate days—Doug driving downtown to the sheriff’s department, Neil to his architectural office, and I to the newsroom of the Dumont Daily Register—by then, thoughts of erotic adventure were the furthest thing from my mind. I had a newspaper to put out, another in the endless march of daily deadlines.

  Parking in my reserved spot just behind the building on First Avenue, Dumont’s main drag, I barely paused to appreciate the fine October morning with is pristine, azure sky before entering the street-level lobby, waving to Connie, our receptionist, and bounding up the single flight of stairs to the newsroom.

  It was here that I always felt most in my element. While the gathering and reporting of news is, by its nature, an excursion into the unknown, the process of journalism had become predictable and second nature to me. Its protocols, ethics, and deadlines had come to represent a sturdy, understood framework not only for publishing, but for life itself. No wonder I always felt so much “at home” upon entering the Register’s offices. It wasn’t just that I liked my work. I owned the place.

  “Morning, Mark,” “Hey, boss,” “Great tie, Mr. Manning,” called various staffers as I zigzagged my way through the maze of desks and moved toward the far side of the room, where editorial offices are separated from the hubbub by a glass wall. Beyond the glass, in the anteroom of my own office, I noticed two men, their backs to me, sitting at the low, round conference table with my managing editor, Lucille Haring—there was no mistaking her bright crop of red hair. Not recalling that a meeting had been scheduled so early, I wondered what was up and quickened my pace.

  “Mark! Can I trouble you for a minute?”

  Turning, I immediately broke into a smile. “No trouble at all, Glee.” Our features editor, Glee Savage, stepped smartly down the aisle in my direction. In her midfifties, she was one of our most senior staffers, having started at the Register straight out of college, working for the paper’s founding publisher, Barret Logan. Back then, she’d worked on the “women’s page,” covering weddings and club meetings; now she edited our daily Trends section, writing many of the page-one features herself.

  She had dedicated her entire career to promoting Dumont’s finer, gentler side, and if our little town could be said to have a fashion maven, it was surely Glee. She played the role to the hilt, always dressing to the nines, preferring to risk too much color rather than too little. This morning she wore a neatly tailored suit of nubby silk, ruddy ocher, almost orange. Accenting her autumnal ensemble was a ruffled blouse of shocking yellow. Not a tall woman, she nonetheless strutted with authority atop sensible heels of oxblood calfskin. Incongruously, she carried in one arm a large copper saucepan. Always chipper, always sincere, she was the personification of “perky.”

  “I hate to nab you first thing,” she said, touching my arm with the fingers of her free hand, “but I’m dying to know—were you able to set up an interview at the Reece house?” She arched her brows and flashed me an expectant grin, stretching her glossy red lips.

  “At your service.” I doffed an imaginary hat. “Dinner was rather dull, but yes, I did get Gillian Reece to consent to the feature. We’re expected this afternoon.”

  “We? Keeping tabs on me, boss?”

  I laughed. “Never. But I’ve been itching to see the place myself, and Neil offered to give us both the grand tour. We’re expected at one. Care to join Neil and me for lunch before we head over there?”

  “Gosh, I’d love to, but I have an eleven-thirty appointment that’ll probably run late. Why don’t I just meet you at the house?”

  “Fine by me. Do you know where it is?”

  Glee rolled her eyes. “The whole town knows where it is.”

  “Just look for our car. If we’re not there yet, wait, and we’ll introduce you to Gillian.”

  “Perfect. I’m eager to meet her. Thanks, Mark.” And she hustled off toward the photo studio, ready to style a recipe picture for the food page.

  Lucille Haring had spotted me through the glass wall, and when I stepped toward my office door, she stood, saying, “Gentlemen, here’s Mark.” Lucy wore a drab olive-colored pantsuit that day, her typical work uniform. Thirty-something, Lucy had joined the Register’s staff shortly after I’d bought the paper. Though she had now worked side by side with Glee Savage for four years, none of the older woman’s fashion sense had rubbed off on my mannish second-in-command.

