Ted heard Elizabeth Cresswell's voice and looked around.
"Porter, I'm sorry to break in, but I've got a meeting with Personnel in five minutes." She didn't sound sorry to break in. She stood up, and her back was to Ted. White shirt and slim khaki pants. Dark hair tied with a red scarf. He wanted her to turn around, give him the front view.
People shifted, started remembering things they had to do.
Hands gripping the arms of his chair, Porter pushed himself out of it. His jacket hung loose on big shoulders. He lifted one side of his mouth in a grin. The man looked like a cadaver. "I talk too much. You should've stopped me fifteen minutes ago, Liz. It's good to see you people again. I'm glad to be back, damned glad. Claire and I are grateful for your sympathy . . . your friendship." His voice broke, and he waved them toward the door. "All right, let me get to work."
There were some handshakes as people filed out. The leasing manager squeezed his shoulder. Porter said, "Stamos! Wait a minute. Close the door and come back in here."
Ted did, then walked over to Porter's desk. Dub was still sitting in a chair to one side, a can of Coke on his thigh. Probably had a couple ounces of liquor mixed in. He'd gained weight, and his belly hung over his belt. Dub's job as director of sales involved entertaining vendors and boat buyers, taking them out for steaks, then to strip clubs, if they wanted. Ted knew this because Dub would take him along to keep these people out of trouble.
In the corner, Porter's wife turned a page in her magazine, inconspicuous as a sofa cushion.
"A couple of homicide detectives came by this morning," Porter said. "Sit down, will you? They wanted to talk to you, but you weren't around. Your crew chief said you were doing a water test."
"Yeah, I was out on one of the forty-six-footers. Why do they want to talk to me?"
"They've got some questions about a kid who used to work here, Bobby Gonzalez. Friend of my nephew Sean's. He worked for you. Isn't that right?"
"More or less. He was in the glass shop for about a month." Bobby Gonzalez had been put to work laying down fiberglass and pressing in the liquid resin with rollers and brushes—a tough job, and hot this time of year, even with industrial fans blowing into the boat hulls. Ted said, "I believe Dub arranged the job as a favor to Sean."
"I should have known better." Dub took a swallow of whatever was in his Coke can. "He has an arrest record. He was in a gang. Did you know that?"
"No. I thought he was a dancer."
"He is. He's a ballet dancer. If I wasn't sure Sean liked girls, I'd worry." Dub laughed, and his stomach moved.
Porter said, "Now, listen, Ted. The cops asked me about the relationship between Gonzalez and Roger here at the company. I said that Roger fired him for stealing some tools, and Gonzalez attacked him. That's true, isn't it?"
Ted could see that Porter wanted it to be. "Well, they had some problems. I think Roger resented having to add another worker on the shift, so he made it real tough on Bobby, trying to make him quit, I guess. Bobby started backtalking Roger in front of the men, and Roger told me to fire him, but I said, 'Well, Roger, you better learn to deal with the employees,' so I wouldn't do it. Then security found one of our sanders in Bobby's locker. I never pegged the kid for a thief, but Roger brought Bobby up to the shop office and fired him. I got there about the time they were tangling, and I pulled them apart." Ted added, "The kid's a hothead, but I can't see him shooting anybody."
Porter pointed at Ted. "Nobody asked you that, did they?"
Ted didn't reply immediately. The finger was still pointing. He said, "That's the question, isn't it? If he could have killed your son?"
"The cops think he did. The night Roger died, people at that party heard Gonzalez threaten him. Everyone there can provide an alibi—except Gonzalez. Last week the police found a shirt in Gonzalez's trash can with blood on it the same type as Roger's."
Claire looked up from her magazine but said nothing. The sun came through the window, lighting her pale blond hair.
Ted said, "I'm not clear on ... what you're saying."
Porter laughed, and a crooked smile remained. The loose skin of his jowls settled onto his shirt collar. "Just tell the cops about that fight. Tell them you saw it all, how Gonzalez attacked Roger, and I don't want to hear how you tried to excuse his behavior. When I ask for your help, I would hope that you have enough loyalty to give it, and keep your fucking opinions to yourself." Porter was still smiling. "Is that clear enough for you?"
