Camden's Knife

by John Patrick Kavanagh

  “There must not be another car like this in the world. How can you…”

  “How can I what?”

  “How can you sell it?”

  “Oh, I’m sure there’re cars like this in the world. Maybe not as well cared for or documented, but I’m sure there’re others.”

  “But I mean, how can you give it up?”

  “My uncle gave it up. I can give it up.”

  “What happened? Is he still around?”

  “No,” Hendricks said, a whimsical grin creeping onto his face.”He died a few years ago. Heart attack…in his sleep. He left it to me in his will. Said I ought to do something creative with it.”

  “And?”

  “And I’m going to do something creative with it. Not with the car, with the money.” He picked up his beer and rolled the bottle in his hands.”I’ve made copies of all the things in the briefcase. Up there,” he continued, pointing to an open plan loft overlooking the family room, “I’ve got a picture of him I took with the car in Hawaii. The best view is from the edge of the cliff.” He paused.”Material things all disappear eventually but good memories live on forever.”

  “What are you going to do with the money?”

  “That’s my concern, not yours.”

  “Oh.”

  Stonetree thought for a moment. Should he make an offer or wait for a price to counter? The owner seemed reasonable enough. Maybe if he put all his cards on the table at once he could cinch the deal.

  “Well, I’ve been doing a lot of reading on Mustangs during the past year and I’ve got a pretty good idea what they’re worth,” he said with an affected air of authority.

  “Share, please.”

  “Sixty-seven models like yours, in good condition, are selling in the range of between $150,000 and $175,000.”

  Hendricks motioned him to continue.

  “Of course, this car has things to offer that they probably don’t so I’d be willing to talk about something a little higher.”

  Hendricks nodded.

  “Would you consider, say, $180,000?”

  “Yes.” Hendricks laughed.”As an insult.”

  Stonetree sank back into the couch.

  “Look, Dave. I don’t know how much the web says they’re worth. I do know that a friend of mine mentioned the car to a broker she met in Dallas, and the broker called me and wanted to buy it. I’ll guess this broker takes about ten or 15 percent of the price so I think I’ve got a vague idea about what it’s worth. My only issue is being satisfied with who gets it.”

  “Are you satisfied with me?”

  “We could talk a bit more. I’ve been watching you. I imagine you’d qualify.”

  Stonetree waited for the rest.

  “I’ve got a year-old Chrysler so I don’t need a new car. And I don’t know how much you drive or where you drive, but I wouldn’t advise running that mare up and down freeways every day. She’s not cut out for it, not anymore. You’d destroy her in a year. What do you want it for, anyway?”

  “I’m not sure. I just want…to have it.”

  “Well,” Hendricks said as he repacked the briefcase, “why don’t you think about it and give me a call when you get your thoughts together.”

  “We can talk now.”

  “Are we talking about $450,000? If not, then we ain’t talking.”

  And they didn’t. But Stonetree promised he’d be in touch soon.

  CHAPTER 6

  As he limcabed to the Plaza the following Friday morning, Stonetree tried as best he could to place the events of the preceding week into perspective. Despite the massive amount of time he’d spent poring over the background material on Pharmaceuticals and Media, sometimes reading until 2:00 in the morning, he felt mentally alert though didn’t feel assured he could take on more if asked to do so. He wasn’t confident he was making the right judgments and properly managing the things within his control. And the things he couldn’t master had begun to gnaw at him.

  His conversation with Lane before she’d left for Houston filled him with a sense of purpose he’d never experienced before in his professional life. She was enthusiastic, almost delighted he thought, when he told her he’d take the job. She’d spent a good 20 minutes on the phone discussing the immediate actions he’d take and speculated about what the future might hold for him. When she told him about her conversation with Robin McReynolds, it was almost as if she were conversing with an old friend rather than with a new assistant.

