Termination Man: a novel (49 page)

And yet—that wasn’t the entire story. That cold pronouncement might have been perfectly valid if it had been uttered about Kurt, or someone like me. We were both hard-driving, hard-shelled individualists who would vote with our feet if treated unfairly. But Lucy had been a weak, damaged person. Fundamentally good—but fatally flawed. Having worked at UP&S for so many years, she had allowed herself to think of UP&S as her
family
. And then TP Automotive had destroyed her comfort zone, her family, by installing Shawn Myers as a senior manager. Shawn Myers—who tried to force himself on girls half his age. Shawn Myers, who might very well be guilty of rape and murder. But Shawn was protected by family connections of a different sort.

“Craig,” he said. “Is there anything else that you and I need to discuss? This would be a good chance to clear the air—if anything is bothering you.”

What are you getting at, you wily old bastard
, I thought.
Is this about Lucy?
Or is this about Shawn?

“It’s just that I’m still upset about Lucy,” I said. “This is the first time that something like that has ever happened to someone I know.”

“I understand,” Kurt said. “Most unfortunate. Tragic, as Beth called it. And the most tragic thing of all is that Lucy Browning never even had to lose her job, let alone her life. She could still be very much alive and working here at UP&S. All she had to do was adapt, and play ball with the company’s new managers. Some people can adapt to circumstances, Craig, and some people can’t. I’d dare say that there’s a lesson here, wouldn’t you?”

The young woman on the stage at the front of the room threw her head back in an approximation of orgasmic ecstasy. She paused a few seconds, then threw her head forward,
her
long blond hair whipping wildly through the air
. She
executed
an exaggerated
pirouette in front of the catcalling and whistling audience. Finally she grabbed the pole behind her and began to spin her body around it.

As a dance routine, it left much to be desired. But the young woman’s audience was forgiving
in that regard
. She was clad in nothing but a pair of high-heeled shoes, after all—if you didn't count the liberal application of gold skin glitter as clothing.

Upon completing her little spin around the pole, she stepped to the foremost area of the stage and began to shake her hips to the rhythm of the rock ballad that blared from the overhead speakers. This shook the rest of her body as well; her long blond her flew back and forth like a flaxen tassel.

“Isn’t this great?” a very intoxicated Shawn Myers asked Nick King. He practically had to yell in order to be heard above the sudden roar of the spectators as the dancer did the splits onstage.

“Absolutely,” Nick replied, raising his beer. The beer was only his second of the night. Nick had lost count of Shawn’s drinks. He imagined that Shawn had lost count, too.

The Peach Factory was one of the more popular strip clubs in Columbus, and one of a national chain with locations throughout North America. The Peach Factory billed itself as the strip bar of choice for college coeds who preferred this line of part-time work to serving coffees in Starbucks or sandwiches at Subway. Every Peach Factory was adorned with local college memorabilia to accentuate this image. Nick knew this because he had been to Peach Factory bars in Florida, Tennessee, and Kentucky. With Ohio State being such a prominent institution in Columbus, there was only one real choice for this particular location to exploit: Ohio State Buckeyes pennants dominated every wall. 

“Freakin’ hot,” Shawn declared, watching the now spread-eagled stripper engage in a series of movements that approximated a self-administered gynecological exam.

“They claim to be college girls,” Nick said. “Most of them are actually just strung out junkies, or girls on their way to becoming junkies.”

Nick knew that this was not necessarily true; but he was in the mood to challenge the hype of any large corporation. He was also in the mood to contradict Shawn Myers—whose idea it had been to come here tonight. Nick was still smarting from what Shawn’s father and the other TP Automotive management pricks had done to him. They had taken his legitimate job on the loading dock; and his business in black-market industrial supplies was gone now as well. There was also the fact that he hadn’t yet secured another means of employment, nor did he have any immediate prospects.

But Nick’s personal problems were a thousand miles away from his companion’s thoughts.

“I know college girls,” Shawn said. “As a matter of fact, I’ve had quite a few college girls in my time.”

