It Happened at Two in the Morning

by Alan Hruska

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m going to Ashaway.”

  “Why? We were just there.”

  “Because it’s the last town on the spur, stupid.”

  The line goes dead. Jacob looks in the car, sees it’s empty, turns around. There’s Piet behind him, sitting on a fence. “What the fuck you doing?”

  “Taking in the scenery,” Piet says, “breathing the air, luxuriating in life.”

  “Get your ass in the car, we’re going to Lexington.”

  “Why not just stay here?”

  “And what?” Jacob asks. “Get a job shoveling horseshit?”

  “You think that’s worse than what we’re doing?”

  “Then why’re you doing it?”

  “For the company,” Piet says.

  Jacob looks flummoxed, and Piet laughs. “Come on, big chief. Let’s go to Lexington.”

  Yasim is not unaccustomed to displays of fabulous wealth, including the appropriation by the rich of nature’s great settings. LJ’s Atlantic expanse in St. Barts, however, is a triple-terraced, French-windowed pile perched on rocks overlooking white beaches on two sides of the estate. It exceeds anything in his personal experience. He and Lowell lunch on local fish chowder, caviar omelets, and mango soufflé. Their table is set on the pool terrace, which affords close views of the main beach and its sunbathing guests, most of whom are attractive women who absorb the rays in the French style, which is to say, topless.

  All is good for Yasim but the news.

  “It was a lengthy conversation,” Jockery says, “and not entirely satisfactory.” He pauses to sip his coffee. “Several conversations, in fact. They want Rashid here, and I’m still not sure why. The obvious answer would be that they don’t trust you, my friend. At least insofar as the GT&M deal is concerned. However—and I can’t overstate this—they emphasized repeatedly that’s not the case. In fact, they put it on the opposite ground, that they want you back to help them there. They’re using terms like “put out the home fires,” confusing me with the Brits, I think. Your people often do that.”

  “To whom did you speak?”

  “To the Emir, of course. Eventually. I’m not to be fobbed off with lesser authority. Your friend, Rashid, seems well regarded.”

  “Strange. He wasn’t when I left. Not by the Emir.”

  “He’s found a way.”

  “So it would appear.”

  “Well, the news isn’t all bad,” Jockery says. “I did manage to get you a stay of execution. Six weeks, which should give us time to achieve the takeover.”

  “With Rashid part of it?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Something’s happening I don’t understand.”

  “Perhaps you should ask Rashid?” Jockery asks.

  Lunch for Tom and Elena consists of soup, salad, and coffee in their now “own” booth at Gene’s. “Pie?” suggests Tom over the din of conversation.

  Elena gives him a look.

  “You can afford it,” he says.

  “You talking money?”

  “I’m talking figure,” he says.

  “Then you haven’t been looking.”

  “Oh, I’ve been looking.”

  “Hmm,” Elena says.

  They both sip their coffees, each looking elsewhere in the crowded room.

  Tom says, “Want to talk about last night?”

  She lowers her cup slowly. “Are you going to be a pain in the ass on this subject?”

  “No. If you really don’t want to talk about it, I’ll admit I was mistaken, and the matter is closed.”

  “Hmm,” she says.

  “We could do a capella,” he suggests.

  She looks upward at the tin ceiling and heaves a sigh. “You weren’t … entirely mistaken.”

  “Ah.”

  “Look … before I start sleeping with a guy—I mean, sleeping with him in the biblical sense—I’m gonna want to be very sure of him.”

  “And you need more time,” Tom says. “We haven’t already been through enough together.”

  As Elena looks pained, Nancy comes over. “Gimme room,” she says, easing in next to Elena. “Yesterday, two guys were here, funny-looking guys, asking questions that didn’t quite sit right. They seemed to be poking around for information. They pretended to be involved in some big transaction—which I didn’t believe for a second—and asked about lawyers in town. They were interested in Horatio and his … staffing, as they put it.”

  “Oh shit,” Elena says.

  “Don’t know why,” Nancy says, “but the first thing I thought of, these guys are nosing around about you guys.”

