The Solomon Organization

by Andrew Neiderman

  She knelt down to hug her and kiss her forehead and cheek. Then she brushed back her hair.

  “You’ll be all right, honey. Mommy will make you better.”

  “You have to just sign this form,” the nurse said in her official tone. Meg stood up and seized the pen. She scribbled her signature on the paper and thrust it back.

  “Thank you,” Meg muttered. She took Justine’s hand and marched her out of the nurse’s office. Her daughter kept her head down. Meg caught their reflection in a showcase window. They looked like they were fleeing.

  Look what he’s done, she thought; look what he’s done to Justine and me. Any thoughts of mercy and forgiveness that had passed through her mind these past few weeks popped like soap bubbles and dissipated quickly. She looked forward to continuing the custody hearing on Monday and driving a stake into Scott’s black heart.

  “This is Bernard Lyle,” Philip Dante said and stepped aside so Scott could see the short, stocky man standing behind him in the doorway of Scott’s claustrophobic studio apartment.

  “Hello,” Scott said, not hiding his perplexity. Why had Philip brought someone? This trip and meeting were supposed to be clandestine. Could this guy be another candidate for the Solomon Organization? What was Dante doing, gathering them up all over the city? Scott raised his thick, brown eyebrows, questioning. Philip smiled.

  “Bernard is an escort.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “You’ll have to put up with their protocol. They have their procedures down to a science and vigorously insist on following the guidelines to the T,” Philip explained.

  “Really?” Scott looked at Bernard Lyle again.

  “Absolutely, Mr. Lester,” the muscular little man said, stepping forward out of the shadows. Even in his suit and tie, he looked like a miniature version of the Hulk. He didn’t crack a smile. Under his patch of reddish-brown hair, he had an alabaster complexion, the face of a statue, every line distinct and deep, his eyes cavernous in the yellow tinted light above Scott’s apartment door.

  Scott wasn’t about to invite them in. He was too ashamed of the depth to which he had fallen: from a three-bedroom, several hundred thousand dollar home in Westwood to this one-by-four furnished by K-Mart. Anyway, their attention was momentarily shifted to the sound of howling laughter. Somewhere toward the center of the complex, one of the tenants was having a party. Inconsiderate, as Scott found many of them were, this tenant had his windows open, the music pouring over the project and invading everyone else’s space.

  Scott hated it here. It was one of those inexpensive beehive constructions indigenous to Los Angeles. Someone could rent monthly, no lease required. Consequently, it attracted the most transient types—dreamers who had enough money to chance six or seven months in the City of Angels in an attempt to achieve fame and fortune. Many were neophyte actors or actresses, writers and artists currently employed as waiters and waitresses, shopping market clerks and secretary-receptionists. Definitely not his crowd, but it was all he could afford at the moment.

  “Ready?” Philip asked.

  “As I’ll ever be,” Scott replied. He stepped out and closed the apartment door. When he turned to be sure it was locked, he felt Bernard Lyle’s hands begin on his shoulders and start to move down his back and sides. He realized the escort was frisking him.

  “What the hell’s going on?” he asked, spinning around.

  “Precautions,” Lyle said, continuing his search. Scott looked at Philip, who shrugged.

  “Standard preliminary procedure,” he said. “Humor them,” he added sotto voce.

  “What are they afraid of?” Scott asked. Protocol or no protocol, he disliked being searched. He had suffered enough indignities and wasn’t about to endure any more. Philip closed and opened his eyes, urging Scott to be patient. Then he turned to Lyle as soon as he stepped away from Scott.

  “Satisfied?”

  “For now,” the stern man replied. He fixed his green eyes on Scott’s face and studied him with an intensity that made Scott uncomfortable. He felt as if the man was a walking X-ray machine and he had just been scanned for weapons or explosives, as well as a tape recorder. It made him hesitant. Bernard Lyle sensed it.

  “Let’s go,” he said without further delay. He turned and started down the walkway toward the parking lot, not waiting to see if they were alongside him. But Scott lingered. Under the overcast night sky, the shadows cast by the spotlights and pole lamps swallowed Bernard Lyle as he walked ahead.