  As I stepped into the room, the others stood and turned. The two men who had been waiting for me were Perry Schield, chief executive officer of Quatro Press, and Tyler Pennell, the accountant from Green Bay who was performing due diligence in preparation for the merger with Ashton Mills. “Gentlemen,” I said, shaking hands with both of them, “what an unexpected pleasure.”

  “Mark,” Perry acknowledged me, returning my handshake and bobbing his head of thinning, silvered hair.

  “Morning, Mr. Manning,” said Tyler, pumping my hand in an earnest, down-to-business manner. A generation younger than Perry, not yet thirty, Tyler might have passed as the older man’s son.

  They were cut from the same cloth—literally, wearing dark blue wool business suits that appeared identical, except that Tyler’s jacket had an extra button, four instead of three, and Perry wore a starched linen handkerchief in his breast pocket. Tyler was a nice-looking man, in a conservative sort of way. Perry, at sixty-two, looked more distinguished than attractive; a note of fatigue in his bearing hinted that he had passed his prime.

  “Mark,” said Lucy, motioning that our guests should resume their seats at the table, “Mr. Pennell has raised some concerns with Mr. Schield, and I thought you’d want to talk to them.” The tone of her voice, coupled with her uncharacteristically formal use of mister, signaled a matter of some importance. Was something wrong?

  “Thanks, Lucy,” I said through a leery squint as she stepped out of the room. Sitting, joining the two men at the low table, I asked, “What can I do for you?” With an air of nonchalance, I crossed my legs, instinctively trying to lighten the heavy tone I sensed in the room. But I suddenly felt out of place—in my own office, no less—because my casual posture and khaki suit were in such sharp contrast to the staid manner and appearance of my visitors.

  “Actually, Mark,” said Perry, clearing his throat, “I’m not sure there’s anything you can do for us—not yet. We just wanted to make you aware of a discussion we’ve been having. We wanted to alert you to a, well … a development.”

  Tyler raised a few fingers. “I’m not sure development is exactly the right word. Let’s just call it a ‘concern’—a preliminary concern.”

  I uncrossed my legs and sat upright. “You’ve certainly piqued my interest.”

  Perry cleared his throat again, preparing to speak—an annoying habit that had come to nettle me during board meetings at Quatro, which typically lasted three hours. As the company’s CEO, he had lots to say at those meetings, punctuated with nonstop hacking. “I’m not sure where to begin,” he said, looking agitated.

  I suggested, “Perhaps Tyler should explain.”

  Perry nodded, unfurling the handkerchief from his pocket and covering his mouth for a deep, phlegmy cough.

  Tyler said, “This concerns the due diligence for the merger, Mr. Manning.”

  “You’re welcome to call me Mark.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I cringed. His deferential politeness made me uncomfortably aware of my age. Though my years were midway between his and Perry’s, I was sure that in Tyler’s eyes, I was already in the same creaky boat.

  He continued, “I’m not certain what to make of this—it may be nothing—but I’ve discovered some accounting blips while examining the books at Ashton Mills.” />
  “Blips?” I asked.

  “Inconsistencies. Nothing major, nothing alarming, but nonetheless unexpected. Something doesn’t quite add up. It’s probably a matter of simple human error, but I’m surprised that it would find its way into Ashton’s final, year-end report.”

  “Yes, that is surprising.” I drummed my fingers on the arm of the chair, recalling, “Ashton Mills routinely subjects its accounting to an independent, external audit—precisely to eliminate the possibility of ‘human error.’”

  “Mark,” said Perry, leaning into the conversation again, “if this isn’t a red flag, I don’t know what is.”

  “It bears looking into,” I agreed.

  “Looking into?” Perry’s milky eyes widened. “If you ask me, this could be the tip of the iceberg, and we should be extremely wary of the rush to merge.”

  “Now, hold on,” I said, raising both hands in a calming gesture. “This merger hasn’t been rushed in the least; it’s been in the works for nearly a year. Don’t forget, both companies—both boards—have shown great enthusiasm for the merger, which is based on sound business reasons.” I rattled off the points that had been covered in the press release.