Feeling his neck getting hot, Ted thought about what to say. He wondered if Porter had gone crazy. He wondered what would happen if he got up and went back to work. Both the brothers were looking at him, Porter from behind his big desk, Dub with his fat belly and booze-red face. Ted nodded. "Yeah. It's clear."
Then he stood up and said if there was nothing else, he had to get back down to the shop. He was reaching for the door when somebody knocked, and it opened. He had to dodge out of the way.
Nikki Cresswell came in, walking like she was about to fall off her high heels. Her eyes were red, and her mascara was smeared. Porter's secretary was right behind her. "I'm sorry, I told her you were in a meeting, but she wouldn't wait."
Claire put aside her magazine. Dub started to get up.
"No, don't bother," Nikki said. "I'm not staying. I just came by to talk to Porter, but it's lucky you're here, Dub, because you might be interested in this. Wow. Ted's here too. Maybe I should put a notice on the bulletin board." She made a little laugh.
Porter said, "What is it you want, Nikki?"
"I have to sell Roger's shares in the company as soon as possible." Nikki sounded like she had a cold. "Roger was so far in debt. I mean, I had no idea. He didn't even have life insurance, or retirement, or anything like that. I don't have enough to get by on till the probate goes through. Anyway, the shares are for sale. No reasonable offer refused!"
Silence. Everybody looking at her. Ted Stamos knew he ought to slide on out the door, but this was too good.
"Porter, you ought to buy them back, then you'd have more than Dub again. If Dub buys them, he'd have almost sixty percent." Nikki made a big smile in Dub's direction. "Think about that. You'd be in control. Or maybe I'll sell them to the employees."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Porter demanded. "You have no interest in this company."
"Yes, I do. The lawyer handling the estate said that since Roger didn't leave a will, anything he had is now mine."
"Are you crazy?" Porter laughed. "Those are my shares. You don't own any part of this company. Jesus. It can't be inherited by spouses or sold piecemeal to outsiders. Dub's and my father set up the business to make sure it stays in the family. Roger knew that. He should have explained it."
Nikki's mouth was open for a few seconds before she said, "What?"
Claire murmured, "Porter, please. Not now."
A stiff forefinger accented Porter's words. "Pay attention, Nikki. Children inherit, spouses don't. You have no interest in this company. None.”
"No! Wait, that's not true. Roger said he owned ten percent of the company, and his shares were worth twenty million dollars!"
"You've got nothing, don't you listen? I told Roger he was making a mistake to marry you. Gold digger. My son's warm in his grave and you're picking his bones."
"Don't you dare say that!" She clenched her fists at her sides. "I loved Roger! You never did. You treated him like dirt. All his life, nothing was ever good enough—"
"Go on. Get out of my office, you sleazy little tramp."
Claire was trying to calm her down, and Nikki was batting her hands away. "You can't do this. It's a lie! I'm going to see a lawyer!"
"Go ahead, see your lawyer. See what you get." Porter was laughing.
"You dried up old fuck. I hope you die! I hate you all!" She backed toward the door. "You're going to be sorry, I swear."
When she slammed the door, the wood paneling on the wall shook.
The Cresswells looked at each other. Dub finished
off his drink and squeezed the can flat in the middle. "Well, well."
Ted Stamos said, "I've got to get back downstairs."
Porter pushed out of his chair, stumbling a little, then standing upright, straightening his jacket. "How'd she get in? I want security notified. She isn't allowed in here. Did you hear what she said? That little bitch. I came back to work one day, just out of the fucking hospital, and she's sitting on Roger's lap in my chair, and they're talking about what they'd do when I was dead. Well, I didn't die, did I? Greedy. Both of them. Sharp as a serpent's tooth— what'9 that quote, Claire? A child's ingratitude is like a serpent's tooth . . ."
At the door Ted glanced back into the office. Porter's wife was looking out the window as though this wasn't happening. She could probably see a yellow Porsche tearing across the parking lot.