“Is that a fact?” Nick asked neutrally. He figured that Shawn Myers was mostly full of hot air. A blowhard who was living in his father’s shadow. But that didn’t change the fact that he was rich and well-connected. And rich and well-connected people could be used. Once you discovered their vulnerabilities—once you got your hooks into them—the rich and the well-connected could be manipulated far more easily than the average schmuck who worked an hourly job in a factory.

This was because the rich and the well-connected had too much to lose, and they cared about aspects of their lives that were beyond the concern of the lower middle-class and the working poor. The upper crust cared about their reputations, their appearances. These were usually the most effective screws to turn when you wanted to make one of them squeal.

And sooner or later, Nick knew that he would find a way to make Shawn Myers squeal. For some reason, Shawn had taken a liking to him, decided that the two of them were buddies. While Nick was still working at UP&S, the younger Myers had made a habit of stopping by the loading dock, for the purpose of exchanging what he evidently thought were tough-guy credentials. Shawn would mostly brag about the babes he had supposedly banged. Nick and Michael would nod while Shawn was there—they knew he was a big shot in the company—and then laugh as soon as he had walked away. Apparently Shawn had been taken in by the routine: He had contacted Nick shortly after the firing, and asked if he would like to hit the local strip circuit. Perplexed, but sensing an opportunity in the making, Nick had accepted. 

Nick didn’t much care for Shawn on his own merits—there was something about Shawn that was craven and beneath respect. “Creepy,” as a chick might say. And Nick had known plenty of creepy characters over the years. Shawn definitely fit into that category.

Still, it wasn’t everyday that you went out for drinks and babe-watching with the son of the man who fired you. Nick had already determined that the son was more vulnerable than the father. If he was careful and observant, he would find a use for Shawn Myers yet.

“As a matter of fact,” Shawn said. “I’ve even had a little fun with that tall blonde at the factory. I know you’ve noticed her. Her name’s Claire.”

Of course Nick had noticed her. In the weeks prior to his unceremonious ouster from UP&S, the entire male population of the plant had been talking about her, even though she worked in the front office.  Manufacturing facilities attracted a fair number of women who were moderately hot. “Blue collar princesses” Nick often called them. But supermodel types were rare in such environments; and this Claire was definitely supermodel material.

“You’re kidding me,” Nick said. “You really banged that tall broad—Claire Michaels? No shit?”

Shawn nodded. “She was all over me,” he said. “Didn’t take much. One of the best I’ve ever had. And I’ve had my share.”

Nick wondered if Shawn’s claims were true. Had he really nailed that tall blonde with the incredible legs and the haughty expression? Nick had smiled at her once in the parking lot and she had given him an icy, forbidding expression before immediately looking away. A stuck-up bitch like that would never mess with a guy who actually worked for a living—a guy who got his hands dirty.

Nick grudgingly admitted to himself that Shawn’s story might be true—or at least partially true. The corporate types were bedding each other all the time, weren’t they? That was how they sealed their secretive deals and traded power.

Still, Nick felt the impulse to needle Shawn, to detract from his triumph.

“Claire’s not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all. But you can’t call her a college girl. She looks like she’s pushing thirty. Thirty-five, maybe.”

“I’ve had college girls,” Shawn said, more than a little defensively. “You know, I went to Ohio State, right here in Columbus. And while I was there, I had more than my share of college girls.”

“Yeah,” Nick said, seizing on another chance to push Shawn’s buttons. “But those girls would be as old as you are now.”

“But they weren’t then!” Shawn said, with the passionate insistence of the very intoxicated. “Let me tell you, there was this one little number named Tina. Real cute little thing. Wild one, too. She gave me a lot of trouble, though.”

“Trouble?” Nick prodded. Trouble was good. A man who had troubles was exploitable.

“Aw. I don’t want to talk about it.” Shawn downed the last of his current adult beverage—a Vesper Martini with gin and vodka. He raised his hand to summon a waitress for another.

But the next drink came, and it didn’t take Nick long to cajole Shawn into talking about it. Shawn told him all about the coed named Tina Shields—how she had resisted him at first, and the steps that Shawn had ultimately taken to bring about her “surrender.”

