Her Silver Fox

by Koko Brown

  Without receiving an invitation, Patrick sat down. “No worries. I would’ve rescheduled, but since that would require my logging an additional eighteen hundred flyer miles, that wasn’t quite feasible.”

  Dr. Gupta rummaged in his cardigan pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. “Excuse me it’s rather hot in here,” he said, blotting his upper lip.

  Intrigued, Patrick glanced at the AC vent overhead. “Feels fine to me. Perfect in fact.”

  Gupta glanced up nervously, and then his eyes dropped to his desk where he began to fumble with stacking then re-stacking papers. “What can I help you with?”

  Patrick steeled his expression. Inwardly, his gut was telling him to dig deep.

  “I promise not to keep you long,” he hedged, watching the professor squirm. “I was hoping you could give me your assessment of Southern India’s newest venture.” He paused to pull a note card from his trouser pocket. “I’m sure you’ve read the numerous op-eds regarding the project.”

  “As far as I know all the proper permits have been drawn. A reputable construction company’s been hired. They claim they’re going to comply with the new standards bill instituted in 2015. And this project will put hundreds of people to work.”

  The guy sounded like he was reading from a script. “That’s the thing. On paper, the project looks great. It’s a cash cow. Still, I have red flags. And I get nothing but the same canned reply.”

  Gupta scratched his brow. “Maybe you’re looking for something that’s not there. Why come to me? I’m simply a professor.”

  “But that’s not necessarily true. At one time you were employed by Kamal Inc. the builder commissioned for this project. Southern India also contracted you as a consultant from 2005 through 2008. Is there a reason why you severed ties with both companies?”

  “We parted on amicable terms.”

  Losing patience, Patrick pushed from his seat and placed his hands on the desk. “I’m sure but what concerns me is why a person would leave a six-figure salary for an assistant professorship with a third of the pay.”

  “Money isn’t everything,” Gupta retorted.

  Patrick silently concurred. He’d been struggling with his own conscience. There was a time when closing the deal was paramount. Now he found himself questioning everything, wondering who his decisions might affect besides his bank account.

  Gupta sat back in his chair. His gaze directed at something on the floor. “I don’t know much about this project. And in order to not share in the culpability, I refused to look at the site plans. I have talked with a few former colleagues. And despite SA’s former issues and hefty fines, the right palms have been greased. It’s as if nothing has changed. Building codes are often unenforced, regulatory oversight is flimsy. So as you can guess I left because I wanted to eventually look myself in the mirror.”

  “Thank you for your time, Dr. Gupta.”

  “I hope this conversation will remain confidential.”

  “What conversation? I was never here.”

  Back at his hotel, Patrick packed his carryon. He had more than enough evidence to bolster his decision. He just needed to call Vanessa to arrange for an earlier flight.

  “How’s your trip going?” She asked, answering the phone on the second ring.

  “Enlightening.” Patrick stepped onto the balcony. Sinking in the distance, the setting sun casts an enchanting, golden veil over the city.

  “In a good or bad way?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “I don’t want to add any pressure but R.W. asked for an update.”

  “Not surprised. He’s especially keen on this project.” Too bad this would be the first project they didn’t see eye to eye. Switching gears to something a little more pressing, he asked, “Any important messages?”

  “A pile,” she said. “None you can’t handle till you get back.”

  “Any word about my suit?”

  Heart pounding, he waited for her answer.

  “Now that you mention it, Haufman’s did call. They said your suit was finished and ready to pick up.”

  “Only the one message?”

  “Only the one,” she confirmed, causing him to grip the railing. “Would you like me to pick it up for you?”

  “No. I’ll take care of it when I return.” Patrick reached up and rubbed the knot at forming at the base of his neck. Why did she have the ability to ruin an otherwise great day? No longer in the mood for business, he said his goodbyes then hit the end button. For a beat, he stared out at the city stretching before him. This trip was supposed to be like detoxing. He’d hoped the miles would eradicate the vexing temptation of proximity. He couldn’t be more wrong. A thousand miles had done nothing to exorcise her from his system nor stop his dreaming about her nearly every night and waking every morning frustrated and lonely.

