it struck Doug, as the pleasure he himself used to get inspecting missiles down in their bays, running his hand over the shiny white warhead of an SM-2, feeling through the tips of his fingers all that locked-down, riveted potential. That’s what he was for a man like Holland: an attractive weapon. Doug worked best with the men who understood implicitly the balance of excitement, ignorance, and reward he offered. And no one had understood it better than Holland. He knew his aggression had to be channeled through others. He needed tentacles up into the board, laterally into the senior management with eyes on his job, and down into the bowels of the operation, where the consequences of loyalty were more concrete. Like a ship’s captain, who in principle relied on the chain of command but in practice drew close those he trusted, Holland surrounded himself with people who owed their jobs to him, and it was through these officers, of whatever rank, that he worked his will. He loved that all the secretaries had crushes on Doug, and that the rest of the department heads loathed him. Deep into the bullshit of management science, Holland had consultants threaded everywhere,hard at work rubber-stamping his plans, providing cover for whenever an initiative failed. But at base such caution bored him, and if he were honest with himself he would have to admit that it embarrassed him too. To all such mealymouthed, process nonsense, Doug was the perfect antidote: a means to direct action. Yet, as with any secret weapon, the pleasure and protection lay in the having of it, not in the use.
“What about our own trades?” Holland asked. “Where do we stand?”
For all his bluster about cash flow, this was why he had asked Doug to his office: to hear news of profit.
“Hong Kong netted thirty-five million last week. Next week, it’ll be forty.”
Holland glanced up, raised his eyebrows, and smiled. Then he strolled to the opposite side of the office to gaze from the window. Beneath a cloudless sky, the water of the harbor shimmered, a white ferry churned slowly from the pier, planes in the distance glided onto the peninsula of runways at Logan, the whole brilliant vista softened by the tint of the glass.
“That guy from Time called again,” he said. “He’s coming next week. They’ve decided to go ahead with the profile after all.”
“Congratulations,” Doug said.
“Thanks. So what’s the news with you? Are we neighbors yet? Have you moved out to Finden?”
“Yeah. Which reminds me. You know a woman named Charlotte Graves?”
“Never heard of her. What the hell are you going to do with all that space, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” Doug said. “Make a killing maybe?”
Holland laughed. “My wife loathes people like you,” he said. “Probably because she used to be one.”
Chapter 4
From inside the blooming lilac, Charlotte whispers, Come. You’re missing it. Come and see . The pleasure, somehow, always hers. Mother and father with their drinks on the veranda in wicker chairs watching; traffic whirring in the distance on the post road. You’re missing it , his sister whispers. The air is soft in the first spring heat. Henry tries to walk toward his sister but his legs are fixed to the ground. Her whispers fill his ears from behind those coned purple flowers, the sunlight on the arced branches a brilliant diffusion. Here, what you’ve been looking for, here it is , she says, as the siren begins to sound.
Swallowing dryly, turning his head on the pillow, Henry half opened his eyes. The room was pitch-dark, only one edge of it discernible from a strip of light under the door. A hotel, certainly: the familiar hush of conditioned air falling into the padded gloom of rug and curtains and armchair, the tiny red signals of the television and the motion detector. But where? What city? For a moment, the yearning for a world saturated with meaning pulled him back toward sleep, buthe caught himself and reached for the
“What about our own trades?” Holland asked. “Where do we stand?”
For all his bluster about cash flow, this was why he had asked Doug to his office: to hear news of profit.
“Hong Kong netted thirty-five million last week. Next week, it’ll be forty.”
Holland glanced up, raised his eyebrows, and smiled. Then he strolled to the opposite side of the office to gaze from the window. Beneath a cloudless sky, the water of the harbor shimmered, a white ferry churned slowly from the pier, planes in the distance glided onto the peninsula of runways at Logan, the whole brilliant vista softened by the tint of the glass.
“That guy from Time called again,” he said. “He’s coming next week. They’ve decided to go ahead with the profile after all.”
“Congratulations,” Doug said.
“Thanks. So what’s the news with you? Are we neighbors yet? Have you moved out to Finden?”
“Yeah. Which reminds me. You know a woman named Charlotte Graves?”
“Never heard of her. What the hell are you going to do with all that space, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” Doug said. “Make a killing maybe?”
Holland laughed. “My wife loathes people like you,” he said. “Probably because she used to be one.”
Chapter 4
From inside the blooming lilac, Charlotte whispers, Come. You’re missing it. Come and see . The pleasure, somehow, always hers. Mother and father with their drinks on the veranda in wicker chairs watching; traffic whirring in the distance on the post road. You’re missing it , his sister whispers. The air is soft in the first spring heat. Henry tries to walk toward his sister but his legs are fixed to the ground. Her whispers fill his ears from behind those coned purple flowers, the sunlight on the arced branches a brilliant diffusion. Here, what you’ve been looking for, here it is , she says, as the siren begins to sound.
Swallowing dryly, turning his head on the pillow, Henry half opened his eyes. The room was pitch-dark, only one edge of it discernible from a strip of light under the door. A hotel, certainly: the familiar hush of conditioned air falling into the padded gloom of rug and curtains and armchair, the tiny red signals of the television and the motion detector. But where? What city? For a moment, the yearning for a world saturated with meaning pulled him back toward sleep, buthe caught himself and reached for the
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