  McReynolds had been commissioned by the Wall Street Journal to do an in-depth article on Southern United Enterprises and was now finishing it by conducting background interviews with key SUE executives. Pierre Picard, as usual, refused to talk with anyone so instead delegated the task to the three group vice presidents.

  Writing for the Journal was a plum assignment, not only due to its massive readership but also because of the prestige which accompanied a writer’s byline. Within six months of the explosion that had unleashed the CYD envirus, the paper had become the go-to source for information concerning the pandemic. Aside from the national edition, it was now published in 52 languages in over 80 hard copy and electronic versions, making it the most popular news source on Earth.

  Hamilton and Paneligan were pleased with the opportunity to sit for interviews but Lane, between her own previous difficulties with the press and her imminent travel schedule, declined. She was obligated to provide her divisions’ input though, and during a telephone conference McReynolds mentioned offhandedly that he knew a few employees at SUE. Of course, Stonetree’s name came up.

  Seeing he was already on her list of prospective assistants, she sensed the serendipity of the situation and decided on the spot that he would be the first to be offered the position. One of his first actions as the new Director/ Corporate Projects was to contact McReynolds and arrange the meeting.

  The remuneration accompanying his new title was substantial, not counting a special signing bonus she’d said was in the works, but the long-term possibilities were even more enticing. His new bonus structure was much better than that in Technology. There, he usually received between eight and 12 % of his salary each year which he never thought bore much relation to his performance.

  Lane was adamant that bonuses should be earned and not granted. While a lackluster execution of his responsibilities might merit nothing, she was prepared to award him up to 30% of his salary for a sterling performance, taking into account the bottom lines of her two divisions and the general corporate profit picture.

  Despite the fact that she was maintaining a hectic schedule on the road, she saw to it that the transition for him was as smooth as possible. It was Walker who contacted him, not vice versa, and congratulated him on his promotion. HR gave him priority status and took care of virtually all the details of the switch in a single day. Operations came in on Monday morning and gutted Marx’s old office, 50 feet away from Lane’s and twice as big as his last one.

  He was allowed to choose his own furniture from the warehouse rather than be assigned the standard company groupings he was used to. He also was given the option of keeping Marx’s admin or bringing Debbie over with him, a courtesy that SUE’s red tape typically didn’t allow. She was thrilled with the prospect of moving over to the Media side and made her choice before he’d finished explaining her options.

  At the end of his conversation with Lane, he’d mentioned that a close friend had recently developed phase one CYD and inquired about the Febrifuge Blue 1000 program. She offered to front for an addition to the testing and told him to put his friend in touch with the Pharmaceutical Studies VP to arrange it.

  He thought Sharon would be tickled with the news but she took it with little enthusiasm. She reacted in similar fashion to the accounts of his promotion and his visit with Hendricks.

  Her Tourcam results tested about where they’d expected, the analysis confirming she was indeed a carrier of Camden-Young’s Disease. The residual readings indicated she might, as was said on the street
s, escape with a warning rather than a heavy fine. The breakout on the scan pointed to a less-than-encouraging 62% on the extended Class B threshold although there was an outside chance that she might be experiencing a masked Class C infection. Her doctor prescribed an average strength dosage of Febrifine Green 800 which she found amusing as Green 800 was the most popular competitor of SUE’s Febrifuge Blue products. When he mentioned the opportunity to enter the 1000 testing program, she’d expressed little interest.

  He was troubled by the condescending tone she used when addressing his decision to work for Lane. On at least one occasion he could remember, he’d characterized Lane as being the embodiment of many of the things he disliked about SUE. Admittedly, he was now making a departure from this earlier assessment and Sharon seemed intent on turning this fact into a bigger issue than he thought it was. She took him to task for what she considered an abandonment of his principles just so he could get ahead. When she referred to Lane as an overrated, ambitious bitch, Stonetree dismissed her entire harangue as nothing more than depression over her illness, her struggles at work and a continuing difficulty with a decidedly jealous disposition.

