All That Was Happy

by M. M. Wilshire

  “What’s the message?” Lauren said.

  “Mickey Dora’s ham sandwich,” Beckie said.

  “That’s the message?” Lauren said. “Mickey Dora’s ham sandwich?”

  “He’ll understand,” Beckie said.

  Chapter 43

  “I’ll need five men, women, or any combination of the two, armed,” Beckie said. “Have them meet me in the Argon Tools parking lot in an hour.”

  Beckie, on her way out to the Valley, taking advantage of the morning rush hour slowdown to transact some business on the hands-free and thus further bring about meaningful change in her life, had just placed her order for the armed guards from the security agency who’d done the bang-up job researching Bernie, Ira and Leah. She’d need the intimidation factor if things got sticky at the warehouse, but she felt confident she could enact the further changes she had planned.

  She pulled into the parking lot just as the van load of guards was unloading--a motley crew of three men and two women, clad in the requisite cop-like uniforms with wide leather belts sporting, in addition to the sidearm, a variety of other paraphernalia pertaining to enhancing the submission factor among any who dared resist them.

  Another sight greeted her eyes, a sight not wholly unexpected--her former Roadster, the one presumably given to Nolene as payment for her sins, the one in which she’d flung her wedding ring but a few days before, parked in the executive space next to the walkway, the deep metallic silver paint sparkling in the bright April sun, proving that Solomon’s complaint was still true--there was nothing new under the sun.

  With introductions with the guards out of the way, and her absolute authority being established with them by the presentation of a variety of documents taken earlier from the home safe, Beckie paused first by Nolene’s silver Roadster, fishing in her bag and producing a set of duplicate keys, whereupon she disalarmed the vehicle before handing the keys to a guard.

  “Some of this is going to seem a bit irregular, at first,” she said. “But rest assured, if everybody does their job correctly and as ordered, I’m paying each of you a bonus of one-thousand dollars--in cash--unreported to your agency--at the end of the day--If any one of you doesn’t feel comfortable with anything I ask, you’re free to go, but you’ll forfeit the thousand.”

  At the mention of a thousand in cash, she had their undivided attention.

  “Our first order of business today,” she said--pointing to the largest guard in the group--“is for you to drive this roadster around to the back of the warehouse and burn it to the ground.”

  “Burn the car,” he said--a statement, not a question.

  “It’s my car,” Beckie said. “I can drive it, sell it, or burn it. I prefer it burned--just do it safely. Join us inside when that’s completed. While he’s doing that, I need two more of you to round up everybody in the warehouse and bring them to the front office for a meeting. There should be about twenty-five people back there. If there’s any trucks unloading, order the drivers to leave the premises immediately.”

  She entered the office. About five people were present, all of whom she knew, including Nolene, who was at present occupied in the act of preparing herself a cup of coffee, which she nearly spilled at the sight of Beckie leading the charge.

  “Escort that woman off the grounds,” Beckie said, pointing the finger at Nolene--”and don’t let her back in under any circumstances.”

  To say that Nolene had a personal problem with being summarily and without further discussion removed from the premises by an armed guard was an understatement, and all persons present were treated to many familiar phrases which described with some degree of accuracy exactly what they all could do with certain things. During this brief hurling of angry invectives, not only were many of the familiar stock phrases used, but those within earshot also were introduced to a number of descriptions of things that could be done with things that were new to everybody, these new possibilities having just been invented as they were, in the heat of the moment.

  Five minutes after the expulsion of Nolene, the staff being gathered, or rather packed together by the guards at a spot near the entrance, Beckie called the meeting to order.

  “As many of you may or may not know,” she said. “Argon Tools is a closely held partnership. I have here in my hand the official Joint Partnership Agreement which states that in the event one partner--whom all of you know as Bernie, my husband--is out of the country, that I am, as the Acting Partner, duly empowered to transact any and all business on behalf of the Company. Since Bernie is currently en route her from Japan and is therefore out of the country, as Acting Partner, my first action is to announce that each of you will receive in your next paycheck a bonus in the amount of five-thousand dollars. Now I must inform you that I am suspending all business of the company for the remainder of the day. Each of you will have 5 minutes to gather your personal belongings and vacate the premises--you’ll all be paid double time for today. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  Applause and whistles filled the air as the group filed out, many smiling and laughing at the unexpected cessation of their labors accompanied by the unexpected bonus of what, for most of them, amounted to a 20% increase in their annual wages. Not to mention an extra day’s pay. Beckie retained from the departing personnel one elderly gentleman, the company’s in-house accountant, Art Rivas. “Not you, Art,” she said. “Grab us two coffees and meet me in Bernie’s office.”

  Beckie turned to the assembled guards. “For the next 24 hours, I want absolutely no one to be allowed inside this building without my written permission.”

  “Beckie,” Art said. “I don’t mind telling you this is most irregular.”

  “Tell me something else I don’t know, Art,” she said. “And before you answer, you should know that I value honesty above all else. You should also know that if my keen ears detect the sour note of falsehood coming from your lips, you’ll be out the door for good before this coffee cools.”

  “What do you want to know?” he said.