  “Where’d they go?” Tom asks.

  “Dunno. But it looked like they may have left town. They weren’t here this morning.”

  “Thanks, Nancy.”

  “It’s nothing.” She pulls out of the booth. “Just thought you should know.”

  Watching her go, Elena says, trying to sound calm, “That’s pretty scary.”

  “I agree.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Sit tight,” he says, “or run to New York.”

  “Staying here is an option?” she says, surprised.

  “Probably safe for the time being. They came; they didn’t find us; why should they come back?”

  “Reinforcements?”

  “For us?” he says. “We’re that dangerous?”

  “Only to each other.”

  “There is that.”

  “But your feeling is we should stay put,” she says.

  “I think so,” he says, upbeat. “For the moment. We have jobs. A house. The men looking for us have come and gone with no reason to return that we know of.”

  “Yesterday you were saying we’d be better off taking the DA up on his offer.”

  “Still true,” he says. “In due course. I’ll tell Rauschenberg to make a proffer.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He sets out our version of the facts. Normally, it’s done as a nonbinding admission of guilt, to get a deal on sentencing, but here we could use it as an assertion of innocence, and as a way to present evidence, so we can negotiate the terms on which we come back. In any event, the negotiations will take time, and I suggest we stay here while that happens instead of roaming around the countryside.”

  “Yeah,” she says, musing aloud. “Just what I thought. You like the sleeping arrangements.”

  “Oh, really?” he says.

  She looks away.

  “Elena?”

  “You were the one who said how easy it would be. Remember? Mr. Bundling Board?”

  “I was wrong,” he says, then puts some money on the table. Then suddenly rises. “Let’s get out of here.”

  On the green, Tom leads, to their now “own” bench, with Elena a reluctant follower. “Let’s be honest,” he says. “We’re heading that way. It’s gonna happen. If you don’t screw it up.”

  “If I don’t screw it up?” she scoffs.

  “Well, I’m not going to.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Julian Althus, as acting chairman, presides over a meeting of the Riles Whitney board. Ten other board members are attending, plus Harrison Stith, the company’s outside attorney. The boardroom commands a corner of the top floor of the Riles Building, thereby providing a view of the Hudson River as well as downtown Manhattan. It’s connected by private dining rooms and secretarial suites to Robertson Riles’s old office, on the opposite corner of the building now occupied by Althus. His continued occupancy depends on the report about to be made by the nominating committee, and the board’s action on that report, but neither outcome is much in doubt.

  Torrence Stearns, the chairman of the committee, is now asked by Julian whether there are nominations to be made. “I have the great pleasure,” Stearns says, “to announce our unanimous proposal that you, Julian, shall be the president, chief executive officer, and chairman of this company.” To confirm his pleasure, Stearns beams it from a full
round face.

  “Thank you, Torry,” says Julian. “I should now excuse myself, to give the board the opportunity to discuss the matter and vote on it.”

  “I doubt that’s really necessary,” Stearns says, with a cheerful lilt to his voice.

  Julian glances about until his eyes stop on Frank Buckmaster, CEO of Addison Paper, and Robertson Riles’s oldest friend. “Might be better if you did, Julian,” Frank opines.

  “Oh?” Julian says.

  “Come on, Frank,” says Torrence. “We’re all grownups here. If what has to be said can’t be said to his face, it’s not worth saying.”

  Frank says, “Your call, Julian.”

  “Actually … I think Torry’s right.”

  “Very well.” Buckmaster has a weathered countenance, which he rubs thoughtfully with a lean, freckled hand. “As much as I respect you, Julian, I feel we shouldn’t act on the succession until the largest individual shareholder of the company has been heard from.”

  “You mean Elena,” Julian says.

  “Of course, Elena.”

  “Her sisters have been heard from, and their husbands.”

  All look to Lawton Sergeant, husband of the oldest sister, who gives a nod of approval.

  “Quite right,” continues Julian. “And of course Elena’s now a fugitive, wanted on a charge of murdering her father.”