  Sometimes her possessiveness amused him, sometimes it all but choked him. If she had only given him a little room they might by now be living together, if not engaged. But she had this black guardian angel of suspicion that seemed glued to her shoulder.”What did you do last night?” was never enough.”What time? With who? Why with them? What did you talk about?” If he answered, it just encouraged further interrogation. If he didn’t, it acknowledged a massive conspiracy.

  Then there was the phone call to Hendricks. He’d called to double-check the fact that he really meant $450,000. Having confirmed it, he went on to tell Jay the price was so far out of line with reality that it bordered on science fiction. Hendricks replied he had no particular interest in reality and wished him luck in finding the same car at any price.

  He’d pleaded and cajoled, trying to get at least $50,000 taken off, but Hendricks would have none of it. As soon as he got his price the car would be gone, end of conversation. He told Stonetree he sympathized with him and didn’t himself believe the car was worth that much, but seeing he was under no compulsion to sell, his mind was made up.

  As Stonetree rode the elevator up to McReynolds’s apartment in the new, luxurious Wilson Towers, wondered how Robin had been faring of late. He’d married a college friend of theirs and they’d met at an annual get-together about a dozen former classmates held each summer.

  The match of Sasha and Robin seemed perfect. They were both intelligent, artistically bent and if the truth be known, cute and cuddly, Robin towering over her exact five feet by about six inches. But a year earlier she’d thrown her lot in with the Equus Society, a fringe enviro-religious movement, then departed for destinations unknown with most of the money.

  They hadn’t seen each other as much as they had before the dispute between Robin and Jip Spotswood erupted. Still, they now and again got together for lunch or cocktails, always enjoying their wide-ranging albeit cynical conversations about life.

  McReynolds greeted him with an enthusiastic handshake and ushered him into his small but stylish one bedroom condominium. As usual, he didn’t appear to have aged a day since Stonetree last saw him or for that matter since the day they met. His short brown hair and classically boyish, well-scrubbed looks, which always seemed to attract maternally instinctive waitresses or socialites, were all intact.

  He was one of those charmingly arrogant men who could run a 10K race, work on a couple of writing projects while enjoying a few martinis and half a pack of cigarettes then think about dinner. He’d go to the grocery store to pick up a steak or sushi and end up explaining his projects in the 10-items-or-less checkout line to a recently divorced stewardess who happened to be a gourmet cook.

  Inevitably he’d be invited back to her place and inevitably he’d explain to her how no one understood him. Three hours later she’d be hopelessly in love and Robin would be dragged into the bedroom so he could discover that yes, someone did understand. Then he’d leave the next morning, off to Tanzania to do research. Robin was the only person Stonetree knew who always referred to Wikipedia as Tanzania.

  If only he could be more like Robin, he thought. If only he could move through life with the ease and detachment and confidence his friend so simply commanded. He’d watched him on many occasions, drawing people into conversations while casting his spell over anyone within earshot. He could speak with authority about almost anything, asking questions to which only he seemed to know the answers. Pick a subject, McReynolds was the source. And if he didn’t know the answer he could bluff his way through his analysis so convincingly that the lie became the truth.

  A lot of people were put off by his directness and cleverness, but Stonetree loved it. If only there was a way to master it; a way never to have a doubt, a way to create truth without effort.

  The only thing he seemed to lack, and a constant source of annoyance, was a concrete, immortal recognition of his journalism skills. He’d been considered, but never nominated for. a Pulitzer Prize twice but success remained illusive, his white whale remaining out of reach despite the fact that he’d said more than once he’d sell out his mother to possess such an accolade.

  The first thing he did was show Stonetree some new toys he’d purchased with the money he’d received for a well-regarded essay placed with Bloomberg the previous month. There was a new Minolta camera and three different telephoto lenses and a Mont Blanc fountain pen. Finally he pulled out a small gray and burgundy zippered case and gingerly opened it. Inside was a brushed steel Smith & Wesson .38 revolver.

