Man in the Middle (6 page)

Dawson’s attention refocused as a female voice informed him, “The report from the Director’s office yielded only dead-ends. I’m sorry, Oliver. The documents had no fingerprints. We may never know the source of this information on Jackson Securities or Mr. Drucker.”

“Whatever happened to those FBI lab geeks being able to walk on friggin’ water?” Dawson immediately regretted the outburst. “I’m not mad at you, Angela. Just frustrated.”

After she disconnected, Dawson slammed the phone down. This was a kettle of month-old fish-stink. His two biggest leads, and now both obliterated. He wanted to believe neither the FBI lab nor the Security and Exchange Commission’s Enforcement Division had leaks, but he knew one or both did. And he had been so close to squeezing Cannodine and Drucker.

“Some squeeze I managed,” Dawson mumbled to himself. “I’m worse off now than when I started. Now the bastards know who I am and that I care.” They’d be watching, whoever
they
were.

With his leads down the toilet, he doggedly began to pack his bags for the trip back to Washington, D.C.

“Not giving up,” he told himself, “just waiting for another break.”

 
I
T WAS A DISHEARTENING FEW WEEKS OF UNEMPLOYMENT
. At least twice, and as many as four times a day, Peter called, interviewed, and generally impressed those he met, only to get dinged when they contacted his former boss for a recommendation.

On several occasions, he tried pretending he’d been unemployed for the last couple of years, but that didn’t fly too well either. Being a bum did-n’t exactly inspire prospective employers. One interview began to sound like the next, and Peter often forgot what dead-end job he was pursuing from one hour to the next. He even dipped into the marginal job market— those paying near minimum wage. Most of those employers wanted to know why a university educated man, who graduated near the top of his class, felt hell-bent on getting a shitty low-paying job working next to high school dropouts. They suggested he might quit the minute he found something more lucrative, as if moving up the job ladder were an option. Quitting his old job before having a new one had proved another of his less than brilliant strategies. At least he had the excuse of stress at his mother’s death and a sudden compulsion to move his life in a direction she would have approved. Still, not a smart move.

Compounding this desperation, he needed to decide between rent payments and car payments. He elected to pay on the car—he could sleep in the back seat, but he couldn’t drive his apartment to an interview. Since the landlord had no empathy for Peter’s plight, he’d let it be known that after eight more days of unpaid rent, he’d evict both tenant and cat. And things got worse. Peter had just one more week to find enough money to service his mother’s mortgage commitment or risk foreclosure. Recalling a bit of high school French, he summed up these sentiments with a rueful chuckle: “
Sur moi le déluge.
”

In his bathroom, prepping for yet another day of defeat, Peter stared at the mirror and spoke to his reflection: “Hello. My name is Neil. I want to work for you. I will do anything. What? The job pays a buck-fifty an hour? No problem, so long as there is ample opportunity for advancement.”

Pulling his tie knot to his throat, he wondered if it was strong enough to make an adequate noose. Next, Peter imagined his slim wallet saying:
feed me
. “Sarcasm’s a good thing,” he said. “Shows I’m resilient through thick and thin.” Once he finally finished dressing, he approved. He was jobless but looked prosperous. As he exited the bathroom, the phone rang, piercing the dull air. Peter veered towards the extension on the bedside table, but considered not answering. Why bother? The string of bad news was endless. Would this be any different?

He stood along the west-facing wall and window and listened to the swoosh of speeding cars. At night, he pretended this never-ending traffic was rolling surf. He wished, however, the waves didn’t honk every few seconds. Flipping a mental coin on the fifth ring, he elected to pick up. When Jason Ayers said, “Hello,” Peter immediately wanted to reconsider his decision.

“I spoke with Jerome Smitham,” Ayers began. “He told me you were interested in finding your own job. Any success?”

Peter stared at a dark smudge on the wall. “It’s an avalanche of opportunity,” he said. “There’s this assistant manager’s job at a Jack in the Box restaurant. I’d make six bucks an hour and report to a nineteen-year-old. I’m considering it. Paper delivery routes are available. Also frozen banana dipper at the amusement park. Lots of things. I’m sorting out the opportunities.”

“At least you’ve kept a sense of humor.”

“Gallows humor. I’m looking at an eviction notice. With rents having escalated, my landlord is dying to get me out of here.”

“Sounds bleak.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Jerome says you’re behind on Hannah’s mortgage payments. How about letting me handle those?”

“No thanks, Mr. Ayers. You’ve done enough. Mr. Smitham told me you paid my tuition when Mom ran short of money.”

“Jerome’s got a big mouth.”

“Anyway, thanks.”

“That was the only money Hannah ever took from me, and she only did so because . . .” The voice faded to nothing.

“I’m glad he told me,” Peter said. “I owe you for a lot of things.”

Ayers paused to clear his throat. When he began again, he sounded tentative. “It was nothing. Under the circumstances, why don’t you reconsider the position with Stenman Partners?”

