Crichton’s head rose. “Oh? Why do you need to do that?”
“Consetti identified both of them m his deposition.”
“Al Austin is no longer with the company.”
“Nonetheless, Consetti identified him as someone involved in the design of the XKL-1.”
“Have the plaintiffs requested his deposition?.”
“No. Not yet anyway.”
“What about Bernie King?”
“Again, no.”
“Then what’s the point of talking to them?”
Ben shifted in his chair. “Mr. Crichton…I’m an officer of the court. I have an obligation to fully and fairly understand what took place. Plus, I have to know the whole story, to shore up any loose ends, to understand our weak points as well as our strong points, and to identify any exposure the Apollo Consortium may have.”
“Bernie King is a very busy man. He’s top dog in the OKC office. He runs a seven-hundred-man shop. He doesn’t have time to play around with lawyers.”
“I won’t take any more time than neces—”
“Look, Kincaid, it’s your case, but I don’t think you should waste your time, much less the time of other important Apollo personnel. Find out whatever you can from the other side, then file your motion for summary judgment. I see no need for you to be investigating your own client.”
He lowered his mug to the table, watching Ben very carefully. “After all, you already know what position you have to take.”
28
BEN MUTTERED MOST OF the way to Oklahoma City, his hands tightly clenching the steering wheel.
“I got to hand it to you,” Rob said. He was seated in the passenger seat of Ben’s Honda Accord. “Most people would’ve backed off. Crichton made it clear he didn’t think you should go to Oklahoma City, and here you are, doing it anyway.”
“I have a long history of not being smart enough to take a hint,” Ben said.
“Don’t softsoap me, Ben. You’re the kind of guy who believes that if a job is going to be done, it should be done right. You’re going to handle this case properly, regardless of who or what gets in the way. I suppose that’s why Crichton thinks you’re such a super litigator.”
“We’ll see what he thinks after today.”
Ben exited off Northwest Expressway. “What’s the name of the place where we’re meeting King?”
“It’s called Knockers.”
“Knockers? What kind of name is that for a restaurant?”
“Beats me. I’ve never been there. Crichton recommends it to everyone going to Oklahoma City.”
A few minutes later, Ben pulled into the Knockers parking lot. The place had to be popular; almost every spot was taken.
“The food must be sensational to attract a crowd like this,” Ben said. “I wonder if I can get some Buffalo chicken wings. That sounds great.”
“Hope springs eternal.” They climbed out of the car and walked to the restaurant.
Knockers probably did have some sort of decor, but whatever it was, Ben didn’t notice. His eyes, like Rob’s and everyone else’s, were immediately drawn to the staff. The entirely and without exception female staff. The entirely and without exception young blond female staff. Bimbo paradise.
The “hostesses” all wore the same uniform: tight white T-shirts and pink spandex short shorts. The T-shirts were tied, quite snugly, around the midriff. The short shorts started low on the hips and ended high on the thigh. And as was immediately apparent, they weren’t wearing anything else.
“Can we help you?” A nubile young hostess looped her arm around Ben’s, giggling. “Can I show you to a table? A booth? Anything you want, I’ll be happy to provide.”
Ben noticed Rob had acquired a similar escort. “A booth will be fine. We’re meeting a man named Bernie King. He may already be here.”
“Oh, Bernie!” Rob’s escort squealed. “We love Bernie. He’s in the back.”
Ben followed her swaying spandex to a boom in the rear. He marveled at how crowded me restaurant was; every office building in Oklahoma City must be feeding the place. He also noticed that every patron, without exception, was male.
Bernie’s booth was in front of the big screen television. Another T-shirted waitress was standing on his table, a hula hoop revolving around her hips.
“All right, Jenny!” Ben’s escort screamed. “Shake ’em!”
Jenny smiled giddily and accelerated her rhythmic revolutions.
Ben ducked under the hula hoop and tried to introduce himself. “Mr. King? I’m Ben Kincaid. This is Rob Fielder.”
King shifted his glazed gaze slightly. “Happy to meet you.” He returned his attention to the waitress on the table, then sighed. “All right, Jenny. That will be enough. I’m afraid we have some business to discuss.”
“Aww!” the women wailed in unison. Jenny grabbed the hoop and stepped off the table. She grabbed Ben by the shoulders. “Can I show you my knockers?”
“What?”
Jenny handed Ben and the others small hand-sized wooden blocks. “These are my knockers. When you decide you’re ready to order, just knock.” She giggled. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
She took the drink orders—Cokes for Ben and Rob, two martinis for Bernie King—and scampered away with her friends.
King appeared utterly relaxed and at peace with the universe. “I try to make it out here at least once a week. Robert Crichton first told me about this place. I consider it one of the few favors he’s ever done for me. What do you think, Kincaid?”
Ben looked down at his silverware. “I don’t think you want to know.”
“If I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t have asked.”
“Well…” Ben inhaled deeply. “Since you asked, I think this place is degrading to women, infantile, sexist, and all-around revolting.”
King smiled. “That’s what I would’ve said, when I was your age. The words would’ve been different, but the sentiment would’ve been the same.” He stretched out, raised his feet onto the booth. “But I’ve mellowed with age. I don’t get upset about the minutiae of political correctness anymore. If someone wants to make me happy, well, who am I to stop them?”
“Joints like this could set women back a hundred years.”
“Perhaps so. And I wonder, would that be so horrible?”
“It would. Especially in the workplace. I’ve already seen behavior at Apollo—”
“Enough, enough. I’m not the CEO.”
“That’s the problem, as far as I can tell. No one wants to take responsibility. We have vice presidents for every conceivable aspect of Apollo’s business policies, but no one is responsible for setting moral policies.”
King smiled again. “Moral policy is not generally a principal concern of the stockholders at the annual meeting.”
“Maybe it should be.”
“Well, enough of this errant philosophizing. I understand you want to talk about the XKL-1 design project.”
“That’s correct.” Ben brought him up-to-date on the litigation, including the discovery that had been conducted thus far. “Andrew Consetti mentioned that you were one of the principal designers on the project.”
“That’s true. Me and Al Austin.”
“Right. That’s one aspect of this affair that seems strange to me. After the completion of that project, you became a corporate VP with your own office in OKC, and Al Austin disappeared from the face of the earth.”
“I like to think my promotion was based upon more than just one project. I’ve been working for Apollo for almost twenty years.”
Ben tried to concentrate on what King was saying, but it was almost impossible with the big screen television flashing in front of his eyes. An exercise program was on, featuring four beautifully formed women in skintight exercise leotards bouncing around under the pretense of physical fitness. Ben liked lovely women as well as the next guy, but this big screen show of sweat and tights was beginning to have a Clockwork Orange effect.