  “Well that was quick,” Vanessa answered on the other end.

  “I need you to change my flight,” he said, pleased that his voice didn’t betray any of his inner turmoil. “Add a connecting flight from JFK to Knoxville, Arkansas.”

  “You’re a man on a mission.”

  His mission had nothing to do with the Morrissey Group, R.W. or even Burke Industries. He was simply buying time to clear his head, reclaim his freakin’ life. Shoshana Haufman had claimed his balls and wouldn’t let them go.

  Like in Bengaluru, Burkes Industries rolled out the red carpet. They sent a car to the Fort Smith Regional airport to pick him up and set him up in the best hotel in town, a Red Carpet Inn off Interstate 40. After a quick pit stop, a hot shower and a fresh change of clothes, he climbed back into the waiting SUV and headed out to Burke Industries.

  Unlike his other hosts, the Burkes didn’t have to wine and dine on their agenda. Their handwritten note specified casual attire, and after a fifteen-minute drive down a dirt country road, the hired car pulled into a piece of property containing six chicken houses and a Spartan manufactured home. From one of these, emerged the patriarch of the family, Thomas Burke.

  “Welcome to Arkansas,” he greeted with a wide grin and profuse handshake. “How was your flight?”

  “Flights,” Patrick corrected. He suffered through a two-hour layover before catching his connecting flight south.

  “Oh, that’s right. Your secretary said sumtin’ about you being in India. How was it? Their women still wearing those beautiful togas?”

  “Some still wear saris, and yes they’re quite beautiful.” Patrick glanced at the mobile home. “That your corporate office?”

  Thomas guffawed. “That’s the caretaker’s house. Our offices are over in Fort Smith.”

  Not the least bit amused, Patrick’s gaze slid from the mobile home to the chicken houses. All in a neat row, they were newer and in better shape than the dilapidated rust bucket he’d emerged from. “Then what are we doing here?”

  “How are you going to learn about our business if you don’t get into the trenches?” Thomas slapped a hand on his shoulder then directed them toward one of the hen houses.

  “What size shoe do you wear?” he asked, unlocking one of two thick metal doors.

  “Excuse me?”

  They stepped into a sterile room surprisingly devoid of chickens. Their muted chorus drifted through another shut door ahead of them.

  Chuckling, Thomas stalked over to a row of yellow, rubber work boots. He glanced at a couple of tags, plucked up a pair and handed them to him. He also tossed him a hazmat suit.

  “Are we going into a barn or nuclear reactor?”

  “Since the Avian flu outbreak last year we’ve required everyone to wear goulashes and suit up before heading into the hen house. Can’t have you contaminating our chickens.”

  “Duly noted.” Of course, the irony wasn’t lost on him since said chickens and their waste were contaminating the Arkansas River.

  Once suited, Thomas flipped a lever near the second inner door. A deafening, clatter of clucking hit them as they stepped onto a parapet overlooking the bar
n floor.

  “That’s a hell of a lot of chickens.”

  “Yep,” Thomas agreed, his barrel chest swelling with pride. “About twenty thousand of ‘em.” Patrick performed a quick calculation of the other five barns while the other man continued, “We could do twenty-five but that’s just too stressful. Gotta have healthy chickens. After all, we’re feeding America.”

  Burke bopped his head to follow him. Like a white feathered sea, chickens parted in their wake. Most walked around aimlessly while others, heads buried inside hanging feeders, ignored them.

  “Right after hatching, we ship the chicks to each farmer. For six weeks, they care for them till they’re nice and plump, and then we pick them up.”

  “Hatch. Grow. Slaughter. Repeat.” Patrick didn’t keep his disdain from coloring his tone.

  Burke cut his eyes at him. “My family has been doing this for over seventy-five years. As my daddy used to say, ‘we put food on our table by putting food on thousands of others’.”

