Again, call me.
Now. Here’s a simple question. Is his daughter-as her mother seems to think-just a selfish, thoughtless little bitch… or is there something wrong?
He doesn’t know, but neither does Deb-which is surely the salient point here. Because okay, maybe Deb would be right to see a link between Frank’s current vulnerable state and his sudden concern for Lizzie… but if it turns out that something actually is wrong, how would that even matter?
In what universe?
He closes the fridge door.
Then he opens it again and takes out the OJ. He drinks directly from the carton, empties it, tosses it in the trash.
Coffee next.
This he drinks standing at the window, gazing out, distracted, but also thinking, making another calculation.
He could be up there in two hours.
What else has he got on today? He’s unemployed.
After he finishes the coffee and rinses the cup, he heads into the bedroom and gets a small carryall down from the top of the wardrobe. In reality, he could be up there in two hours, stay for another two, and be back in time for a late lunch.
But what if he needs to stay?
What if-
He packs the bag. A change of clothes. Some stuff from the bathroom.
You can’t argue with being prepared.
On his way down to the car, Frank is aware of a faint thrum of excitement running alongside the more regular and familiar rhythm of his anxiety.
He knows what it is.
He’s been stuck in a deadening routine here-in this apartment, in this town-for many months, and despite the distressing nature of the immediate circumstances, despite the fact that he may well be back here in a matter of hours, it feels like he’s escaping.
From the backseat of the car, cell phone in hand, Craig Howley gazes out at the Sixth Avenue traffic. After a good deal of hesitation, he calls Angela and tells her to cancel his appointments for the morning-two meetings, one at nine, the other at ten thirty, and a conference call at twelve. It’s probably because he doesn’t usually do this-has he ever?-that Angela asks him if he’s alright, but he reacts to her perfectly reasonable question by snapping. “I’m fine. Jesus. Just reschedule those, would you?”
Angela then reminds him, frostily, that he has a lunch appointment at one. It’s at Soleil on Madison Avenue, with Gary Wolinsky, and he can’t possibly skip it.
“Okay, okay.” He sighs loudly. “I’ll be there.”
When they’ve finished, he powers off his phone and slips it into his jacket pocket. As he does so, he looks down at the cream-colored folder on the seat next to him, the faded, almost grubby appearance of the cover contrasting sharply with the shiny red leather of the upholstery.
He still can’t believe what a high-risk strategy this seems to be on Vaughan’s part. On the one hand, yes, it’s a vote of confidence in Howley, but on the other… isn’t Vaughan very deliberately goading him? It’s like an act of loyalty and an act of betrayal.
Simultaneously.
The two things, inextricable, but mutually exclusive.
And Howley can’t even talk to him about it, because there’s nothing to say, nothing to negotiate. He just has to make a simple decision-whether or not he’s going to accept the job on these terms.
Howley looks up.
He certainly didn’t see this coming-though he can hardly claim he didn’t see the old man coming, can he? The old man’s been there all along.
The old man’s always been there.
Howley looks out the window. The traffic has been moving at a crawl up to this point, but suddenly there’s a break, and a spurt, and in no time they’re at the Fifty-seventh Street lights. Howley tells his driver not to turn here, as he normally would, but to go straight on. When the lights change they surge forward, and two blocks later they’re turning left onto Central Park South.
Howley then tells the driver to pull over, that he needs to get out of the car and walk around for a bit. The driver pulls over, but can’t stop for long, can’t park. He looks into his rearview mirror, awaiting instructions.
Howley grabs the folder, and a bottle of water from the bar, and as he’s reaching for the door he tells the driver to head on to the Oberon Building, that he’s fine, that when he’s ready he’ll… get a cab.
Or something.
Once out of the car, Howley takes off into the park at a brisk pace and makes his way over to the Mall. Near the end of this tree-lined thoroughfare he stops and picks out a bench on the east side that is dry and relatively clean. He sits down and glances around. He doesn’t know why, but he feels somewhat out of place here, in this little patch of virtual countryside. What is it? The smoothness of his silk suit? His pristine leather shoes? The scent of his cologne? Do any of these really sit well in the context, in this fresh, chilly environment he has so unexpectedly found himself in?
It’s also been a while since Howley was actually in Central Park, and he can’t believe how many people are out-strolling, jogging, walking dogs-and at nine fifteen on a weekday morning. Who are these people anyway, he thinks, and why aren’t they at work? His weekdays are spent in offices and conference rooms, in elevators and hallways, in traffic, with all of the people around him busy too, engaged in similar work-related activities. These people, on the other hand… what, are they retired, independently wealthy, on vacation?
He opens the bottle of water and takes a few gulps from it. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and throws the half-empty bottle into a trash can next to the bench.
He picks up the folder and flicks through it, recognizing certain pages-pages he has already read up to half a dozen times-and then he closes it again.
Holding the folder out in front of him, he stares at its cream-colored cover, still surprised that Vaughan has entrusted him with this, because… it’s just that the damn thing is so dangerous. It’s like a live grenade in his hands, and if he were so inclined he could fling it out there, and do some serious damage with it…
Reputations, careers, lives.
But-
Even by the way he’s holding it, the care, the hesitancy, it quickly becomes apparent to him that that’s not what he’s going to do.
Or anything like it.
Essentially, this is a cache of incriminating evidence-details, going back years, of Byzantine deals that could, at best, be described as unorthodox.
And at worst? Well, no point dwelling on it.
The takeaway message here is that the Oberon Capital Group is, and must remain, a private company. The disclosures that a public offering would entail, in relation to financial structuring, tax arrangements, salaries, options, profitability, and so on, are quite simply unthinkable.
Howley draws the folder in again and puts it under his arm. He stands up and looks around. What the hell is he doing in Central Park anyway? He needs to get back to the office. He needs to get this thing under lock and key-or, better still, back into the hands of Jacqueline Prescott.
Walking fast, he heads south. Before long, and as he glides under the shadowline of the skyscrapers on Fifty-ninth Street, Howley comes to the (perhaps now obvious) realization that he was never really going to be in control of this process.
How would he have been?
Across from the Plaza, he stands at the lights, waiting. He could hail a cab from here, but the Oberon Building is only a few blocks away. He’ll enjoy walking toward it, approaching and falling under its shadowline.
The lights change, and he moves.
Vaughan wanted to get this handover out of the way fast, so that’s what they’ll do. Tomorrow’s Friday. They’ll hold a press conference in the morning, get it done before the weekend.