Ted Stamos and the other production supervisors—engines, electrical, and mechanical—had offices overlooking the floor of the main assembly building, where the boats were constructed. Two lines were pulled along like circus elephants hooked together, sixty-to-eighty-footers on one side, smaller boats on the other. The lines began where layers of fiberglass were laid into molds for the hulls. Hoists ran overhead to lower the decks, shafts, and engines. Steel scaffolding supported a wood floor at gunwale level, workers going back and forth. Carpenters, plumbers, electricians, engine mechanics. Each team in a different color T-shirt. Every boat made by hand. Up to three months per boat.
When a boat reached the end of the line, a high-lift would carry it to a slip and lower it into the water. Someone from Cresswell would take it a few miles out in the Atlantic with a rep from the engine manufacturer and run it wide open. Assuming no bugs, the boat would be trimmed out with carpet, furniture, and audiovisual systems, then trucked or piloted to the buyer.
The main building was open at both ends, metal roof on concrete I-beams. If Ted stood on the catwalk at the east end, he could see the narrow Miami River, lined with rusty freighters, snaking toward the buildings downtown, a couple of miles away. Below him, spread over ten acres and bounded by chain link fence and cyclone wire, were the various warehouses and shops at the Cresswell yard: the wood shop with stacks of fine teak, cherry, and maple; a metal shop with lathes and bandsaws and racks of sheet metal, rods, and pipes; and storage areas for galley equipment, heads, and shower stalls; sonar, GPS, and shortwave radios; bait tanks, fuel tanks, drive shafts, propellers, portholes, dozens of rolls of fiberglass, and hundreds of miles of cables and wiring.
Ted spent as little time as possible in his office. He preferred to be on the floor with the men. Sometimes he'd pick up a wrench, or get inside a hull with a resin gun, or tinker with a new cabinet design. His father had said, If you act too much like a boss, the men won't care about nothing but the -paycheck.
Whenever Ted needed to think, he would go to his father's workshop. He still called it that, although Henry Stamos had been dead for fifteen years. It was a small room, twelve feet square, around a corner from the wood shop, where the big saws and routers and planers were located. Henry had used the workshop for putting together smaller pieces, like fine built-in cabinetry.
Henry's tools still hung on pegboard above the scarred workbench. A step stool with peeling red paint was pushed underneath. Henry had made it over thirty years ago so his son could stand on it and watch him work.
Charlie Cresswell had talked about giving Henry a piece of the company, but never did, and Henry wasn't the kind of man who would push. Time went by. Charlie was killed in a boating accident, and the company went to his sons. Then Henry got cancer— too many years breathing acetone. He'd not left much more than his carpentry tools, and Ted wasn't sure who they belonged to—him or the company. Until recently it hadn't mattered. Then Roger Cresswell asked why the hell that room was locked. He wanted it opened and cleaned out. Ted asked him did he want his teeth readjusted.
After getting the hell out of Porter's office, Ted headed for the workshop. He closed the door behind him, pulled a high stool over to the bench, and sat down. He had a portable phone on his belt if anyone needed him.
The conversation with the Cresswells weighed on Ted's mind, and as he sat there he mulled it over. What bothered him most, he decided, was that he'd just been reminded of who he was. A hired worker. An employee. Porter could go back on his promise to put him in charge of the floor. He could be let go.
Ted knew he could find other work if he had to, but that wasn't the point. He had almost twenty years in this job. That meant something. The people who meant something were here. Ten years ago his ex-wife had remarried and gone to Ohio with their two daughters, teenagers now. He sent cards, and he paid child support, but they rarely wrote back, and for the most part, he had put them out of his mind.
Being president of the company meant that Porter Cresswell could do what he wanted, fire anybody who pissed him off. He could turn the business over to anybody, even a blue-eyed golden boy who didn't have shit for brains.
Roger had talked about saving money. No more teak or cherry. Panel the interiors in reconstituted wood with plastic veneer. Recon wood was a fraction of the price. In a meeting on that topic Ted had said it would turn the Cresswell name into a seagoing joke. Roger had backed off. Then Roger decided to make a new hull mold in four days. It could have been done, but Roger told the men to lay down the next layer of glass when the previous layer hadn't yet hardened. The mold crinkled and was ruined. Worse, it ruined the plug—the form underneath. Production was set back for weeks.
