Spoils of the Game (3 page)

“So are you having fun, Mr. C?”

“Eddie, I have been so lucky, it scares me to death. I can honestly say that I don’t deserve the business success I have had. Let me give you an example. I own part of another company, called BioCircus, that is trying to train bacteria.”

“Train bacteria? Like the bugs that make you sick?”

“Exactly. There are millions of bacteria types, and some can change all of the time. Some are very dependable and beneficial, like yeast or the bacteria in your gut. Others, such as flesh-eating bacteria, can actually devour you if you give them a chance. What if a flesh-eating bacterium could be modified with a DNA change and some training so that it would only have an appetite for cancer?”

“Wow,” said Eddie, who was genuinely impressed.

“The bottom line is, I took a chance and invested some money in a small company, and the preliminary results say that the technology actually works. The results in mice were excellent, and we should have human trials under way soon. The bad news is that because of red tape and the delays, it might be years before it can have an impact. The list of allowable procedures is run by people who have no idea of what is going on. I have a better chance at being commercially successful by selling the procedure in the Third World. The good news is that we will eventually win, but all of this crap drives our cost up, and then the feds want to know why things cost so much. When we win, however, I will make a bundle, and all I had to do was to invest in a few good people and their project.”

“You’re not a medical guy, are you?” asked Eddie.

“No, I am an engineer. My dad was the doctor. At this point, if I need an MD, I’ll go out and hire one.”

“Do you miss your football days at NC State?”

Austin’s face was taken over by a smile and a laugh. Eddie had changed the topic because he sensed that Austin was getting aggravated.

“My football days were the best time I ever had. As a defensive linebacker, I had a license to beat up people. For a while, I had more quarterback sacks that anyone at NC State, and my record was good for years. After a game I felt so good, and it didn’t matter if we won or lost. Unfortunately, while I was beating up people, they sometimes also beat me up.”

“Did you ever think about going pro?” asked Eddie.

“It is nice to think about, but that position requires someone bigger than me. I was six foot three and two forty, and although that sounds big enough, I was only going to get hurt. My dad also had plans for me, and we discussed it, and as he often did, he talked me out of it. I miss the game, but I am happy doing what I am doing now.”

“I remember your dad,” said Eddie with a fondness in his voice.

“My dad was a great guy. He put up with a lot of crap that I gave him when I was younger. Do you remember when somebody poured gas on the football field of Stevenson High School and spelled out some choice words and then set it on fire?”

“I do remember that. Was that you?”

“I guess now the truth can be told. It was my cousin Jerry and me. My dad was suspicious, and over dinner one night he mentioned that gasoline was a little dangerous and suggested that whoever did it should have used kerosene. After that, nothing was ever said. But he did know about my smashing up two cars and being arrested for underage drinking twice, and then there was the time that my mother caught the Cooper twins and me skinny-dipping in the family pool. I don’t think my mother ever got over that. Dad was a good man. He knew when to give me some slack and when to come down like a hammer.”

It had been a long day. Austin put a ten-dollar bill in the tip jar, grabbed a handful of mixed nuts from a bowl on the bar, and left for home.

Austin and his wife, Susan, had built a beautiful home in an exclusive neighborhood on a lake. With no children in their lives, the house was perhaps too big for just the two of them, but Austin looked at the home as an investment, and it certainly gave them enough room for their respective projects. With Susan’s death two years ago, the home had become a house, and there was emptiness both in his life and in the house.

When Austin arrived home, there was a note on the kitchen counter from his housekeeper. Louise had kept the home clean and organized for his wife, and she continued to do so for Austin, who perhaps needed her more.

Austin,

I clean this house, and I prepare meals, but I don’t do mice. There are traps in your workshop.

Louise

Austin had the money to have exterminators, but for something as simple as a few mice, he would do it himself.