  But I neglected to mention that one of the most appealing aspects of the joint venture was related to Quatro’s executive suite. By combining forces with Ashton and sharing management resources, Quatro would be inheriting the dynamic Gillian Reece, who seemed far better equipped than Perry Schield to face the daunting business challenges that lay ahead. I wasn’t sure whether Perry himself realized that the merger had been compelled by his own lackluster leadership. Either way, he would soon retire, walking away wealthy.

  I turned to the accountant. “Tyler? What’s your honest assessment—do these findings amount to a deal-breaker?”

  “Gosh, no. At least not yet. I need to do more digging. Most important, I have questions about Ashton’s accounting practices, and I need to get answers. Fast.”

  Perry coughed. “I’m thick with their CFO—met him at the club, and we’ve played a few rounds of golf together. Maybe I could help set up a meeting.”

  “Forget the financial guy,” I said, trying not to sound too dismissive. “Tyler, I think you should go straight to the top. Time is running short, and there’s a lot at stake. Gillian rose through the ranks as a crack accountant, so I’m sure she knows Ashton’s books inside and out. If you’ve discovered inconsistencies, she’ll want to be the first to know the details.”

  Tyler hesitated. “I’m not so sure, Mark. I’ve always found her to be somewhat, well … frosty.”

  “That may be true”—I couldn’t help chuckling—“but she’s first and foremost a businessperson. If you have questions, she’ll have the answers. There’s surely a logical explanation.”

  Tyler heaved a sigh, then tossed his hands. “All right. I’ll try to set something up.”

  “I’ll be seeing her this afternoon. Want me to broach this for you?”

  Tyler’s features brightened some. “Yes, actually.”

  Perry cleared his throat. “Careful, Tyler. She’s a handful.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve noticed.”

  Chapter Three

  Tuesday had all the makings of a slow news day. It had peaked early, with the worrisome concerns expressed during Perry Schield and Tyler Pennell’s visit, but otherwise, I found little else to occupy my time or my mind as the hours slid noonward. Even the morning mail proved humdrum. After one too many strolls through the newsroom, having exhausted all reasonable options for chitchat, I could tell that the staff was beginning to feel pestered, wondering why I wasn’t huddled in an important meeting somewhere.

  So shortly after eleven, I decided to get some fresh air. I would walk the few blocks to Neil’s office, drop in unexpectedly, and pester him till it was time for us to move onward to lunch.

  Stepping to the desk in my inner office, I donned my jacket and checked my pockets for wallet, keys, pen, and notepad—an old habit, as an experienced reporter had no way of telling when a story might break. I also made sure that a pair of reading glasses was tucked in my breast pocket—a newer habit, one I had resisted, necessitated by the first ravages of middle age. And finally, I plucked a phone from its charger on the desk and slipped it into a side pocket of my coat—a brand-new habit that still made me uncomfortable.

  I hate cell phones. Once the cutting-edge technology of heart surgeons and others who might legitimately be interrupted at dinner on a matter of life or death, these intrusive gadgets have become so ubiquitous that most adolescents now carry them—and use them—to the constant annoyance of society at large. I had once thought that the mark of true success was to be disconnected. I reasoned that if I was important enough, and if someone needed to reach me, that was his problem, not mine. Now, apparently, I needed to keep myself at the disposal of anyone with the whim to dial my number.

  It was Lucy who finally convinced me that my reticence to carry a phone was stodgy and contrarian. Journalism, she lectured, was an increasingly electronic medium; lost minutes could mean missed deadlines. She needed me, the Register needed me, twenty-four-seven. So a week ago, against my better instincts, I told her to get me a phone—with the strict caveat that only she would know the number, a condition to which she readily agreed. (Naturally, I shared the number with Neil, but only after securing his promise never to use it.)

