A Delicate Touch

by Stuart Woods

  “I take it you haven’t seen the Times,” Henry said.

  Jack looked at the bedside clock. “It’s a quarter past four AM,” he said. “Why would I be reading the newspaper at this hour? Come to think of it, why would you?”

  “Old people don’t sleep,” Henry said. “Go look on your doorstep.”

  “Why? What’s in the Times?”

  “Everybody,” Henry replied. “All of us. Call me when you’ve read it.” He hung up.

  Jack got into a silk robe and his slippers and went downstairs to the front door. The paper was there, and he saw his name on the front page before he even picked it up.

  * * *

  • • •

  JACK READ THE ARTICLE fast, and with growing horror. Photographs of his family—some of them mug shots—stared back at him from an entire page of the newspaper.

  The red telephone began ringing again. Jack snatched it off its cradle. “I read it,” he said. “Most of it, anyway. The horrible thing about it is it’s all true.”

  “Not a fucking word of it is true,” Henry said. “Well, not much of it. I’ve already called the PR people. We’re meeting in my office in half an hour, and we’ll decide what’s true and what’s not. Get your ass in gear, boy.”

  Jack hated being called “boy” by his father. He started to say goodbye, but Henry had already hung up. Jack ran for the shower.

  * * *

  • • •

  THERE WERE FOUR PR people, one man and three women, and the man was not in charge. They had brought a stack of the Times and pages were scattered around the big office.

  The eldest of the women, one Marge Spooner, spoke up. “Gentlemen, this is appalling.”

  “Listen to me, you stupid cow,” Henry said. “We don’t pay you what we pay you for that kind of advice.”

  She didn’t flinch. “Then give me some basis on which to deny this,” she said, holding up the front page.

  “We obviously can’t deny any of it,” Jack said. “Our story has to be that it’s ancient history, that none of us living now ever even met any of these people.” He shook the page of photographs for emphasis.

  “Now,” Marge said, “that’s something we can work with. Henry, is there anybody on that page that you actually remember?”

  “My grandfather is on it,” Henry said, glowering. “I remember him.”

  “What do you remember about him?”

  “I remember that he would come home from work—could be any hour of the day or night—and tell me that he had just murdered somebody, and how he had done it. A straight razor was his favorite weapon. He enjoyed watching them bleed to death.”

  “Well,” Marge said, “I don’t think I can do much with that story. You’d best start forgetting it now: you were just a child, your grandfather didn’t confide in you, you hardly ever saw him. Did he have any legitimate occupation?”

  “He owned a bar on the Bowery,” Henry said. “He ran a numbers operation and a sports book in a back room and a poker game and a roulette wheel in another. There was a whorehouse upstairs.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Marge said weakly.

  “Don’t you take God’s name in vain in my presence!” Henry shouted.

  “Marge,” Jack said, “Poppa is very good at forgetting what he doesn’t want to know. He’ll do just fine.”

  “What about you, Jack? Did you actually know any of these people?”

  “Not a one of them,” Jack said calmly. “I tell people my grandfather was a Bible salesman, and my grandmother worked in the office of the archdiocese.”

  “Now that I can use,” Marge said.

  * * *

  • • •

  THE PR PEOPLE had left the office to go and write their press releases and type up a list of questions likely to be asked. Jack was left alone with his father and, somewhat to his suprise, Rance Damien, who had been sitting in a corner chair the whole time, his face obscured by a newspaper.

  “The girl yegg is taken care of,” Damien said.

  “Thanks, Rance,” Jack said acidly, “I watch TV. Christ, what a mess!”

  “She’s gone, and nobody cares,” Damien said. “That’s what I call neat and clean.”

  “Are there any other messes we should know about?” Jack asked. “Let’s get them out of the way now.”

  “There are one or two waiting to happen,” Damien said. “There’s the Barrington guy: he’s at the root of all of this.”

  “And what would be the purpose of killing him?”

  Damien shrugged. “Am I the only one in this family who likes revenge? Revenge does all sorts of things for you. It shuts up people who were thinking about talking. It scares the shit out of people—suddenly, they can’t even remember their names.”

  “This is not a Warner Bros. movie, Rance,” Jack said, “and Al Capone is dead.”

  “God rest his soul,” Damien said. “Then there’s a computer whiz, who somehow got into our equipment downstairs. He managed to reverse nearly fifty million dollars in transfers yesterday.”

  “But the program removes all traces of itself, right?”

  “We lost fifty fucking million dollars!” Damien said. “Somebody has to pay for that!”

  “You’re a goddamned throwback,” Jack muttered.

  Henry came to life again. “Sometimes we need a throwback, boy,” he said.

  Jack wheeled on his father. “If you ever again refer to me as boy, I’m going to wheel you out on that terrace and dump you into New York Harbor.”

  “You’re not going to do anything, unless I tell you to . . . boy!”

  Jack was white and speechless with rage.