  “First,” Beckie said, “to your knowledge, has my husband squirreled away any assets under anybody else’s name--such as his Lolita, who is now, even at this moment, on foot in a bad part of town?”

  “Well,” Art said. “It may be he has, but I’m just the accountant here, not his personal financier.”

  “Art,” she said. “Either you are going to tell me the truth right now, or I’m going to bring in an army of accountants who are going to back-track through, and analyze every shred of paper in this place, right down to the stuff you wipe your derriere on--do you understand what I’m saying? And if even one account looks funny, I’m going to personally bleed you dry in Civil Court for the rest of your life.”

  “He has a number of accounts setup with Nolene,” Art said. “As well as with Ira, his brother, and his sister-in-law, Leah. The three of them were going to serve as chief officers of their arm of the consortium.”

  “Second question,” she said. “What’s your estimate of the book value of the company as it stands today, and has the business been compromised in any way by debt during the past six months of merger negotiations?”

  “The merger negotiations were never completed,” he said, “so there was never any debt incurred. Now, as to the book value, do you want the figure to include good will?”

  “Everything,” she said. “Good Will is important in a long running business like this one. But I must caution you--if I think you’re lying--if I think you’re jiving me with the public books while keeping the real numbers secret--I may just shoot you.” Beckie reached into her straw bag and pulled her gun. “This is known as brandishing a weapon,” she said. “It’s a crime in this city. Don’t make me guilty of anything else.”

  “You wouldn’t shoot me,” he said.

  Beckie thumbed back the hammer, the resultant turning of the cylinders filled with the lethal hollowpoints a sight Art watched with some fascination as the blood drained from his face.

  “
There’s two sets of books,” he said. “Bernie skims the over-the-counter sales. The cash register never rings after 2 P.M.”

  “Thank you,” Beckie said. “Now--what’s your best estimate of value.”

  “Argon Tools, in my opinion, has a conservative book value of approximately ten million dollars, based upon our last two years’ performance and our current inventory. That’s if we sold it as a business--if we simply liquidated the business, I’d have to say it’s worth about half that much. If you don’t believe me, I can show you the latest Balance Sheet. I should add that I’m basing the ten million figure on the projected revenues associated with the recent five-year contract we signed with Home Depot for the Western States region--actually it was that contract that was the springboard for the consortium interest.”

  “How long have you worked here, Art?” Beckie said.

  “I started in 1980,” he said. “Back in the good old days, you remember--it was just you, me, and Bernie. He was still delivering tools to the local stores in his van every afternoon, but it was starting to grow to the point where he needed to be on the phone all the time.”

  “I remember the good old days all too well,” Beckie said. “In all that twenty years, has working for Argon Tools ever made you rich? Can you retire comfortably right now?”

  “I’ve done all right,” Art said. “But you know how it is, what with inflation and all. I can’t say if I retired tomorrow I could continue living in L.A. I might have to move to a lesser economic area, such as Fresno or someplace, where the heat and the mosquitoes keep housing prices down.”

  Beckie scribbled a figure on a piece of paper and passed it over to Art.

  “Take a look at that figure,” she said. “What do you see?”

  “It says five dollars,” Art said.

  “I’m selling you the business,” Beckie said. “As Acting President, I have full authority to do so.”

  “This is crazy,” he said. “Nobody can buy a ten million dollar business for only five bucks.”

  “Of course you realize that buying the business also means absorbing whatever debt exists,” she said.

  “Sure,” he said. “But we’ve never had much debt--you should know that.”

  “There’s two conditions to this sale,” she said. “You can never hire Bernie to work for you in any capacity whatever, not even janitor--and the same goes for his girlfriend.”

  “This is still crazy,” he said.

  “You just got very lucky,” Beckie said. “If you decide not to buy, I’m going to call the Western Region Manager for Home Depot and sell her the entire net assets for the five bucks of which we are now speaking. Now--I’m going to leave the room. I have to make a phone call. When I return, I want your answer--if the answer is no, I’ll expect you to be off the grounds within 1 minute of that answer. If your answer is yes, you will stay at your post. My lawyer will messenger to you by 2 P.M. all necessary documents to record the sale.”

  “Excuse me, Beckie,” Art said, fumbling in his pocket and producing a small orange vial, from which he uncapped and extracted a small white pill, which he placed under his tongue. “Too many meals off the roach coach,” he said.

  Beckie left the room and dialed Lauren. “He’s got hidden accounts with Nolene, Ira and Leah,” Beckie said. “I’m selling the business in his absence to the controller, a guy named Art Rivas. There’s two conditions--that he’ll never employ Bernie or Nolene. He’ll be calling you in about two minutes to set up the documents--can you have everything ready to record the sale by early this afternoon?”

  “Can do,” Lauren said. “By the way, I’ve already located all the joint accounts with Nolene and had them frozen. I’m working on Ira and Leah as we speak--you should know that their home is highly leveraged with a note to the Tool business. I think Bernie took the loan out on their house to come up with the money to buy in to the proposed consortium.”

  “If we call the note due,” Beckie said, “will it force them out of that overstuffed home in their gated Agoura Hills colony?”