“I appreciate the offer, but I don’t want a make-work job. It’s too much like a handout, and that’s something I can’t take.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Peter. Morgan Stenman makes everyone earn his keep a hundred times over. If you don’t cut it, you’re
ipso facto
out. Just come by my office for a chat.”

“I don’t know, Mr. Ayers.”

“Hannah took
this
job and did outstanding work. She became, far and away, the best paralegal we had. That didn’t amount to charity.”

“She had to take that job—”

“Flipping burgers sounds good to you?” Ayers asked.

“No.”

“Just a talk. I’ve got some free time around noon.”

Peter agreed. “I’ll see you in three hours. I appreciate the concern.”

As Peter prepared to cancel the day’s other interviews, Henry hopped onto his lap. “Whatta you think, old man?” he said, stroking behind the cat’s ear. “Take the job for a month or two until we get back on our feet?”

Henry’s throat vibrated in a contented hum.

Peter approached the elevator with four other people—three men in their mid-thirties or early forties, and an elderly woman. He wondered if they could hear his heart racing or see the small ballooning of his pulse against the soft part of his neck, near where the tongue attaches to the back of the throat. He attempted to will himself into a state of calm, but had mixed success.

The three men elbowed ahead, imitating pigs at slop time. One after the other punched a button for a floor, glowering at one another as if the order of floor input might affect arrival time. The numbers three, five, and six lit up. Peter allowed the woman in ahead of him while holding the door, making certain it did not retract while she entered. She glanced sideways, but gave no other sign of acknowledgement.

The woman tapped seven, the top floor, which was also Peter’s destination. Peter moved to the back of the box and leaned into a corner. At least sixty years old, the woman had a serious face, smooth for her age, and she smelled like musty geraniums. After moving to the elevator’s rear, she leaned on an aluminum cane with rubber-tipped tripod legs. Her indifference hung heavily in the tiny space.

When the first man—a fat guy with heart attack scrolling across his face—got off on three, they all rearranged themselves to maximize their territory. Next, a slender man with an eye tic stepped forward. On the fifth floor, he rushed off, turned left, then spun and reversed his course. On six, the last man, thick-limbed with a swollen and discolored eye, bounced on his toes while waiting for the door to open. He wore torn jeans and shitkicker snakeskin boots. His clothes held the stink of twenty-five cent cigar, and his forearms bore a biker tattoo—it looked like a red, black, and white Harley-Davidson banner. Expensive silver and turquoise jewelry circled his forearms. Exiting, he bounded to the first door. Peter read the logo:
Harkness and Jameson: Specialists in Criminal Law
. Without knocking, the man barged in. As the elevator doors closed, Peter wondered what crime the tattooed man had committed. His demeanor suggested something monumental.

The elevator churned its way to the final floor. Five minutes before noon, Peter exited, trailing the suddenly unfrail woman. She carried herself with agility and speed down the hallway. Leaning on her cane as she stepped, she made it to the door with the Leeman, Johnston, and Ayers: Attorneys at Law nameplate several yards ahead of him.

As the office door shut in Peter’s face, he stared at the grain of the wood and thought about the importance of the next hour of his life. He had rejected this job twice. Now? Now he wanted the position enough for his knees to knock. And wanting it so much made Ayers’ possible change of mind a potential back-breaker for Peter. And broken backs, he understood, were hard to fix.

Feeling foolish as he stood like a flagpole in the hallway, Peter took a deep breath and grabbed the polished brass doorknob. He pushed, stepped in, and peered across the open space. The office held the quiet air of a university library—Peter could almost feel the moon-brains working behind these desks, billing clients at the rate of a couple hundred bucks an hour, every mind filled with millions of legal facts and precedents. He felt like a thrice-failed second-grader by comparison.

In a far corner office, where his mother had once worked, sat a bookish clerk with an eager-beaver face. A pang struck across Peter’s chest, causing the air to thicken as if he were in a freshly watered sauna. In an effort to seal his grief, he swallowed, then redirected his attention. An African-American woman in blue business attire and stylish wire-frames sat behind a formal-looking reception desk. Handsome, in her fifties, she had gray hair and wore a phone headset, thus freeing her hands for other chores. Her nameplate read:
Elaine Robinson
.

Observing his approach and making eye contact, the receptionist nodded and held up a forefinger, signaling she would be right with him once she finished her phone call. After taking a message and hanging up, she said, “Mr. Neil, Mr. Ayers will be a few moments. I am sorry about your mother. I was a dear friend, and we all loved Hannah. Especially me, she was my . . .”

Elaine Robinson couldn’t finish. Peter nodded his understanding, thanked her, and stepped to the coffee table and sofa set up for visitors to cool their heels. He skimmed the
Wall Street Journal
headlines and was reading about a coordinated attack on a third-world central bank when a voice hailed and distracted him from across the room.

“Peter Neil?” A mid-twenties woman whisked over to him. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard you were coming to the office.” She had a husky voice that easily carried the twenty-five feet.