  “So God Made a Famer,” Patrick muttered, hearing the strains of Paul Harvey’s baritone looped over a Ram truck commercial.

  “And I do mean thousands. Jimmy has five contracted chicken houses on this property. In all, we have a total of—”

  “—one hundred and twenty houses on twenty-five farms.”

  “You’ve done your homework.”

  “That’s why I’m paid the big bucks.”

  The tour continued through the four remaining structures. He also received a far too detailed rundown on the farm’s elaborate water filtration system and a first-hand look at the granary.

  “What’d ya think?” Steadfast in his role as host, Thomas walked him back to the waiting SUV.

  “Is that it? What about sanitation?”

  “We all know there’s nothing sexy about chicken shit.” His grin didn’t translate to his other facial features.

  For half a beat they stared at each other. Fully aware they were at a stalemate, Patrick extended his hand, “Thank you for the tour.”

  “Would you like to see another farm? I had the Stanton’s and Parkers on the itinerary.”

  “I think I’ve had enough sexy to last me a lifetime.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “You’re back early.” Vanessa scrambled after him, ending her conversation with the assistant pool which seemed to favor the desks of fellow associates with absentee bosses. “How was your flight?”

  “Up in the air.”

  “How did things go?”

  He thought about it a moment before answering, “Pretty much as expected. Wined and dined then clucked and mucked.”

  Vanessa pushed her glasses up her nose. “You’re in a good mood.”

  “Glad to be home.” He should be exhausted after spending three of the past seven days thirty-thousand feet from the ground but for some reason he felt in good spirits. It was because he was back in the city, back in his element, closer to her.

  “I’m glad you’re home. This place seems to crumble when you’re gone.”

  Normally, being an invaluable asset to the firm would’ve stroked his ego, not today. Ever since stepping on the return flight home, the last thing on his mind was the Morrissey Group.

  With her following in his wake, he stopped suddenly. “Can’t I get my messages?” he asked, searching out the pink slips like his life depended upon them.

  “I can bring them in to you—”

  “I’ll take them now.”

  Edging past him, she rummaged in her trouser pocket and pulled out a small key. “I didn’t write it down,” she said, “but one of the janitors stopped by.”

  “Nelson Patel.”

  Vanessa’s eyes widened. “You know him?”

  “I was interested in one of his inventions.”

  “Was?”

  “R.W. shot it down.” Eyes narrowing, he watched her unlock her desk drawer then pull out a small stack of missives.

  “What’s up with the heightened security?”

  She handed over his messages. A red blush stained her cheeks. “Your interviews seemed preempted and tainted toward Southern India. I scheduled all of them. You didn’t talk with anyone so I had to be the weakest link. From now on I will be more diligent about safeguarding our communications and any and all business dealings.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up about it.” It was a flippant answer but right now he didn’t care about the Morrissey Group’s inner shenanigans. “I don’t see the message from Haufman’s.”

  “I chucked it because they delivered your suit yesterday.” Different key in hand, she hustled over to his office. “Since it was so expensive, I hung it on the back of your door then locked it for safe keeping.”

  She unhooked the black garment bag, and his jaw clenched.

  “Would you like me to read the card?”

  “No!” Christ. He sounded like a moody teenager. Still, a brief twinge of embarrassment didn’t keep him from snatching the clothing bag from her then tearing into the attached card.

  Thank you for your patronage!

  Haufman’s Clothier

  No, ‘Thank you for the multiple orgasms’.

  No, ‘I miss that big dick of yours, hit me up some time’.

  He wasn’t being egotistical he’d actually received those very compliments from numerous lovers. Of course, he’d ignored them as immature cries for attention. Now, he’d appreciate them over this rote, computer-generated customer card.

  “I’ll be back.”

  “What about the managerial meeting at eleven?”

  He didn’t give two fucks about that glorified brag fest but he offered, “I’ll be back.”

