Read Online Evening's Empire: The Story of My Father's Murder by Zachary Lazar - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Zachary Lazar
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track of what was what or who was who: CAC, CMC, CMS. As it went forward, even the secretaries would sometimes get the different letterheads mixed up.
. . .
Warren stacked some papers on his desk, his forehead still shiny from the heat outside. He had just returned from his long weekend on the beach in Mexico. He wore a tan suit and a pale blue shirt and he sucked on a Dum Dum lollipop because he was trying to cut down on his smoking.
“I get bored on the beach after about ten minutes,” he said. “Nothing to do.” He was in his Robert Mitchum mode, dapper and sarcastic, breezing into the office now to check his mail, then breezing to his other offices, then back to his house and the pool.
Ed sat down in one of his chairs. He could play this game as long as Warren wanted to. He wasn’t going to be the one who mentioned the letter that had just arrived that morning from Barry Goldwater.
“How was the marijuana down there?” he said.
Warren pretended to shiver. “No comment.”
“Well, at least you got out of this inferno for a few days.”
“I may have a lead on some more land. Straight brokerage deal. No financing, no salesmen, nothing.”
“Where?”
“Near Chino. It would be a good favor for us to do. But let’s worry about Chino first.” He examined his lollipop, glaring at it for not being a cigarette. “This one’s called Chino, too, actually. Chino Something-Else. Chino Grande.”
Ed knew Warren was waiting for him to bring up the Goldwater letter. He knew Warren knew he was thinking this. It was a game they played, a telepathy of withholding, in some ways more important than whatever words they ever actually spoke. When they spoke, it was jokes, banter, cocktail talk, punctuated by a two-minute phone call or a terse memo written almost anonymously. Got it, was the only note Warren had appended to the Goldwater letter, for, as they both appreciated, any further comment would only diminish the impact of the signature at the bottom: just the first name, Barry, in firm blue ink.
Ed had been in the men’s room that morning when Fred Greene, the collections agent, had come in and walked over to the urinal. Greene was six six and weighed almost three hundred pounds, standing there with both hands on his hips, the man who knocked on doors when a mortgage went unpaid.
“Your salesmen are all worried about their jobs,” he said, scowling down as if pissing were a kind of indigestion. “They’re all trying to make a hundred thousand in sales before their business gets shipped overseas to Japan or Taiwan or wherever the hell it is.”
Ed stared into the mirror as he washed his hands. “They’ll still have jobs,” he said.
Greene flushed the urinal. His shoes were as big as galoshes, white with silver chains. “These guys would sell to a dead man if they could keep their commissions.”
“Yeah, well, that’s why we have Mean Fred Greene.”
Greene moved toward the sink, pumped soap powder all over the basin, then washed his hands under full pressure from the tap. After pounding his hands dry on a thick stack of paper towels, he threw the towels on the floor by the wastebasket. Not in the basket, but on the floor.
Ed nodded, his silence a coded laugh that Greene acknowledged with more silence, not looking but seeing.
Ed thought, if the CMS deal worked and the lot sales happened in Japan instead of here, then he wouldn’t have to think about any of this anymore—not the salesmen, not the commissions, not the stupidity, not the greed. He wouldn’t have to see Fred Greene tossing his garbage on the men’s room floor. He would see numbers, contracts, memos, statements. He would take his seat on the board of AHI and after a reasonable amount of time had elapsed, he would sell his shares and get out of the business.
Mr. Dave Martin
Capital Management Systems Ltd., Inc.
P.O. Box 364
Koza, Okinawa
Dear Dave:
Best wishes on your investment program for the ownership of home-sites in Chino
. . .
Warren stacked some papers on his desk, his forehead still shiny from the heat outside. He had just returned from his long weekend on the beach in Mexico. He wore a tan suit and a pale blue shirt and he sucked on a Dum Dum lollipop because he was trying to cut down on his smoking.
“I get bored on the beach after about ten minutes,” he said. “Nothing to do.” He was in his Robert Mitchum mode, dapper and sarcastic, breezing into the office now to check his mail, then breezing to his other offices, then back to his house and the pool.
Ed sat down in one of his chairs. He could play this game as long as Warren wanted to. He wasn’t going to be the one who mentioned the letter that had just arrived that morning from Barry Goldwater.
“How was the marijuana down there?” he said.
Warren pretended to shiver. “No comment.”
“Well, at least you got out of this inferno for a few days.”
“I may have a lead on some more land. Straight brokerage deal. No financing, no salesmen, nothing.”
“Where?”
“Near Chino. It would be a good favor for us to do. But let’s worry about Chino first.” He examined his lollipop, glaring at it for not being a cigarette. “This one’s called Chino, too, actually. Chino Something-Else. Chino Grande.”
Ed knew Warren was waiting for him to bring up the Goldwater letter. He knew Warren knew he was thinking this. It was a game they played, a telepathy of withholding, in some ways more important than whatever words they ever actually spoke. When they spoke, it was jokes, banter, cocktail talk, punctuated by a two-minute phone call or a terse memo written almost anonymously. Got it, was the only note Warren had appended to the Goldwater letter, for, as they both appreciated, any further comment would only diminish the impact of the signature at the bottom: just the first name, Barry, in firm blue ink.
Ed had been in the men’s room that morning when Fred Greene, the collections agent, had come in and walked over to the urinal. Greene was six six and weighed almost three hundred pounds, standing there with both hands on his hips, the man who knocked on doors when a mortgage went unpaid.
“Your salesmen are all worried about their jobs,” he said, scowling down as if pissing were a kind of indigestion. “They’re all trying to make a hundred thousand in sales before their business gets shipped overseas to Japan or Taiwan or wherever the hell it is.”
Ed stared into the mirror as he washed his hands. “They’ll still have jobs,” he said.
Greene flushed the urinal. His shoes were as big as galoshes, white with silver chains. “These guys would sell to a dead man if they could keep their commissions.”
“Yeah, well, that’s why we have Mean Fred Greene.”
Greene moved toward the sink, pumped soap powder all over the basin, then washed his hands under full pressure from the tap. After pounding his hands dry on a thick stack of paper towels, he threw the towels on the floor by the wastebasket. Not in the basket, but on the floor.
Ed nodded, his silence a coded laugh that Greene acknowledged with more silence, not looking but seeing.
Ed thought, if the CMS deal worked and the lot sales happened in Japan instead of here, then he wouldn’t have to think about any of this anymore—not the salesmen, not the commissions, not the stupidity, not the greed. He wouldn’t have to see Fred Greene tossing his garbage on the men’s room floor. He would see numbers, contracts, memos, statements. He would take his seat on the board of AHI and after a reasonable amount of time had elapsed, he would sell his shares and get out of the business.
Mr. Dave Martin
Capital Management Systems Ltd., Inc.
P.O. Box 364
Koza, Okinawa
Dear Dave:
Best wishes on your investment program for the ownership of home-sites in Chino
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