“You probably think I’m a real bastard,” Shawn said, after the tale was told.

“Not at all,” Nick said. “Not at all. Sometimes a woman needs a little help with saying yes. You ask me—you put that bitch in her place. And it sounds like you were smart enough to cover your tracks.”

“Well,” Shawn allowed. “My dad helped with that part. My dad and Bernie Chapman.”

The mention of the corporate lawyer’s name provoked in Nick a flash of raw anger. The arrogant lawyer with the ridiculous beard and the weak chin had spoken of prosecuting him, then he had bullied him into signing a paper that more or less tied his hands. So Chapman had also worked his magic for his boss’s son all those years ago. It seemed to Nick that his worst suspicions about the suits in the front office were confirmed. They were all one big cozy family. Nick wondered:
Had that bitch Beth Fisk also been involved in covering up the crimes of Shawn’s college years?

Nick had no intention of revealing any of these thoughts to Shawn, of course. He wanted to keep Mr. Silver Spoon off his guard. Myers had already had enough drinks to make most men falling down drunk.

Keep him talking
, Nick thought. The closet that contained one skeleton usually contained several. Shawn’s story about raping and beating a coed in an alleyway fifteen years ago suggested a character with many shadows, many dark corners.

What else have you got hidden in there, Shawn?

“Your father and the legal eagle did what had to be done,” Nick said. “A man’s got to be smart enough to clean up his messes, even if he needs some help with the tricky parts.”

“I don’t always need my dad’s help,” Shawn said. “If that’s what you’re thinking. I did something bad once—something
really
bad. Nobody ever found out about it, though.”

Nick could feel his spirits brightening. Shawn had just confessed to rape and aggravated assault. Setting that as the benchmark, what would something “really bad” be? Nick believed that he had an idea. There was only one step downward from rape and aggravated assault.

And there was only one way to find out.

“What did you, do, kill somebody?” Nick asked, affecting the most casual tone that he could muster.

“Ah, man, you got me,” Shawn said.

It was difficult for Nick to tell if Shawn’s reaction to his accurate guess was embarrassment, pride—or relief. Nick had learned in prison that some men feel compelled to talk about their crimes, especially the ones for which they were never prosecuted. They seem to believe in the power of confession, as if any random cellmate or drinking buddy could provide the absolution of a priest. Nick knew better: he always kept his own counsel. 

“Are you sure you want to hear this? And can I trust you?” Shawn asked.

“Shawn, buddy, you know you can trust me. And yeah, I wanna hear this. Spit it out already.”

What proceeded next, beneath the blare of the strip bar’s speakers and the ubiquitous din of the patrons’ conversations, was a tale that exceeded even the one Shawn had told him a few minutes ago. It was a story about two uppity coeds—
stuck-up bitches
, Shawn called them—who had humiliated him in an off-campus bar one night fifteen years ago. And those two bitches had paid, by the sound of it. They had paid the ultimate price for their offense.

In Shawn’s eyes, Nick had apparently made that crucial transition from buddy to priest. Once the long-ago rape and the two murders were confessed, Shawn began to open up about his more recent unsavory actions. Something about a teenaged girl and her mother, the cleaning woman at the UP&S factory. Shawn’s attempts to get friendly with the girl had backfired. The legal troubles that resulted from this had nearly been put to bed, when…who should materialize out of nowhere—but Tina Shields, the woman Shawn had raped and beaten in Columbus.

“She was out there in the parking lot one night,” Shawn said. “Talking to that asshole Craig Walker. I was working late that night, and I saw Craig talking to some woman. I knew that it could be nothing but trouble. And she looked kind of familiar, you see. So I had one of the security guards pull the closed circuit video. I knew right then that it was her. But I still had to be sure, so I did an Internet search on Tina Shields. It seems that she’s become a do-gooder in recent years, working with some organization that supposedly helps women who’ve been assaulted. Then I knew what was going on: Somehow, Tina Shields found out about my problems with that little teenaged tease, and she’s trying to make trouble for me.”