  He all but jogged through the building’s lobby. The emotion gripping him could only be described as fury. How dare she end things with him in this manner? Without a phone call or even a cowardly text message. He’d assumed they’d turned a corner, both of them ready to define this thing between them, set expectations. The top of his list of demands: not seeing anyone else. The thought of another man touching her made his blood pressure skyrocket.

  A cab pulled up to the curb and he waved her away. “Go back inside. Leave this alone, leave her alone.”

  Not quite following his advice, yet unwilling to go back to his office, he started walking north. With each block, his anger receded, but not the offense to his ego. He was the one who set the terms not the one who accepted whatever scraps someone was willing to throw.

  Patrick hesitated. His gaze lifted, focusing on the Washington Square arch. He’d been so deep in thought he’d hiked more than thirty blocks to Greenwich Village. At least he hadn’t made a big fool of himself by heading to Haufman’s Clothier. Chuckling, he rubbed the back of his neck. To think, he planned on fucking her until she fell for him.

  How lame.

  Before he walked another thirty blocks and fulfilled a stupid impulse that would lead nowhere, he headed back to the Financial District.

  It was already past ten when he stepped onto the elevator. He bypassed his floor, opting for the 50th floor and the main conference room. He should’ve dropped off his suit but for some odd reason, he didn’t want to part with it.

  “Going someplace already?” Thad Anderson tapped the back of Patrick’s chair as he passed. As always, he had Saul Gould in tow.

  “No. Just picked it up from the tailors.”

  “Anyone you’re willing to share?” Anderson asked.

  Patrick felt every muscle in his body tense. “I’ve found them too expensive and subpar,” he lied. “So I guess I need a rec.”

  “Can’t go wrong with Barnaby & Lee.”

  Thad hit Saul in the arm. “I was just going to say that.”

  Saul plopped his hands on his hips. “You know I never take your recommendations lightly.”

  Patrick sighed. Watching them slob over each other’s knobs was beyond mind numbing. Not willing to lose his mind, he tuned them out while the rest of the managerial staff eventually trickled in.

 
; “Glad to see you back, Patrick.” R.W.’s gnarled hand slapped his shoulder.

  Good to be back almost came to his lips but he said, “Thank you, R.W.”

  “I believe everyone’s here. How about we get started?”

  It was a simple weekly update meeting. One of a hundred he’d sat in on. And yet everything felt completely alien like working on a different frequency from everyone around you. His eyes drifted around the table. He tried to recall personal details about each of them and he drew a blank. They each had their own areas of expertise but they all possessed one common denominator. They were all ‘yes’ people. R.W.’s personal little minions who’d perfected the fine art of following his orders to the letter all so they could enjoy a seat at the table.

  “Patrick?”

  He looked up, finding all eyes on him. R.W. sat at the head of the table, tapping the tables’ polished surface with gnarled fingers.

  “I called your name three times,” he pointed out. “Bad case of jet lag?”

  If it’s coloring my future with this firm, then yes.

  “I applaud you,” R.W. continued. “Two continents, two risky ill-liquid investments in six days that’s what I call stamina.” His boss enunciated each syllable by pounding his index finger against the table. R.W. loved initiative, going the extra mile several thousand, in this case, to close the deal. His peers didn’t appear as enamored. Their placid masks staring back at him.

  “Do you have an update?”

  Patrick felt a knot tighten in his gut. “We should walk away.”

  All eyes swiveled to the head of the table. As always the stodgy billionaire’s reaction would influence theirs. Christ, it felt good to no longer be a sheep.

  “I’m not sure if I heard you correctly. Did you say we shouldn’t invest in either company?”

  “I would advise against it. In my opinion, one company doesn’t value its employees, the other the environment.”

  R.W. stared at him for a beat, a quiet pause before the hatchet fell, “I disagree. We’re going to finance them.”

  Issue obviously settled, R.W. moved on to Mitch Farnlow and his preparations for the upcoming fundraiser for New Rochelle Bright Stars Charter School.