  As of that Tuesday morning, the gizmo had never once rung. On the one hand, I found its silence a matter of great relief; my fears had been unfounded. On the other hand, I had begun to suspect that the phone simply didn’t work, so out of sheer curiosity, before leaving my office, I flipped it open and decided to check the local weather number. It was then that I discovered that the timing of two recent incursions into my life had proved ironically propitious—in my pocket I had glasses at the ready, which I needed in order to read the damn buttons on the phone.

  Learning that the afternoon would remain cool but sunny, I decided there was no need for the trench coat I kept at the office, so I pocketed the phone, pocketed the glasses, and headed out, crossing the newsroom, descending the stairs, waving to Connie, and emerging through the glass doors onto the street.

  First Avenue was quiet; sleepy little Dumont’s noon “rush” was some forty minutes off. There was a snap to my step as I ambled along the sidewalk, peering into shop windows as if they might contain something new. At the corner, I waited for the light to turn, even though there wasn’t a moving car in sight. Then, crossing the street, I began to whistle some unnameable tune. Feeling suddenly foolish, I laughed at myself, enjoying the bright fall day. As I headed toward Neil’s office, my pace quickened in anticipation of seeing him.

  And the phone began to warble.

  Good Lord, I thought, had some catastrophe befallen the world? Was Lucy running wild through the newsroom, shrieking to stop the presses, trying desperately to reach me?

  I turned on my heel to head back to the paper, then realized the phone was still ringing and decided I’d better answer it. Stepping beneath the awning of a dark corner tavern, I extracted the phone from my pocket, flipped it open, and fumbled with the buttons. Squinting, I couldn’t quite read them, but the green one seemed a reasonable choice, so I punched it. Lifting the phone to my face, I asked uncertainly, “Yes?”

  “Uh … Mark?”

  “Yes, Lucy.”

  “Lucy? It’s Roxanne. What’s wrong, Mark? You sound weird.”

  Sounding more perturbed than weird, I asked bluntly, “How on earth did you get this number?”

  “I called you at the paper, and the receptionist said you’d stepped out. So she suggested I try your new cell phone. Welcome to the twenty-first century, Mark.”

  I muttered, “More like, welcome to hell …”

  “Awww. Rough day, sweetcakes?”

  Allowing a laugh, I conceded, “Not really. It’s been a slow day.”

  “Then I’m not interrupting. Got a minute?”

  “Sure, Rox. For
you, anytime.” If we were going to talk awhile, I didn’t care to loiter in the tavern’s shadow, so I crossed First Avenue toward a little park, a patch of green that marked the center of town. A rusty cannon roosted on a chunk of granite with a plaque displaying rows of names etched in bronze. A green-enameled park bench, not unlike the one where I had perched in my dream earlier that morning, sat nearby, affording a partial view of the street, truncated by the cannon’s snout. I settled on the bench, alone in this bellicose Eden.

  “ … ever since the election,” Roxanne was saying.

  She was referring to the election of the previous fall, in which her husband, Carl Creighton, had lost his bid to become lieutenant governor of Illinois. They had since resumed their careers as high-powered attorneys in Chicago.

  “How’s Carl taking it?” I asked.

  “The loss? He’s fine. You know Carl—unflappable as they come. Besides, it wasn’t political ambition that motivated him to run. It was his sense of pubic duty. A lot of people thought he was right for the job.”

  I hesitated. “And you?”

  “What about me?” As she said the words, I visualized her smirk. “Did I think Carl was right for the job? Of course I—”

  “I meant, how have you been handling the disappointment of last November?”

  “Christ, Mark, that was a year ago. I’m a big girl—and a city girl. Springfield just isn’t ‘my kind of town.’” She added, “Chicago is.”

  Roxanne and I were old friends; in fact, she had introduced me to Neil. She and I spoke often, but the opportunity had never seemed right for a heart-to-heart regarding the impact of the lost election on her emotions. I’d been reluctant to ask about it because I’d assumed I wouldn’t get a straight answer.

  I reminded her, “You were getting into it, the whirl of the campaign. Don’t try to pretend you didn’t find a certain allure in the prospect of becoming the lieutenant governor’s wife.”

  “Why do you think I married him?” she quipped.