His workshop was on the lower level, next to the office his wife had established to run her projects. The mousetraps were on the workbench as promised, but he had forgotten to get the cheese for bait. As he returned to the kitchen he stopped by his wife’s office and looked through the glass door that had been closed since the day of her death. Nothing had changed. On her desk were phone messages and her favorite pen. One of her jackets was still on her chair. Through the large windows behind her desk was a view of the lake, and beyond the lake were the mountains.

Within seconds there was a lump in his throat and tears in his eyes. She had died of a stroke so suddenly that he still had a difficult time understanding that she was gone. Austin opened the door and entered the office. He slowly looked around at the pictures on the wall and on her desk. She had been so alive and so very much in the lives of everyone she knew.

There was a to-do list with words written in her own hand. Austin first studied the words for the details in the script, knowing that the woman he truly loved had formed every curve. He then studied each task that her organized mind had put on paper. Susan Clay was perhaps the most organized person Austin had ever known. Her positive attitude had disarmed many who would stand in her way, and her love for art gave her a special purpose. On the right side of her desk were two files that had been special projects. Over the years Susan had met many in the art world. She was on a first-name basis with key players in New York, at the Prado in Madrid, and at her favorite place, the Louvre in Paris. The two files defined projects for the Louvre that she had been perhaps only weeks from bringing to reality.

Seated at her desk, Austin opened the first file cautiously. He was not concerned about the contents of the file, but with the contents of his heart. The heading on the file said “Pierre, the Museum Mouse.” Susan felt strongly that there was so much art to be appreciated by children that they were not getting in school, and anything she could do to make children aware of it was a worthwhile project. Austin slowly turned the pages in the file. There were preliminary drawings of Pierre and his adventures in the museum, with each story teaching an important lesson on art history. There were plans for a Pierre doll with a matching beret and smock, and plans for a Pierre drawing set. All of the details were covered. Susan had defined each product, the number of books in a series, and the size and manufacturing cost for the Pierre dolls, and she even had identified suppliers for the art kits. She had expanded the concept to introduce art at the school level and had meetings planned with two major publishers of reading books for elementary school students. There were many good ideas, and now with her death, Austin had hoped that others would complete her work.

The second file was thicker, with the title “Rescue.” Austin opened the file carefully. The contents were more serious, with no cartoons. Austin and Susan often had talked about her concern that a significant number of European paintings were dying from neglect in old church basements or in small museums that did not have the money to preserve or protect them. The contents of this file were not as well defined as the first. The problem was stated, and the file included notes from meetings she had had all over Europe, but the solutions were still a little vague. The second file also contained a lot of photos that Susan had taken during her travels to Europe and many photos of people she had met at the Louvre. Her smile was so infectious. When she was in a photo, the smiles of others seemed bigger and brighter. Austin studied the photos carefully. Seeing his wife’s pictures brought conflicting emotions of love and sorrow. He recognized some of the other faces. Some he knew well, and some had been passing introductions, and the more he studied the pictures, the more he remembered the particular personalities. There was Andre Vassar, the head of the Louvre, and Claude Badeau, whom Susan never really had trusted. In a few pictures was Madeline Rousseau, a woman that Susan had really liked and respected. Susan always had believed that Rousseau was one of those people behind the curtain who really ran the Louvre. It was interesting to Austin that in the four pictures where Madeline could be seen, her appearance was strikingly different, and he had to work to confirm that it was really her. This attractive woman had a sense of style and fashion so common with French women, and her underlying good looks perhaps gave her a lot to work with.

Austin completed looking through the file and perhaps had the same frustration that his wife had had. He closed the file and carefully put it back in the same location.

At about eight that night, he became hungry and foraged through the kitchen for anything to eat. Austin did not have the time to shop for food or make something from scratch. The standing order with his housekeeper, Louise, was simple: keep the refrigerator full, and throw out the old stuff. The problem Austin had was that he did not know what she had provided, and that often resulted in a refrigerator safari.