  “Most certainly,” Lauren said. “Unless they can come up with three million bucks in the next ninety days.”

  “Make that part of the sale,” Beckie said. “The three of them conspired against me. Leah was the go-between to keep me from getting suspicious. Have the Demand Notice delivered to their door by an armed guard. Let’s see how they feel about being squeezed. Last, but not least, I’m going to be unavailable for awhile--I don’t know how long--I need you to arrange to receive my mail and settle all my affairs--I’ll sign a power of attorney or whatever you need. Whatever estate I’ve got coming once the divorce proceedings are final, I want you to fully liquidate and divide the proceeds--send half to Catholic Charities directly and half to the United Way.”

  “You go, girl!” Lauren said.

  Beckie called over the smallest guard, a young woman about as wide as she was tall.

  “I’m sending you to the airport,” Beckie said. “Here’s a couple of hundred dollars for expenses and the pink slip and a set of keys to a silver Jaguar--it’ll be in the long term parking near the Japan Airlines terminal. I want you to cab over to LAX and take the Jag out of long term parking, after which I want you to park the car in front of a biker bar or similar establishment and leave it there with the pink slip on the dash, the windows down, and the keys in the ignition. When that’s done, report back here--you can keep the change on whatever you don’t spend.”

  The guard, who’d witnessed the immolation of the hundred and sixty grand silver Roadster, allowed an involuntary snicker to penetrate the space between them.

  “What’s so funny?” Beckie said.

  “Your husband should have thought twice before giving you that black eye,” she said.

  “He didn’t give me anything,” Beckie said. “I got hit by a surfboard.”

  “Yes ma’am,” she said. Again, the snicker.

  “Stop with the snickering and get moving,” Beckie said.

  Art Rivas emerged from the office, as Beckie had predicted, about two minutes after she’d left him there.

  “You decide yet, Art?” she said.

  He handed her a five dollar bill. “What’s to decide?” he said.

  “Call this number,” Beckie said. “My legal counsel will step you through the paperwork, including the transferring of the operating accounts. Congratulations--now you don’t have to retire in Fresno.”

  “Beckie,” Art said.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “Godspeed,” he said.

  Beckie took a last look around at the familiar office, the whereabouts of which she’d spent the better part of twenty-nine years of her lackluster, but secure existence. She’d never noticed how tired the place looked, with its gray walls and curtainless windows.

  “Tell me Art,” she said. “When’s the last time this joint’s been painted?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Not as long as I’ve been here, that’s for sure.”

  “Paint it white,” she said, turning on her heel and heading for the door.

  Chapter 44

  “When you first pulled in to the parking lot, I thought you’d come by to invite me to go surfing,” Father Larry said. “What with the board sticking out of the back like that.”

  “I hope you don’t mind returning the board to Huntington for me,” Beckie said.

  “That’s no problem,” Father said. “What concerns me is your request for assistance to enter a convent. The decision to enter religious life isn’t one made lightly.”

  “I’ve made up my mind,” Beckie said. “I’ve spent a lifetime in the selfish pursuit of my own happiness--I failed. Now it’s time to try another direction--my therapist tried to tell me that I needed more compassion in my life--I’ve decided I want to work with the orphans in Mexico or India or someplace.”

  Beckie and Father Larry sat in his office in the Rectory of Our Lady of Grace which occupied a prominent Ventura Boulevard corner at the base of the Enc
ino Foothills.

  “You’re a wealthy woman,” Father said. “With all the responsibilities attendant. And you’re still married.”

  “This morning I instructed my attorney to file for divorce,” Beckie said. “After it’s settled, I’m transferring everything to charity.”

  “Religious life isn’t something you choose,” he said. “It’s something that chooses you. It seems that only a day or so ago, your life was called in another direction. What about Huntington?”

  “Huntington always dreamed of belonging to the Catholic priesthood,” she said. “If I become a nun, I’ll at least feel that we’re connected, if not physically, at least spiritually.”

  “There’s an excellent vocational discernment program at a place called Our Lady of the Snows in Belleville, Illinois--that’s just across the river from St. Louis. My advice is to spend some time there and give God a chance to speak to your heart.”

  “I haven’t been to confession since I was a child,” Beckie said. “Will you hear my confession now?”

  Father Larry led her through the ritual.

  “Thank you, Father,” she said. She reached into her straw bag and pulled out a wriggling Mr. Boopers. “Father, I was wondering, as a favor to me, could you find a suitable home for Mr. Boopers?”

  “My own dog died a few months back,” Father Larry said. “Do you mind if I keep him for myself?”

  “I’d be glad if you did--just remember--he hates chalupas.”

  Reaching into her bag, she pulled out her gun. “And also, Father, I don’t think I’ll be needing this anymore.”

  She flipped open the stainless steel chamber and ejected the bullets before placing it on is desk, along with the box of 50 cartridges she’d been keeping in reserve.

  “And here’s something to make up for the money I never gave to the Church all those years,” she said, handing him the bag containing the hundred grand in cash.

  “Let me count this and write out a receipt,” he said.

  “You can count it later,” she said. “Forward the receipt to my attorney. Her name is Lauren Shane, in Century City.”