  “Go back to your office,” Henry said, “and wait for my call. Oh, something you can do: call Hank and tell him to come down with a sudden and complete attack of amnesia.”

  Jack got up and left, but the thought of Henry alone with Rance Damien gave him the willies.

  58

  Henry was left alone in his office with Rance Damien.

  “Henry,” Damien said, “is Jack going to be a problem?”

  “I’ve been wondering about that myself,” Henry replied. “For some time.”

  “How can I help?” Damien asked. He needed the old man to tell him directly.

  “What do you suggest?” Henry replied.

  “Henry, what do you want?” Damien asked.

  “I want Jack to be at peace,” Henry replied.

  “If that’s what you want, you’re going to have to explain to me what it means.”

  “It means no more strife, no more indecision, no more waffling about how we’re going to handle things.”

  “That sounds like custodial treatment,” Damien said, “with daily injections of Thorazine.”

  “I don’t think Jack would like that,” Henry said. “He just needs a good rest—a long one.”

  “You’re going to have to say it, Henry. I have to know what you want to happen.”

  “Sometimes I worry that, in situations like this, the stress might become too much for Jack. I worry that he might take his own life.”

  “Is that what you want, Henry? For Jack to take his own life?”

  “At times like this, I fear for Jack,” Henry said.

  “Do you, really?”

  “I do. I know that he keeps a loaded pistol in the top, right-hand drawer of his desk. Now why would he do that, unless he was considering using it? He’s in no danger in his office.”

  “Tell me, Henry, if Jack were no longer on the scene, who would assume his duties in the company?”

  “Well, Rance, we’ve been bringing you along for some time, now. Do you feel that you could step in and handle all that Jack handles?”

  “I think I could handle what Jack handles better than Jack handles it.”

  “I like self-confi
dence in a young man,” Henry said. “Jack has always lacked confidence in himself. I certainly feel that if Jack could not continue, his duties should be assumed by a younger man. How old are you now, Rance?”

  “Thirty-one.”

  “And how many departments of this company have you worked in?”

  “All of them,” Damien replied. “Every single one. And I’ve taken on our digital operations, something Jack has never known the first thing about.”

  “I’ve admired the way you handled that, Rance,” Henry said. “At least, until this . . . unpleasantness occurred.”

  “Things will be running smoothly in that regard before the day is out,” Damien said.

  “Have I your personal assurance of that, Rance?”

  “You have my solemn word. On my mother’s life.”

  “How about your own life, Rance?” Henry asked. “Will you pledge on that?”

  “Certainly,” Damien replied, after only a short pause.

  “Where are the PR people working this morning?” Henry asked.

  “In the conference room, just down the hall.”

  “Why don’t you look in on Jack and see how he’s doing?”

  “I’d be happy to do that, Henry,” Damien said. “Are you concerned that he might end his life this morning?”

  Henry inspected his nails. “I don’t think Jack could make it through the news conference we’re holding at noon. He couldn’t hold it together to do what has to be done.”

  “Would you like me to conduct the press conference?” Damien asked.

  “I think it’s best that I do that myself,” Henry said. “Why don’t you look in on Jack and see if you can . . . soothe his nerves?”

  “I’d be glad to do that, Henry.”

  Henry looked at his watch. “It’s a quarter to six,” he said. “I’d like to meet with the PR people again at seven o’clock. Do you think you can deal with Jack’s problem by then? Staff people start to wander in around that time.”

  “Yes, I can do that.”

  “Good. Come and see me at seven o’clock, and we’ll go talk with the PR people about what I’ll be saying at the press conference.”

  “I think that’s a good plan,” Damien said, getting to his feet. “I’m meeting with our computer people at eight.”

  Henry nodded. “Good.”

  Rance left the office. He looked into the conference room. “Yes?” Marge Spooner said.

  “Henry would like to meet with us all at seven o’clock,” Damien said.

  “Of course.”

  Damien closed the door, then walked around the office area and checked that all the desks were empty. Then he walked down the spiral staircase to the floor below where Jack’s offices were. It was similarly deserted. He went into his own office and took a pair of latex gloves from his desk and put them on, pulling them up over his sleeves, then he went to his coat closet and removed a dry-cleaning bag from a suit, made a hole at the top and slipped it over his head. Only then did he walk to Jack’s office door, and open it.

  Jack was sitting at his desk, the newspapers spread out before him, his head in his hands. He was sobbing softly. Damien walked across the room toward him. Jack seemed unaware of his presence. Damien walked at a normal pace to Jack’s desk and silently opened the top, right-hand drawer. The pistol, a Beretta .380, lay on top of some papers. Damien picked it up and slid the slide back an inch. There was a round in the chamber. He flicked off the safety, then picked up a sheet from the Times and held it close to Jack’s head. He pressed the gun barrel to within an inch of Jack’s temple and fired a single round.

