After a moment of silence, somebody asked, ‘‘Like what?’’
O’Dell smiled and said, ‘‘There’s quite a wide range of possibilities . . . A little research on what other boards get as compensation could point to some interesting alternatives. Tax-free alternatives, I might add.’’
McDonald sat at the far end of the table, where Kresge had always sat, watching the talk, struggling to keep up with it. Bone and O’Dell were clearly at odds, Bone pushing for the proposed merger, O’Dell resisting.
‘‘All these possibilities should be explored,’’ he ventured ponderously. ‘‘But I do think that we should consider Polaris’s position as a major community asset. We’ve been here for a hundred years and more, and a lot of us wouldn’t be where we are today if we hadn’t had the ear of some friendly people at Polaris . . .’’
He droned on, losing most of the board immediately. John Goff had the right to buy almost forty thousand shares of Polaris at prices ranging from twelve dollars a share to forty-one dollars, most of it at the lower end. Using a scratch pad and a pocket calculator, he began running all the option prices against Bone’s suggestion that they might get a hundred.
Dafne Bose was drawing an airplane on her scratch pad. The bank had a small twin-prop, mostly used for flying audit and management teams to small banks out in the countryside. But what if the bank were to buy something really nice—a small jet—and what if it were available to the board? It probably should be, anyway. A plane like that would be worth tens of thousands of dollars a year, none of it visible to the IRS. O’Dell said there were other possibilities. Bose underlined the plane and looked up at O’Dell, who smiled back.
‘‘Yeah, yeah, that’s all fine,’’ Goff said, when McDonald appeared to be running down. ‘‘So we’ve all got a lot to think about. I would propose that we leave everything as is: Wilson speaks for us, but we ask Susan and Jim each to prepare a report on their respective ideas, deliverable before Friday noon to each of us. That’s quick, that’s only a couple of days, but we gotta move on this. I further suggest that we meet again next Monday to consider the reports. We’d want a complete discussion of all the, uh, options, and at that time we can consider how to go forward.’’
He looked around, got nods of assent. For just a fleeting, tiny part of a second, O’Dell and Bone locked eyes. Only two of them were left. McDonald had just been cut out. Whoever’s report was adopted would be running the place in a week.
McDonald didn’t understand that yet. He harrumphed, allowed that the reports were probably a good idea, and after a few more minutes of talk, the board adjourned.
O’DELL ORDERED CARLA WYTE AND LOUISE COMPTON to her office as soon as she got out of the meeting. Marcus Kent, her other major ally, was too exposed to meet with her publicly, since he technically worked for Bone.
‘‘Everything I said was true,’’ O’Dell told Wyte and Compton. ‘‘The trouble is, it’s not money in hand. I need exact, specific examples of the kind of payoff we can deliver to board members and top management if they adopt my approach.’’
She turned to Wyte: ‘‘You’re the numbers person. I want you to nail down the numbers on this stuff, so they’ll know what they’ll get, and how much it’ll cost the bank, and what the tax consequences will be. Do you know Pat Zebeka?’’
Wyte was scribbling on a yellow pad: ‘‘I’ve heard of him. A lawyer.’’
‘‘Tax guy, one of the best, and he’s done a lot of compensation work. Get with him—on my budget, I’ll fix it— and get a laundry list of everything we can offer that will provide tax advantages.’’
And to Compton, who never took notes on anything, because if you never took notes, nobody could subpoena them: ‘‘I want charts from you. Get the details from Carla, and put them together in a package. It’s gotta be good, and it’s gotta be clear. Not so simple they’ll be insulted, but they’ve got to see what they’ll get. It has to be as real as the dollars they’d get from a merger. And another thing— there are some pretty big advantages to being on the Polaris board. We need to put together a list of those advantages. Social status stuff.’’
‘‘Good. What about polling the board?’’ Compton asked. ‘‘I’m talking to them, the ones I can get. And I’ve got to talk to McDonald. Tonight, if I can. I’m not sure if the idiot knows he’s out of it, but he’s got to find out sometime.’’
‘‘From you? Do you think that’s smart? He might be insulted.’’
O’Dell shook her head: ‘‘Has to be done. I’ve got to get to him before Bone, and I can make him an offer Bone can’t.’’
‘‘What?’’ Wyte asked.