Dinner was lasagna, chocolate pudding, and beer, followed by TV and a nap. When he finally got to bed, his head was spinning with thoughts. The questions were simple. What would it take to complete the two projects on Susan’s desk? Austin knew that a little effort and money would do it. Pierre, the Museum Mouse, in the hands of some good publishing types, should be a done deal. The rescue mission for dying art was another question. The file had a lot of good ideas and even some outlines, but it still was missing a lot of information. It appeared to be more of a project management issue than an art project. It was the type of thing that Austin was good at, but he didn’t know the European art world and he didn’t know a thing about fixing art.
How difficult can it be?
he thought to himself.

The issue was not whether he could do it, but rather whether he could get away from Clay Medical. Over the weekend the idea of completing Susan’s projects lingered in his head. On Monday morning Austin called a meeting of some of his key people. No one knew the agenda, and no one could have guessed. There were five people in the room before Austin showed up. Carl Thomson sat to the right of Austin’s chair. Carl had been with the company for almost as long as Austin, and as senior vice president, he knew every detail of the company’s finances and operations. The four other men ran R&D, engineering, operations, and finance.

Austin entered the conference room and greeted the group with a broad smile. “Good morning, gentlemen. I trust you all had a good weekend.” For a few seconds Austin arranged some papers on the table as he toyed with the small audience. It was clear that all of the key players were very curious about what was to be said, and Austin was having fun with them.

“So, gentlemen, what’s new?” asked Austin with a telltale smile on his face.

Everyone in the room knew that Austin had no interest in their words, and each looked around the room for a clue from the others.

“Well, if you gentlemen have nothing to say, then perhaps I do. I am thinking about taking some time off. I am not sure for how long. Perhaps it will be two or three months, perhaps it will be more, and there is a chance that it will be a lot less. I have a few things that I want to do that involve projects started by my wife. You guys know what you are doing, and the place might run better with me gone for a few months. I don’t know my exact plans, but I might leave right after the stockholders’ meeting next month. You guys can keep me up to date with e-mail, and if there is a crisis, I can come home early.”

“So where are you going, boss?” said Carl Thomson, knowing that everyone wanted to know.

“Paris.”

It was about two o’clock when Austin’s meeting broke up. Everyone was a little surprised and everyone knew that things would be fine while the “Big Guy,” as some called him, was away.

In Paris there was another meeting with a different result. Claude Badeau and Madeline Rousseau were in Badeau’s office. Badeau had given Madeline instructions on how to handle some of the other people in his department, and Madeline strongly disagreed.

“Claude, it is not necessary that you treat people like slaves. They are people, and a little respect will do more than your constantly talking down to them. I don’t know one person on your list who would not do whatever is asked of them if you would just stop being an ass.”

Madeline was about five foot four, but more importantly she could be ten feet tall if pushed into a corner.

Badeau said, “Madeline, I have asked you to carry out my policies, which are intended to be the best for the department. It troubles me that you are insubordinate. Perhaps I need to replace you with someone who understands what I am trying to do.”

“No civilized person can understand the mistreatment of personnel. With you, Claude, it’s a stupid power game. You have asked me to take on three separate jobs, and the good news is that I don’t have the time to carry out all of your petty policies. If you want to abuse people, do it yourself. Or if you want to dismiss me, fine. I used to love working here at the Louvre, but Claude, the last two years have been hell, and the last few weeks have been even worse. I will tell you right to your face that I don’t like or respect you, and perhaps a change would be best for both of us. Perhaps you, the managing director of the museum, and I should have a little meeting, and we can talk about the future of Madeline Rousseau at the Louvre.”

Of all of the people that worked for him, Madeline was one of the few that would fight back. In Badeau’s defense, he had been under a lot of pressure, and recent events with Caron had not made things any easier. He had been allowed to operate his department without much supervision, and he did not need anyone bringing attention to the possibility that many in his group were unhappy.