Roger had blamed the men, who should have known. He'd blamed Ted Stamos, who stood by and let it happen. You're trying to fuck me over, aren't you, Stamos? Ted had known that sooner or later, Roger would get even.
There wasn't a Cresswell in the bunch worth a damn. Something bad in the family. Except for the girl, Maggie. The one who had killed herself a few years ago. Ted was only surprised that she'd lasted as long as she had. He'd known her once, way back. How the hell old had he been? A teenager, anyway. She'd been a quiet girl with long honey-brown hair. Sweet as honey too. He'd told her that, first time he'd kissed her.
The Cresswells had lived in Miami Shores, a big two-story white house with columns. Ted knew his way around power tools even at that age, so Henry had sent him over to build a deck and trellis. Ted had worked stripped to the waist, and he'd seen Maggie's face at the window. Finally she came out with some iced tea, and things progressed from there over the next couple of weeks. Then her brother saw them together and told. Porter grabbed Maggie by the arm and dragged her away. Called Ted a piece of trash and ordered him off his property. That night, Henry had said to leave the girl alone, don't make trouble with the boss. Ted had hated that most of all, his father caving in. Now he was older, he understood. So Ted had stayed away from Maggie Cresswell. He thought about her sometimes. How if they'd stayed together he might be running this company.
Ted reached across the workbench and took a wood plane off its hook. The steel blade and the box were still shiny under a light coating of oil. The hickory handle was dark where his father had touched it. Henry Stamos's big hands had been raspy as sandpaper, thick with calluses, wrinkles criss-crossing leathery skin. There had been a fading tattoo of an anchor and flag on his right hand, and his left index finger was nicked off at the first knuckle. He could turn a sheet of teak into a galley table in less than two hours, all the lines straight and true.
Henry's people had been sponge fishermen. They'd come from Greece to settle just north of Tampa, and they'd fished the Gulf. Henry had met Charlie Cresswell in the Navy, then moved down to Miami when Charlie needed a marine carpenter. He wanted to make good boats. Build them right. That still had to mean something, even these days.
Ted heard a noise behind him. The click of a key in a lock. He turned around.
Elizabeth stood in the doorway. "Want some company?"
"Sure. How'd you know I was here?"
"You weren't anywhere else."
He watched her come toward him,
the movements of her body, breasts wobbling a little under her white knit shirt. It was tucked in tight at her waist, and her hips moved like they were greased. She stopped an arm's length away, looking at him sideways, bangs level with her dark eyebrows.
Ted grinned at her. "Come on. Come over here."
She said, "I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't get any closer."
"Yeah, you should."
She reached out and ran a finger over his cheek, pulling away before he could catch her wrist. "Did Porter talk to you about Bobby Gonzalez? He said he was going to.”
"Twisted my arm is more like it."
"You know how Porter is. Just humor him."
Ted turned the plane over and tested the blade on his thumb. "How's it going to look to the men, me shading the truth like that? They hated Roger."
Elizabeth said, "They won't know what you tell the police. How can they?"
The plane moved slowly down the edge of the workbench. A curl of wood appeared. "I could be history too, just like that kid. You know that, sugar? They could boot my ass right out of here, fuck that I spent my life in this company."
"Stop it. That won't happen. I promise." She leaned against him, reaching around, rubbing the muscles in his chest.
Ted made another pass with the blade. "What do you want, Elizabeth? Just tell me. Okay?"
She put the point of her chin on his shoulder. "Just do what Porter says."
"What if they arrest the kid?"
"At least he'll be out of Sean's life for a while."
"Out of whose life, Elizabeth? I caught you a few times looking at him from the catwalk. Yeah, you did, don't lie."
She gave him a play slap on the head. "Oh, shut up, you. I'm serious. You don't know the effect he's had on Sean. 'My homey.' 'Bro.' That's what Sean calls him! Bobby keeps turning up at our house, no matter how often I tell him to go away. Sean's language is horrible, he's failing his classes, and I found a baggie of pot in his closet. Someday Sean will take his place in this company, but he won't make it if he doesn't straighten up. Oh, God, Ted, I don't know what to do."
Suspicion of Malice Page 10