  “Isn’t she a beauty?” McReynolds asked gleefully.”You’ve got to have one these days. I keep it loaded just in case.”

  He pressed the release and the cylinder popped open. He emptied the five shells then handed the weapon to Stonetree, who closed the cylinder and raised the gun toward a vase, staring over the sight and thumbing the hammer.

  “The grip’s really a nice size…for my matching hands.”

  “That’s ’cause it’s a chick gun.”

  “Chick gun?”

  “See there? Below the cylinder? Lady Smith.”

  “Ahhhh. It is a chick gun,” he chuckled.”Well if I ever run into one with a carry permit, empty holster and pressing needs, I’ll know who to tell her to contact.” He studied the inscription.”This is a beauty. How much?”

  “Eight hundred. Plus the guy threw in a free box of ammo. I’ve been getting some weird phone calls since I moved in here. Had to change the number a couple times. You know, ‘We’re going to get you’ then they hang up. It rattles me every once in a while. An article like this other one I’m working on can bring out the weird ones.”

  “Oh, yeah? What are you doing now? A lobotomy on Burger King? They’re about ready to give up the ghost.”

  “Sorry. Top, top secret. Here,” he instructed, pointing.”Sit down at the desk like you were writing and swivel in the chair toward me. They said I’d get an additional grand if they used a picture I took. Might be the size of a postage stamp but your puss might show up in the article. Let’s give it a try, anyway.”

  Stonetree complied.”I was under the impression I was just background,” he said as McReynolds fooled with the camera.”Isn’t that right?”

  “Yeah,” McReynolds replied as he fired off ten frames.”That’s true. But I could mention to my editor that you’re a rising star. He might bite.”

  “Okay.” Stonetree smiled into the lens.”But no leg shots.”

  “No leg shots,” McReynolds agreed.”And put that gun down. It just adds to the perception that SUE is robbing everybody.”

  After a brief tour of the apartment, which was dominated by Robin’s large collection of artifacts, the two sat down at the newspaper-strewn kitchen table to catch up on the events of the past months, starting with how he’d finally abandoned the house shared with Sasha in a ritzy suburb and th
e decision to leave his gig with the PR firm.

  McReynolds had become fairly well known at a young age for his ability to craft devastating articles on large corporations but had set aside freelance work for the stability of a regular paycheck. Since Sasha ran off, he’d thought more and more about returning to his earlier profession and finally made the break when offered the chance to do a hatchet job on American Airlines. The piece was never published but the editor at the Journal liked it enough to assign him the present project.

  “Well, the better this little story comes out, the more likely you’ll be out on the streets,” he said as he poured coffee.”I suppose you’re aware of that fact.”

  “I’m just here to preach the corporate gospel,” Stonetree lobbed back.

  “Okay, I’ll go easy on you. You’re not the one I wanted, anyway. Although I know you’re a diamond in the rough, I really wanted your boss.”

  “You and everybody else.”

  “No, seriously,” McReynolds continued.”What’s the problem with Trisha? I didn’t have problems with those other two characters. They were very cooperative, but Jesus! The day I talked to her, I got two minutes and was sent packing.”

  “So you met her, huh?”

  “No. She was going somewhere. Said she’d be in touch. And here you are.”

  “A martyr for the cause. She lives here too, doesn’t she?”

  “Does she? News to me. I’ve never seen her here and you can bet I’d remember if I had. She’s got good taste, though, if she does. I think I’ve actually slept here a total of ten nights since I got the place so the Pope and the entire Vatican Guard could be holed up in one of the penthouses and I wouldn’t know about it. I think the building’s only half occupied. I don’t see many people coming and going.”

  “Ten nights? In three months?”

  “You know how it is,” he said with a wink.”No rest for the wicked. I’ve been traveling a lot too, digging up dirt about your company and working on the other piece I latched onto.”