  “Where did you find him?” Scott whispered. “House of Wax?”

  Philip laughed.

  “I warned you they’re a bit dramatic,” he said. “But don’t laugh at them. They take themselves very seriously.”

  Scott shook his head, his hands on his hips. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into this.”

  “You’ve run out of options, buddy,” Philip replied. “Unless, of course, you’ve decided to accept the inevitable outcome and become a stranger to your own child.” Scott’s hesitation quickly dissipated. He nodded and started after Bernard Lyle.

  When they reached the parking lot, Scott blew a soft whistle. A white, stretch Mercedes limousine awaited. The tinted windows kept what little light there was out of the interior of the vehicle. When Bernard Lyle stepped into the car, it looked as if he had dove into a tunnel and disappeared.

  A black driver held the door open for him. Scott gazed into his egg-white eyes for a moment. The tall man was expressionless, the indifferent servant. Scott followed Bernard Lyle into the limousine. Philip got in beside him and the door was closed, but so softly and so tightly, Scott felt he had entered a tomb. The aroma within brought to mind the fragrance of dozens of roses in a funeral parlor, a seemingly apt image.

  Bernard Lyle sat on the plush leather seat across from them, still not smiling, still not shifting his gaze from Scott’s face. Scott’s heartbeat began to quicken. This was a mistake; he was making a mistake, he thought vaguely. But he felt it was already too late the moment he sat down and the limousine door was closed.

  The chauffeur got in and they drove out of the lot, slipping into the city traffic so unobtrusively, it was as though they didn’t exist. This was the epilogue to the nightmare that had begun the afternoon Meg came home unexpectedly.

  They made their way to the freeway and headed downtown. The lights of the skyscrapers were hazy in the marine fog that had settled itself around the city. Cars whizzed by on both sides of them, continuous streams of lights and metal. When something slowed down the traffic, they all hovered behind each other, creating a glowing line, tentacles of some metallic octopus that belched exhaust and had an engine for a heart.

  When they reached the Harbor Freeway, they pulled off the exit and went to the side of the road. Bernard Lyle reached into his pocket to produce a black blindfold. He handed it to Scott.

  “What’s this?” Scott asked without taking it.

  “Just another standard procedure,” Philip said. “They’d rather their exact location was kept unknown until they decide on your case. I’m sure you can understand.”

  “You’re kidding?” Scott said. “You want me to put this on?” Bernard continued to hold it out, unflinching. “Jesus, talk about dramatics,” Scott said, taking it. He put it over his eyes and sat back.

  “Now what do you do, drive me around for hours so I won’t be able to tell where I’m being taken?”

  Philip laughed. Scott heard Bernard tap on the window and the limousine continued.

  “Where the hell are we going?” Scott asked nervously. “I feel like I fell into some spy movie.”

  “Relax, Scott,” Philip said. “We’re almost there. Believe me,” he added with disdain in his voice, “there’s not much to look at anyway down here.”

  After a few more minutes, Scott felt the limousine slow down abruptly and make a sharp right. He felt the front of the car dip and then he heard a garage door squeak as it opened. He sensed they had gone below the street into the undergr
ound parking lot of some building. The limousine came to an abrupt stop and Scott started to remove the blindfold when Bernard Lyle seized his wrist firmly.

  “Keep the blindfold on until we tell you to take it off, Mr. Lester,” Bernard ordered.

  Scott was helped out of the vehicle and led to a nearby elevator. They guided him in and then he felt the lift. Moments later, he was led out. Doors were opened and he was walking over what felt like rather plush carpet. Finally, Bernard Lyle lifted the blindfold off and Scott faced a door simply labeled Conference Room. He gazed to his left and saw he was in the corridor of some office that had maroon carpeting. Back on a wall in the lobby he had been guided through, he saw a picture of a steel bridge.