  “Do you believe such a charge?”

  “I wouldn’t have, no,” Julian says. “But I also wouldn’t have believed the evidence they seem to have found against her.”

  “So you think we should try her here?” Frank says. “Right now? On the basis of what we read in the newspapers?”

  “I’m not saying that.”

  “If we proceed on the succession without hearing from Elena, we’d be doing precisely that. Surely, if she were here, we’d want her views.”

  “Naturally. I above all. But she’s not here. Quite possibly by no fault of her own, though her flight with that Weldon fellow is not helping her case. But the company must be run. Run strongly and effectively. By a chief executive who is not merely ‘acting.’ Clients, competitors, the world must know that that person is totally in charge and will be so for the foreseeable future. For the good of the company and all its shareholders. Isn’t that so, gentlemen?”

  Around the table, from powerful men, there issues a general murmur of approval.

  “Moreover,” Althus says, “we’re on the brink of war to take over one of the most important corporations in the United States. We cannot go to battle with an acting general.”

  “So you favor that acquisition?” Buckmaster says.

  “Absolutely,” Julian says.

  Torrence says, “Is there a motion?”

  Five men at once move and second the nominating committee’s proposal. As Harry Stith rises to take the vote, the motion is carried by acclamation.

  Teddy Stamos reaches Jockery on his cell phone at the airport in St. Barts. “You’ve heard, LJ?”

  “About Julian’s election? Of course.”

  “About his support for Riles’s takeover plan?”

  After a long silence, Stamos says, “LJ?”

  “How good’s your source on that, Teddy?”

  “Impeccable.”

  “Mine didn’t mention it.”

  “’S’why you pay me the big bucks, LJ.”

  “What exactly did he say?”

  “That Althus totally favored pursuing Riles’s plan to take over GT&M.”

  “Althus announced this to the board?”

  “Very warmly, I’m told.”

  “Who is he, your source?”

  “It won’t help you to know that.”

  “It will help me to evaluate what he’s telling you,” says Jockery, with irritation.

  “I’ve evaluated it, LJ. It’s solid. Because the source is solid. And if I name him … or her, he … or she won’t be.”

  “It’s a woman?”

  “I haven’t said that.”

  “You think what?” says Jockery, with increased umbrage. “I’m not to be trusted?”

  “Of course I’m not saying that, LJ. But the person is skittish. You look at him, or her, a certain way—you probably wouldn’t even know you’re doing it—”

  “All right, Teddy,” Lowell, gazing at the hilltops of St. Barts, says calmly. “Bring in Khalil.”

  The light is off when Tom emerges from the bathroom. Momentarily he can’t see, then makes out Elena’s form on the far side of the bed. We already have sides, he thinks. Have we established anything else?

  He slips into “his” side. Not a stirring from hers. He’ll just lean over a bit, take a look. She turns, her face under his.

  “Ye-es?” she says.

  Taking that as an invitation, he kisses her on the lips. She tastes like toothpaste.

  She kiss back? A little ambiguous. Try again?

  “Elena?” he tries.

  “Shut up,” she says and pulls him to her, like pulling breath from the air.

  Then pulls away.

  Surprised, he can think of nothing to say.

  Finally, she says, “I like you. More than I thought I would. I’m not in love with you.”

  “Too early for that,” he says.

  “Way too. Infatuation, maybe.”

  “It was a pretty serious kiss. That last one.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Maybe definitely infatuation.”

  “Maybe definitely?”

  “Whatever,” she says. “It’s unstable. Might be gone tomorrow.”

  He sits up. “We just kissed each other and meant it. And now you want to go back to cool?”

  He waits for an answer, but gets only her turning away from him.

  “You always do this?” he asks.

  “There’s no ‘always’ with me, Tom.”

  “No prior relationships?”

  She sits up too. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “But have there been? Prior relationships?”

  “Nothing you’d likely call one.”

  “You’re inexperienced,” he says. “It happens.”

  “I know enough.”

  “Yeah?” he says. “So what do you think? About us? As clearly as you can see it.”

