Chapter Four
“Boone, Fitzsimmons, and Parnell,” answered the receptionist before the call reached its second ring.
The company’s name sounded more corporate than it actually was. Boone, Fitzsimmons, and Parnell Ltd. was neither a prestigious law firm, nor a successful advertising agency, though based on the quarterly report Carlton Book had passed to George Parnell, it had spent like one. Boone, Fitzsimmons, and Parnell Ltd. was the company who came into your office (usually before closing) and refilled the vending machines. They also updated orders, recommended the unrefrigerated canned shrimp salad, and returned all coins lost in the machines.
The office of Boone, Fitzsimmons, and Parnell Ltd. was above a warehouse that housed their entire supply lines. Pallets of candies, gum, chips, pastries, assorted munchies and sodas lined the warehouse walls. In the center was a long rolling rack with men and women responsible for a particular item standing on either side. Each person would scan the order that appeared on the monitor at their station, reach behind them to the pallet containing the candy, packaged pastry, or snack and fill the tray with the number of packages or cartons that the order required. Once done, they would electronically sign off on that order and send it down the rack. At the end of the rack, more men and women would print out a sales slip and do a quick inventory to make sure that the product count was correct. Each tray would be loaded onto a van and placed on a wire rack and secured with bungee cords. Cases of soda stacked by brand – based on the orders - would be added last. Once the vans were filled, the deliveries would begin.
Above the warehouse was a large room with lines of cubicles; each section separated by a large dividing wall. They held the Billing Department, Customer Service, and the Accounts Receivable and Payable Departments. Outside of the cubicles and along the walls were the Sales offices. Down the hall from the large room were the offices of David Boone, Gerald Fitzsimmons and George Parnell.
George Parnell stared at the sheet with the foreboding title, Profit and Loss, not really seeing the numbers in front of him. For the fourth time in five minutes, Parnell pinched his nostrils and sniffed. Regardless of how many lines beginning with dollar signs accountant Carlton Book pointed to with the tip of his mechanical pencil, showing that the company was losing money, Parnell’s eyes kept sliding to the closed upper left hand drawer.
“You need to curb your spending, George,” Book cautioned in a soft serious tone.
“Yeah, Carl, I ... “ began Parnell.
“Carlton,” Book corrected.
“... know, but just do’s me a righteous and juggle a few numbers so I can ring up Byers and get some money into the company.”
Book frowned. He knew Phillip Byers and knew he was Parnell’s buddy from college and was a loan officer at the bank. He also knew that Phillip Byers was Parnell’s cocaine connection. A good percentage of the company’s profits was spent paying off their last business loan (at a higher than normal interest rate), which was used to coat the inside of George Parnell’s nose.
“Can’t do it, George,” Book said.
“Sure you can!” said Parnell, his eyes sliding to the closed drawer. “Just email me the new figures by two this ... “
“Can’t do it, George,” Book repeated. His face was calm and his still eyes locked on Parnell’s jittery ones that kept moving to the closed drawer’s handle.
“Don’t bust ‘em, Carl,” Parnell said, his eyes dark slits when he looked up. “Just do it.”
Book sighed. “George,” he said. “I can’t. It’s out of my hands.”
“What do you mean it’s out of your hands?” he asked.
“Any additional business loans must be approved by Dave and Jerry,” Book said.
For the first time since Book sat across from Parnell, the man actually looked at him.
“I don’t need Dave and Jerry’s approval,” he said in a petulant tone.
“Yes,” Book replied. “You do.”
“Since when?” Parnell barked, slamming a fist on the desk.
Book did not jump or seem unperturbed by Parnell’s sudden outburst.
“Since I went over the numbers with them and they realized that you have a cocaine problem,” explained Book.
“I do not have a ... !”
“Sure you do, George,” said Book. “You were hoping that I would simply fudge the numbers, you’d get your money, and buy your drugs. I’d be in and out, just like that,” he said, snapping his fingers. “That’s why you have a few lines set up on a mirror in the top left hand drawer. Because you thought that this would be easy.”
“ ... I ... “ Parnell said, the color draining from his face.
“Everyone knows about the mirror in your drawer, George,” Book said with disappointment filling his voice. “Everyone knows you’re using.”
“ ... I ... “ Parnell repeated.
“And Dave and Jerry also know that Phillip Byers is your connection,” added Book.