‘‘I’m president and CEO, but he’s board chairman. Talking is what he does best anyway. In a couple of years, when the bank’s mine . . .’’ She flipped a hand dismissively. ‘‘. . . he can go away.’’
‘‘Why couldn’t Bone offer him—’’ Compton stopped herself, shook her head. ‘‘Sorry. Stupid question. If Bone gets it, the bank’s gonna go away.’’
BONE TOLD BAKI TO COORDINATE A GRAPHICS PACKAGE on how much money would be available through the merger: he would provide the details. ‘‘If you do this right, Kerin, and by that I mean if you do this perfectly . . .’’ ‘‘What?’’ Kerin Baki was like a piece of blond ironwood, he thought, brutally efficient, great to look at, but cold. Distant. A Finn, he’d heard. Sometimes she was so chilly he could feel the frost coming off her. He couldn’t see her with a southern boy, but thought she might go well with somebody like, say, Davenport.
‘‘You’ll be the most important person in the bank, since I can’t do shit without you.’’ She disapproved of extraneous vulgarities, which is why he sometimes used them. And what she did next surprised him—almost shocked him. She sat down across his desk and crossed her legs. Good legs. Maybe even great legs.
‘‘I hope you’ve talked with the board members. Privately, I mean,’’ she said.
‘‘I’ve started . . .’’
‘‘You’ve got to do better than start,’’ she said. ‘‘This is a campaign, not a party.’’
‘‘Well, I’ll—’’
‘‘Have you talked to McDonald?’’
‘‘No. He’s out of it . . .’’
‘‘I know. But he’s got friends on the board. He can possibly throw them to O’Dell. So you’ve got to talk to McDonald and do it soon. Call Spacek at Midland and find out if they can find some kind of figurehead job for him after the merger. Vice chairman of the merged banks, or something . . .’’
Bone nodded: ‘‘Good idea. I’ll do that.’’ He looked at her, gauging the change in their relationship, then took the step: ‘‘What else?’’ he asked.
‘‘I’ve only got one more thing—well, two more things. First, your old pal Marcus Kent works for O’Dell.
Everything you tell him goes to her.’’
Bone’s eyebrows went up. ‘‘Since when?’’
‘‘Since he decided he wanted your job, which was about two minutes after you hired him.’’
‘‘Little asshole,’’ Bone grumbled, not particularly surprised. ‘‘I’ll take care of him later. You said two things. What’s the other one?’’
‘‘I want you to do me a favor.’’
‘‘Sure. What?’’
‘‘I’ll tell you when you’re given the job. All you have to do now is promise to do me a favor.’’
‘‘You mean . . . blind? You won’t tell me what favor?’’
She nodded. She was so serious, so cool, so remote, that he nodded in return. ‘‘All right. I hate to do it blind, but if it’s anything like rational, I’ll do you a favor.’’
She nodded once again, quickly, ticking the commitment off some mental list.
‘‘I mean, money? A title?’’ he asked.
‘‘I’ll tell you later,’’ she said. And for a fraction of a second, he thought she almost smiled. ‘‘Now: I can get a graphics guy to actually put our presentation together, but we might also want some kind
of short video presentation from Midland, from Spacek himself, probably. That means we’ll need to check the VCR up in The Room.’’
Bone slapped his forehead: ‘‘That’s great. I’ll talk to Spacek as soon as we’re done here.’’ He looked at his watch: ‘‘Plenty of time.’’
‘‘What else?’’ she asked.
‘‘I need to talk to a guy named Gerry Nicolas. Today. He runs the state pension fund, I don’t know the formal name.’’
‘‘I’ll get it,’’ she said. ‘‘May I ask why? Just so I can stay current and see how you’re thinking?’’
Oddly enough, Bone thought, he trusted her: ‘‘Because his constituents don’t know anything about the stock market, but they know he hasn’t gotten them fifteen percent on their money this year, and they want to know why. He’s feeling a little shaky, and he also happens to own almost six million shares of our stock which, until the merger talk started, had been sitting in his portfolio like a brick. He’s now up sixty million, and due to go up quite a few more if the merger goes through. If it doesn’t, he’s sucking wind again.’’
‘‘So if you tell him the board is thinking about backing out . . .’’
‘‘He’ll be on the phone to the board. And he’s got some serious clout when it comes to electing board members.’’