  “On this subject you want clarity?” she says, as if the idea were ridiculous.

  “I worship at its shrine.”

  “I just said, I don’t know. That’s honest, that’s something, and it’s as clear as I can get.”

  “I’ll take it, it’s progress.”

  “Good,” she says.

  “People have slept together with less reason than that.”

  “We are sleeping together,” she says, sliding over to her side of the bed, leaving much space between them.

  “You’re tough,” he says.

  “You’d like easy?”

  “No, El. I’d like you. And I’ve no confusion about that at all.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Cincinnati to Ashaway, partly on bad roads, is a two-hour drive, even on a Saturday morning. Worse for Birdie was New York to Cincinnati on a six a.m. flight. Losing sleep blackens her mood, which becomes pitch waiting for her luggage. She was forced to check it. It contains her guns. In unrecognizable pieces, of course. But the need to check ordnance always makes travel doubly infuriating.

  Easily enough, however, she finds the Ashaway town square, parks her rented Dodge in one of the diagonal spaces, buys a newspaper, and gets a table at Gene’s Restaurant for lunch. Within minutes, Tom and Elena walk in. This, Birdie thinks, is looking too easy.

  She orders a salad, coffee, and a bottle of water from a woman whose manner seems more suited to stand-up than waitressing. The pie looks great, and Birdie is tempted, but gauges even one slice to exceed her daily calories. Ostensibly studying the real estate ads in the newspaper, she watches the waitress scoot over to Elena and Tom. They carry on a conversation that’s a bit more than ordering. Birdie strains unsuccessfully to pick up what they say.


  She finishes early, pays first, then lingers over a second cup. When they leave, she leaves, and, at a cautious distance, follows them out of town onto a narrow two-laner. They stop at their house; Birdie keeps going. Now she knows where they live. A mile away, she pulls off the road onto a dirt trail between two cornfields. She gets out, takes some sun in her face and stretches. A simple plan forms in her head. Take a nap in the back seat; assemble the rifle; “do” both those kids in their own house; drive back to Cincinnati. A walk in the park.

  Is it? she thinks, drifting off.

  Birdie awakes just after eight p.m., only partly refreshed and with a great urge to pee. She wanders out onto one of the cornfields, finds a spot, lowers her panties, and irrigates some stalks. Walking back to the car, she realizes she’s thirsty, and gulps down the bottle of water she’d bought at Gene’s. Next she pulls the rifle sections from the car and assembles the weapon on her lap. It’s a job she’s done often, for practice and for real, so it takes no more than four minutes. She’s done it in three, but doesn’t feel that kind of urgency now. Having put the gun together and loaded it, she’s ready to go. But doesn’t. Not right away. Something’s giving her pause. Something about those two she’s preparing to turn into corpses.

  Her reflex is to flip the visor so she can look in the mirror, check her appearance, check out her hair. Despite the nap, she feels tired. Is it those kids, she wonders, or just me? Getting tired of this job? Burned out?

  It doesn’t detain her for long, however, whatever it was. In the cornfield, as the sun drops under the horizon, she pivots as if on parade, turning away from the fire streaks in the sky. There’s the job; do it; leave town. That’s her modus. Without dwelling further on doubts, she’s back in the car, on the road, heading for the mission.

  There’s the house: downstairs light on; their car in the driveway. Birdie parks on the road, gets out with her rifle, heads toward the field to the right of the house. Slowly, noiselessly, she makes her way onto the front porch. A board creaks slightly under her weight. Shouldn’t alert them; it could have been anything. But she allows minutes to pass. Her next step is silent. Then she tries the front door. It’s locked.

  No problem. The pick in her pocket makes short work of locked doors. This one: only a low click when opening, and Birdie’s in the front hall. Which is quiet. They must be upstairs, maybe even in bed. Then Birdie thinks she recognizes the source of her hesitation. Not me, she thinks. I’m okay. It was those two in the coffee shop, feelings on display. Even more, their wish to hide them. A shame, really.