  Jack fell sideways onto the floor. Damien dropped the pistol near him, then he stepped back, removed the gloves and the dry-cleaner’s bag and wrapped them together with the Times sheet. He carefully inspected his clothing and face to be sure they contained no splatter, then he walked back to his office, closed the door behind him, and burned the bloody parcel in his fireplace, making sure there was no trace of it left.

  He walked to his office door and opened it. Jack’s secretary stood at her desk, removing her coat. “Good morning, Janet,” he said.

  “Good morning, Mr. Damien,” she replied.

  “Did you hear a noise just now?”

  “No, I just got off the elevator.”

  “I heard something a minute ago. Will you please look in on Jack and tell him we have a meeting upstairs with his father at seven o’clock?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Damien.”

  Damien walked to his desk and stood there, until he heard the woman scream.

  59

  Bob Cantor drove slowly past his house in his van and inspected it as closely as he could. The second time around the block he opened his garage door with the remote, had a look inside, then continued. The third time around he opened the garage, drove in, and closed the door behind him.

  He rolled down the truck’s windows and sat in the driver’s seat with the engine off, listening. Having heard nothing, he got out of the van, tapped in his security code, went to the house’s electrical system and checked it thoroughly, resetting each circuit breaker.

  Then he entered his basement workshop from the garage and found it in wild disarray. Power tools were overturned, hand tools scattered everywhere, and drawers full of screws and connectors had been strewn around the floor. On his desk, a message had been spray-painted: GET OUT OF NEW YORK. YOU WON’T BE TOLD AGAIN.

  * * *

  • • •

  THE POLICE ARRIVED at the H. Thomas building and taped off the top two floors. Intercession by Rance Damien got the PR people in the conference room left alone, once they had been questioned. They wouldn’t allow Rance upstairs to see the old man.

  Rance welcomed two detectives into his office, seated them on comfortable chairs and offered them coffee, which they accepted with alacrity.

  “Gentlemen, how can I help you do your job?”

  “Please tell us everything you did from waking up this morning until now.”

  “I was awakened shortly after four AM by a phone call from Henry Thomas, our chairman, and asked to come to the office immediately to discuss a story in the New York Times. When I arrived, Henry Thomas was there with the public relations team you just met in the conference room. Jack Thomas, Henry’s son and our president and CEO, joined us almost immediately.

  “I remained in Henry’s office while he discussed with the PR people what he would say at a noon press conference. Jack went downstairs to his office.”

  “Why?” a detective asked.

  “Henry didn’t need him until later.”

  “What was Jack Thomas’s frame of mind at the meeting?”

  “He was very upset, even distraught, about the content of the Times article, even more so than Henry, who was calm and collected. Jack contributed almost nothing to the meeting. I think that must have been why Henry dismissed him.”

  “Did Henry dismiss him angrily?”

  “I would say coldly,” Damien replied.

  “And did he return to his office?”

  “I believe he did. Half an hour later the PR people went downstairs to the conference room to confer with each other, and Henry asked me to return to his office at seven, to prepare for the press conference.”

  “What happened after you returned to your office?”

  “I read the rest of the Times story, then I heard a loud noise. My first thought was that someone had slammed a door, but it occurred to me that I was the only person on the floor, except Jack. I got up and went to my door just as Janet, Jack’s secretary, got off the elevator. I asked her if she had heard the noise, but she said she had been on the elevator.

  “I went back to my desk, and as I sat down I heard Janet scream. I hurried into Jack’s office, where she had discovered him on the floor behind his desk. I checked for a pulse and found n
one, so I called 911 and reported the death and asked for the police and an ambulance.”

  “Mr. Damien,” a detective said, “when you poured our coffee I noticed what appears to be a spot of blood on your cuff.”

  Damien examined his cuffs and found the spot on the left one. “That must have happened when I checked his neck for a pulse.”

  The detective nodded. “What did you do next?”

  “I went upstairs to Henry’s office and told him what had happened.”

  “How did Mr. Thomas react?”

  “He said something to the effect that he had been worried about Jack.”

  “He had anticipated his son’s suicide?”

  “He didn’t say that. Just that he had been worried about him.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I poured him a glass of water and sat down with him until your people started to arrive.”

  “Mr. Damien, did you share Mr. Thomas’s concerns about Jack?”

  “I thought Jack had been somewhat overwrought for some time, and the Times story appeared to shock him to his core.”

  “What did he say about it?”

  “He looked at the page with all the photographs of deceased family members, then said he didn’t remember a single one of them. I think he may have said he was a small child when the last of them died.”

  “Did Henry Thomas remember any of them?”

  “He said there was a photograph of his grandfather in the paper, but that he had few memories of him.”

  “Was your family aware of the criminality of some of those people?”

  “There had been rumors, I suppose, but nobody in my immediate family seemed to be acquainted with any criminality. Certainly, the story was a big surprise to me.”

  “Mr. Damien, have you received any sort of a promotion as a result of Jack’s death?”

  “No. Henry asked me to act for Jack until the board can convene and appoint a successor.”

  “Act how?”

  “Just to handle anything that came up that Jack would normally have handled.”