‘‘Good. That’s exactly how we’ve got to think.’’ She stood up. ‘‘I know this changes our relationship somewhat, Mr. Bone, but I really think you’ll have a much better chance at this job if you listen seriously to my proposals. And I’ll critique yours.’’
‘‘Of course,’’ he said.
‘‘Don’t dismiss me like that,’’ she snapped. ‘‘I’m as smart as you are. I might not know as much about investments, but I know a lot more about the way this place really works. If I’m going to save my job, you’ve got to listen to me.’’
He laughed despite himself, and again, was somewhat shocked: ‘‘Is that what this is all about? Saving your job?’’
‘‘That’s half of it,’’ she said.
‘‘What’s the other half?’’
‘‘The favor you’re going to do me—that’s the other half.’’
As she was going out the door, he said, ‘‘Maybe you better start calling me Jim.’’
She stopped, seemed to think for a minute, pushed her glasses up her nose, and said, ‘‘Not yet.’’
‘‘THEY’RE GONNA SCREW YOU,’’ AUDREY MCDONALD shouted. Wilson was in the den, staring at a yellow pad. Audrey had gone to the kitchen to get a bowl of nacho chips and a glass of water; she snuck the vodka bottle out of the lazy Susan, poured two ounces into the glass, gulped it down, took a pull at the bottle, screwed the top back on, put it back on the lazy Susan, turned it halfway around, and shut the cupboard door. Then she stuffed a half-dozen nachos in her mouth to cover any scent of alcohol, got a full glass of water and the bowl of chips, and carried them back to the den.
‘‘If they were gonna give you the job . . .’’
‘‘I heard you, I heard you,’’ Wilson McDonald snarled. ‘‘I heard you a dozen fuckin’ times. You’re so full of shit sometimes, Audrey, that you don’t even know you’re full of shit. I’m running the board—I chaired the meeting today—I can handle them.’’
‘‘Yeah? How many board members have you talked to, who were willing to commit?’’
He was shoving a fistful of chips into his mouth, chewed once, and said, ‘‘Eirich and Goff and Brandt . . .’’
‘‘You told me that Brandt—’’
‘‘I know what I said,’’ he shouted. ‘‘I’ll get the fucker. That sonofabitch.’’ Brandt had equivocated.
‘‘You can’t count on—’’
The phone rang, and they both turned to look at it. ‘‘Did you talk to your father?’’ Audrey asked.
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Huh.’’ She stood up, took two steps, picked up the phone. ‘‘Hello? . . . Yes, this is Audrey.’’ She turned to look at Wilson. ‘‘Why yes, he’s here, somewhere. Let me call him.’’
She pressed the receiver to her chest and said, ‘‘It’s Susan O’Dell. She said she needs to talk to you right away.’’
‘‘Okay. Jesus, I wonder what she wants, right away?’’
‘‘It won’t be good news,’’ Audrey said. She was seized by a sudden dread, looking at her husband’s querulousness. This wasn’t going right.
Wilson took the phone. ‘‘Hello?’’ He listened for a moment, then said, ‘‘Sure, that’ll be okay. Give us an hour . . . Okay, see you then.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘She’s coming over. She wants to cut a deal.’’
Audrey brightened: ‘‘If we can cut a deal, we knock Bone right out of contention. For that, we could offer her quite a bit.’’
‘‘That’s right. And we basically agree on—’’ The phone rang again, and he turned and picked it up, expecting to hear O’Dell’s voice again. ‘‘Hello?’’
Again he listened, and finally: ‘‘Really can’t until about, say, ten o’clock. We’ve got guests . . . Okay, we stay up late anyway. See you then.’’
He hung up and Audrey raised her eyebrows.
‘‘Bone,’’ he said. ‘‘And he wants to cut a deal.’’
Audrey smiled, almost chortled: ‘‘My my. Aren’t we popular tonight. Aren’t we popular . . .’’ The half a glass of vodka was brightening the world, right along with the phone calls. ‘‘We’ve got some planning to do.’’
O’DELL CAME AND WENT.
Bone came and went.
McDonald went up to the bedroom, found a bottle of scotch he’d hidden in the closet, ripped off the top and took a long pull. ‘‘Jesus fuckin’ Christ,’’ he bellowed. ‘‘What’s wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong?’’