  “Keep your eyes forward, Mr. Lester,” Bernard snapped. Then he knocked on the conference room door. He didn’t wait for a reply. He opened the door and they entered.

  Seated so firmly in a semicircle and barely moving, the five men resembled a three-dimensional fresco. The only light came from a pole lamp that had been placed behind them, but the illumination was directed toward Scott and Philip like a small spotlight. It made it difficult for Scott to see their faces, although he did see that they were all dressed in conservative suits and ties. Bernard Lyle moved quickly to take a position in the right corner, crossing his hands in front of him, his feet a shoulder’s breadth apart. Talk about being overly dramatic, Scott thought.

  “Please, have a seat, Mr. Lester,” the man at the center said. Scott glanced at the two dark wood chairs set facing the committee, and then looked at Philip who nodded. They sat down.

  Scott gazed around the room and saw it was dark paneled with the walls bare except for a large, round clock. The blinds on the two large windows were down and shut tight. The room had no personality, no identity. It was simply functional space, all business.

  “We’ll get right to the point, Mr. Lester. All of our members have read the transcripts of the proceeding to date; we’ve gone over your divorce agreement and we’ve perused the briefs of your wife’s attorney and yours. We have a few more questions, but we won’t keep you long.”

  “That’s all right,” Scott said. He sat back and folded his hands against his stomach. Now that he was here, he was rather intrigued. Who were these guys?

  He took his time, spoke clearly, and answered all their questions. They had obviously gone over the details closely, picking up words, expressions, even the most seemingly inconsequential facts.

  After about twenty minutes of answering questions, the man to Scott’s right turned a page in the folder before him. The triangular diamond pinky ring on the thick, wrinkled finger caught the rays and glittered. Scott recognized it as the same ring worn by Philip Dante. Someone cleared his throat. Scott glanced at Philip, who nodded and smiled with confidence and encouragement.

  “In the event you are awarded custody of your daughter, how will you manage?” the man with the pinky ring asked.

  “I don’t see any problem. I’ve got a lot of leeway with hours at my job. I intend to hire a full-time housekeeper.”

  “Your finances wouldn’t suggest that possibility, Mr. Lester,” the man in the center said.

  “Well, I expect to do well with the sale of the house. I’ve got a little money put away in places Meg couldn’t get to, even with her crackerjack accountant on my tail,” he said proudly.

  Everyone was silent for a moment. Bernard Lyle stepped forward out of the shadows. His face looked aglow, his eyes luminous. Scott glanced at Philip, who winked.

  “What about alcohol and drugs?” the man on the far left snapped. He tapped the pages of the court transcript.

  “That was all distorted way out of proportion,” Scott replied quickly. “I drank a little to take off the edge, but…”

  “And drugs?” the man in the center snapped.

  “I admit I took a few hits once in a while. Things were quite depressing at home with Meg off doing her own thing half the time.” He sat back. “Of course, I’d be different if I had custody of my kid, more responsible,” he quickly assured them.

  “I’m interested in this reference to a violent incident,” the man on the left said. “Your wife claims…”

  “I swear to God, I never hit her like she says I did,” Scott volunteered. “All that crap about coming home drunk and striking her…she was at me as soon as I walked in the door. I’ll admit that one time I pushed her out of my way and she fell and hurt her shoulder. That was it. I regretted it immediately, but she insisted on running off to the doctor.”

  “To build her case,” Philip Dante said. Scott turned, surprised at Philip’s unexpected assistance. “She was already seeing her attorney.”

  “Yeah,” Scott said, even though he had no evidence that Meg had acquired legal services before she had caught him with Mrs. Tannebaum. He seized the theme Dante had established, however, and ran with it. “This last incident was not the so-called straw that broke the camel’s back. She was plotting and planning against me for some time. I was practically…entrapped.”

  The committee was silent again, each silence seemingly deeper and longer to Scott. He looked up at the ceiling. Somewhere in the building, a pipe shuddered as water rushed through it.

