“Oh, dear, Flip,” Hall said, looking as concerned as though he were an actual human being with actual human emotions, “I hope you aren’t in any trouble.”
“Turns out,” Flip said, packing his canvas bag, not looking at the rat, “I am. Turns out, some cash income I received was reported to the IRS.”
“But, Flip, naturally,” Hall said.
Now Flip had to look at him, and the man was as innocent as a newborn. Into that perspiring baby face, Flip said, “Do people report their cash income to the IRS?”
“Well, I certainly hope so,” Hall said. He paused briefly to wipe that face with a towel and pant a bit, then said, “It would be unpatriotic not to report your income, pay your taxes.”
“Unpa—Unpa—” Flip could only sputter at the outrageousness of this felon, this world-class cheat, this despicable rotter, telling Flip Morriscone he was unpatriotic! Unpatriotic!
“I certainly hope,” Hall was going on, as though Flip were not doing a meltdown directly in front of him, “you declare what I pay you, because of course I report all my expenses. All my expenses, Flip, whether they’re deductible or not. I believe in transparency, and you should, too.”
Flip slowly shook his head, unable to speak.
Hall lifted a chiding finger. “Now, Flip,” he said, “take it from one who knows, one who’s been there. The best thing for you to do at this hearing is just come clean, pay whatever they want you to pay, and put it behind you.” The chiding finger waggled. “And don’t play fast and loose again, Flip, that’s my advice.”
How he got out of that building without strangling Monroe Hall then and there Flip would never know. How he got out of there at all he couldn’t understand, and had no memory of the corridor, the stairs, the front door or anything else until he found himself driving the Subaru past the sullen guard—whose look toward Flip was now reproachful, if you please—and out of the estate.
He made the turn. He drove away, toward his next appointment. At last, he spoke, through gritted teeth. “Revenge,” he growled. “Revenge.”
28
IN A WAY, Marcie felt sorry for Monroe Hall. In the seventeen years she’d worked as an interviewer for Cooper Placement Service, she’d never seen an employer who was so thoroughly disliked. How bad could the man be?
Mostly, particularly in a rural area like this one, people just sucked it up and got on with it. “What the heck, it’s a job,” was the general opinion about almost anything. In her time, she’d placed personal maids with Iranian ex-wives, chauffeurs who were required to wear bulletproof vests when on the job for notorious drug dealers, gardeners for the weekend houses of top-level fashionistas out of New York, cooks for Ecuadorian aristocrats, dressers for rock stars, secretaries to disgraced politicians writing their truthless memoirs, and not one of those people had ever produced as negative a reaction in a prospective employee as almost everybody gave to the name Monroe Hall.
“Oh, no, not there, I don’t need a job that bad.”
“But what’s wrong with—”
“Let me put it this way, miss. I wouldn’t go to work for that bastard if he paid me.”
“He will pay you, it’s a job, you can—”
“Not for me. What else chu got?”
“Archivist for a professional wrestler called UltraMud.”
“Oh, I heard a him! Sure! What the heck, it’s a job.”
How many vacancies were there out to Monroe Hall’s place by now? Attrition was just steadily eating into the workforce out there. Marcie believed, as of this morning, Tuesday, June 14, there were seventeen job slots unfilled out at the estate. Even two openings in security, and you were never supposed to run short on security applicants, particularly if you didn’t worry too much about the prior-convictions check.
What it added up to, a girl could find herself feeling sorry for Monroe Hall. Oh, of course, only theoretically. She herself wouldn’t work for the son of a bitch on a bet, the way he rode roughshod over family, friend, employee, and the government alike. She was perfectly happy right where she was at Cooper Placement Service, and even if she weren’t, she’d rather work at the Last Call coal mine over in Golgotha City, where filling out your last will and testament was part of the job application, than work for that—
“Don’tcha have anything else?”
The applicant’s question snapped Marcie out of her woolgathering. She shouldn’t be thinking about the dreadful if pathetic Monroe Hall; she should be thinking about a job for the gentleman across the desk from her in her cubicle, uh… Fred Blanchard, most recently a private secretary for a foreign diplomat down in Washington, D.C., now returning to her desk the list of current job availabilities she’d shown him.
Time to get down to business. “Well, I’m surprised, Mr. Blanchard,” she said, “you haven’t pursued your job search in the greater Washington area. We have fine people in this part of Pennsylvania, but not many international diplomats.”
“That’s good,” Blanchard told her. He was a cheerful, sharp-featured guy with an easygoing manner. “I’ve had enough of international intrigue for a while,” he told her. “I got family up around here, I thought I’d like a little more laid-back a setting. You’ve gotta have some rich people around here, need a private secretary, somebody to field the phone calls and the correspondence, deal with the press, take care of the archives.”
“Well, yes, but someone just at the moment in need—”
He watched her, bright-eyed as a bird. “You thought of something?”
She leaned closer to him. As neutrally as she possibly could, she spoke the name: “Monroe Hall.”
He didn’t even blink. Still smiling, he said, “Is that the kind of guy I’m talking about?”
“Oh, yes, he is,” she said, but then doubt scudded like a cloud across her features. “Have you never heard of him? Monroe Hall?”
He thought, his smile turning quizzical, “Should I?”
“His name was in the paper for a while.”
“Oh, the paper.” Blanchard brushed the fourth estate to one side. “At the embassy,” he said, “we only watched International CNN.”
“Would you—would you like me to set up an appointment?”
“Why not?” he said.
•
Talk about lightning strikes twice. Hardly was Marcie back from lunch, not two hours after sending Fred Blanchard up to talk to Monroe Hall—and how would that work out and did she hope he’d get the job or refuse it? — here came another one. His name was Warren Gillette, and the first thing she noticed about him was that he used to be the chauffeur for Jer Crumbie, who just happened to be one of Marcie’s most favorite movie stars. “My goodness,” she said, “You know Jer Crumbie?”
“Mostly in the rearview mirror,” he said, “Nice fella, though. Not one of your uppity types.”
She was very glad to hear that. “I see he gives you a wonderful recommendation.”
“Yeah, I know.” Gillette chuckled. “It couldn’t of been better if I wrote it myself.”
“But why did you leave?”
“I didn’t,” Gillette said, and shrugged. “He left me. Gave up his New York place and went back to the Coast. For his career, you know.”
“Oh, I see.” She opened the lower right drawer of her desk and pulled a folder from it. “We have a number of driver-type openings. Not movie stars, though.”
Another chuckle. “I guess I’ve had enough movie stars for a while.”