Audrey cowered in the doorway. ‘‘Are they right? Are they right, Wilson?’’ She’d been back to the lazy Susan, this time for a full glass of the vodka.
‘‘That motherfucking Brandt, that traitor,’’ McDonald screamed. He took another long pull at the bottle, two swallows, three, four. When he took the bottle down, he seemed stunned. ‘‘How could the fuckers do that?’’
And suddenly he was blubbering, his face red as a stop sign, the bottle hanging by his side.
‘‘Call your father,’’ Audrey offered. ‘‘Maybe he—’’
‘‘Fuck that old asshole,’’ McDonald screamed. ‘‘I’m dying. I’m fucking dying.’’ He began pulling at his shirt and when it came off, threw it in a wad on the floor. Audrey retreated to the hall, saw him trot into the bathroom, heard the water start in the oversized tub. A moment later, his trousers flew out the door, followed by his shorts.
‘‘Wilson, we really don’t have time for this. We’ve got to get ourselves together. Just because they said—’’
‘‘They were right, you stupid fuckin’ cow,’’ McDonald screamed. And he ran out of the bathroom, nude now, his penis bobbing up and down like a crab apple on a windy day. ‘‘I’m gone. I’m out of it. I’m dead in the fuckin’ water . . .’’
He spun around, looking for booze, found it in his hand. He was already drunk: he’d finished half a fifth downstairs before he ran up to get the new bottle. Audrey, desperate, tried to rein him in. O’Dell and Bone couldn’t be right. The job couldn’t be gone. He couldn’t be out of it.
‘‘Maybe O’Dell’s offer, the chairmanship . . .’’
‘‘I’d be out of there in a month,’’ he shouted. ‘‘I’d be nothing . . .’’
‘‘Wilson, I think if we—’’
‘‘And you, you bitch.’’ McDonald turned, his small eyes going flat as he moved toward her. ‘‘You sure as shit didn’t do anything to help. We’ve got some planning to do ,’’ he mimicked, quoting her from early in the evening. ‘‘ We’ve got yellow pads to fill up . . . And then they waltz in and tell me I’m done.’’
‘‘They’re wrong.’’
‘‘Shut up,’’ he bellowed, and he hit her, open-hand
ed. The blow picked her up, smashed her head against the doorjamb, and she went down, dazed, tried to crawl away. ‘‘You fuckin’ come back here, you’re gonna answer for this.’’ He kicked her in the buttock, and she went down on her stomach. He stopped, nearly fell, caught himself, grabbed one of her feet and dragged her toward the bedroom.
‘‘Wilson,’’ she screamed. She rolled and tried to hold on to the carpet, then the doorjamb. ‘‘Don’t, please don’t.’’ Tried to distract him ‘‘Wilson, we’ve got to work.’’
‘‘Shut up,’’ he screamed again, and he dropped her foot and grabbed the front of her blouse. Made powerful by the booze, he picked her bodily off the floor and hurled her at a wall. She hit with a flat smack and went down again. ‘‘Crazy fuckin’ bitch . . .’’ he mumbled, and he took another pull at the bottle. ‘‘When I get fuckin’ finished with you, you won’t be able to fuckin’ crawl . . .’’
TWELVE
VERY EARLY IN THE MORNING. COLD, DAMP, WITH THE sense that frost was sparkling off exposed skin.
Loring wore a suit that was almost exactly lime green, with a yellow silk shirt and tan alligator shoes, and a beige ankle-length plains duster, worn open. On someone else, the outfit might have looked strange. On Loring, who was slightly larger than a Buick, it was frightening.
‘‘Now just take it easy in there,’’ Loring rasped. ‘‘ Everything is cool with everybody.’’
They were in an alley on the south side, walking toward a clapboard garage with silvered windows. ‘‘Whose garage?’’ Lucas asked.
‘‘A friend of Cotina’s. The guy’s straight, they rode together before Cotina got wild. He’s the only guy in Minneapolis that Cotina knew who’d loan them a spot to meet with the cops.’’
‘‘Could’ve fuckin’ done it downtown,’’ Lucas grumbled. Loring shook his head: ‘‘He’s got those warrants out and he’s paranoid. He says he’s gonna turn himself in.’’
Lucas Davenport Novels 6-10 Page 113