  “I want to know more about this architect your wife worked for,” the young man in the center said suddenly. He leaned forward and Scott was surprised to see he was a man easily in his late sixties or even early seventies, though he still had a healthy head of hair, albeit thin and starch white. What was more striking were his sharp, hard features: a chiseled jaw, with gray eyes so still and deeply set they looked like they were sinking back into his skull.

  But he had such a young voice and in the shadows…it was as if he had aged in moments right before Scott’s eyes. The others leaned into the light now, too, and each face was an added surprise. The man on the far left didn’t look as old as his hands suggested. He looked more like a man in his forties, and the man on the far right looked no older than Scott.

  Philip cleared his throat. Scott looked at him and nodded. This was just what they had discussed.

  “He was banging her, I’m sure. In fact, I think she started seeing him months ago, even before she had gone to work for him. My lawyer said I couldn’t counterclaim adultery in the custody hearing because I didn’t have one hard piece of evidence. They were never seen together in restaurants or anything like that. No smoking pistol in her hand, like there was in mine, but I knew it was going on. She always denied it, of course.”

  “Tell me,” the man in the center said, “how do you really feel about all this?”

  “How do I feel? How do I feel,” Scott muttered. He raised his head.

  “She’s living in the house,” he snapped, his thoughts just bursting into words. “With all the payments I have to make, I barely have enough to keep up this crummy apartment I’ve got, but that’s not what eats at my craw,” he said, pounding his chest so hard that Philip Dante actually winced.

  “No. What eats at my heart,” he said, recalling Philip’s exact words, “what eats at my soul is that another man is eventually going to move into my house, sleep in my bed, kiss my child good night. In time, she’ll think of him as her father. It’s only natural.”

  Scott felt the tears building in his eyes. Deep inside, he meant every word, even though he had stated it so dramatically for the effect it would have on this committee, whoever the hell they were. Philip looked pleased.

  “Gentlemen,” the man in the center mercifully declared, “I think we’ve heard enough and we’re all familiar with the facts of the case.”

  “I don’t have any money,” Scott said. It seemed appropriate to mention it at the time.

  “We don’t want any money from you, Mr. Lester,” he replied as if the suggestion was ridiculous. “If we decide in your favor, we simply want you to be a good father, a reliable and responsible parent.”

  “That’s all we want from you,” the young man on the far right said. “That’s all we can ask of
any man.” He sounded disappointed, like someone who wished he could ask for more, much more.

  “But how do you guys work? I mean, do you have some influence with the courts? What’s the story?”

  “We have influence with everyone related to the situation,” the man in the center said.

  “But…”

  “Thank you,” Philip said and urged Scott to his feet. He took Scott’s arm and nodded toward the door.

  “Oh,” Scott said, confused. He walked with Philip. At the door, he turned. There were more questions on his lips. Surely they had more to say, more to tell him, but at this point, even their hands had been pulled back into the shadows.

  “Stop worrying,” Philip said when they stepped out. “You were great in there, fucking great. That last bit about your daughter…”

  “What bit? I meant every word. It’s killing me that I won’t see my own kid whenever I want,” he said bitterly.

  “You will. Believe me.”

  “I don’t understand,” Scott said, looking back at the closed door. “What do I do now?”

  “Nothing. You wait, but it won’t be long. It wasn’t long for me,” Philip added. He handed Scott the blindfold again. “Sorry,” he said. “Until we leave the building and the immediate area.”

  Scott took it reluctantly and put it on. Philip threaded his arm through his and started him forward.

  “What about the Hulk? Isn’t he coming along to be sure I don’t peek?”

  “He only escorts us here. No need for him to escort us home. Relax. We’ll stop for a drink. You look like you need one and from now on, no one’s gonna hold it against you and try to make you look like an unfit father.”

  Scott smiled. His heart was pounding.

  “But when will we know what they have in mind? I mean, who are these guys and how do they intend…”

  “Will you relax.” Scott heard Philip open the outer doors and then he directed him into the hallway to the bank of elevators. “You came here because it was your final court of appeal, right?” Philip said, holding the elevator doors open for him. He guided Scott in.