Parnell’s jaw dropped an inch and the color drained from his face.
“How would they know that?” he whispered.
Book stared at Parnell for a moment and then began to pack up his laptop. He stood from his chair and zippered the front of the worn leather bag, gathered a small bound report and placing it in the bag’s front pocket.
“How would they know that, Carl?” Parnell asked again.
Zippering the front pocket, Book stood and looked at George Parnell. “I told them,” he said.
Parnell’s eyes bulged and he came around the desk, his hand turning into a fist and coming up from his side. Book, one hand holding his bag, used the other hand to shift the chair’s angle in Parnell’s direction. Parnell’s knee struck the edge, sending his already wobbly leg into its mate. He tipped forward but was caught by Book before he hit the floor. Book held his upper arm and stared into the man’s face. His expression was still and impassive, like this was as normal as going over the quarterly budget.
“You have a problem, George,” Book said. “And your problem is driving this company into the ground.”
The rage in Parnell’s face drained and was replaced by a shocked expression. Book helped Parnell to his feet. Parnell pulled his arm away weakly and glared at Book.
“Dave and Jerry know,” Book continued. “They’ve known for a while. They’ve excused it as a cost of doing business. That everyone has their excesses. But they care. I care.”
Parnell retreated back behind the desk and stared at the accountant, his fingers laced in front of him in a tight knot. His gaze was locked on Book, almost as if he was trying not to look at the drawer on his left.
Book stood in front of the desk, one arm at his side, the other with the bag hanging from it. His expression and posture were relaxed, as if the words and actions of the last few minutes did not account for much. He reached into his sport jacket pocket and withdrew a business card and held it out to Parnell.
“This man will help you,” Book said. “He’s helped others with addiction. But you have to help yourself, George.” Book gave him a sad smile. “That sounded like a line from a bad TV movie.” He placed the card on the desk.
Parnell’s face jerked slightly as his lips pulled back into a smile. He took the card from Book’s hand and looked at it. He looked up and chuckled as he leaned back in his chair. His eyes fell to the drawer. He looked down at his arm and saw his hand had lifted towards the drawer’s silver handle. George Parnell’s eyes filled with tears.
“I didn’t mean for it to go this far,” he muttered. He looked up, pain filling his eyes. “I mean, this was my father’s company!”
“I know, George,” Book said. He smiled slightly. “I’ve been Boone, Fitzsimmons, and Parnell’s bookkeeper since your fathers ran the company.” His smile tightened. “That’s why your father hired me; to make sure the company was profitable for the kids.”
Steady tears ran from Parnell’s eyes. He plucked several tissues from a dispenser on the edge of his desk and wiped his face. He let the ball of tissue fall from his hand and he lifted the card off the desk.
“I’ll call him, Carl,” Parnell said softly, his eyes staring at the card. “I have to.”
“Carlton,” Book corrected again. “And yes, George, you do.” His right eye twitched slightly. He reached into his pocket and removed his BlackBerry. He glanced at the screen and pocketed the instrument. He looked back at Parnell. “I gotta go.”
Parnell lifted himself from his chair. “I’ll call him. Promise.”
“Good.”
“I’ll also call Byers and ... “
“Don’t bother,” Book said. “He was arrested this morning.”
Parnell’s face paled.
“You’re not implicated in any way,” Book said. “Take care of yourself, George.”
“I will,” Parnell said. “And, uh, thank you?”
Book nodded, opened the door and walked out, closing it behind him.
Parnell reached for the drawer.
* * *
“Boone, Fitzsimmons, and Parnell,” said the receptionist. “Sure! Let me connect you.” She tapped a button on the console and sent the caller to their requested destination. Lena Truman kept her eyes on the console, making sure the call was picked up, then returned to her other duties; folding invoices and stuffing them in envelopes.
On the left side of her desk was a small stack of invoices ready to be mailed. On her left was a metal tray filled with envelopes ready for postage. In the middle was a stack of empty envelopes. She took a small stack of invoices, tri-folded them on the paper’s dotted hash marks, and, in an assembly line manner, quick-stuffed the pre-folded papers into envelopes and deposited the mail into the waiting tray.
Lena Truman was forty years old and very comfortable with her life. She knew that a receptionist position would not take her far in the business world. Lena was content sending callers here and there around the office, answering customer’s questions and doing odd jobs, like picking up supplies, stuffing envelopes and preparing invoices to be mailed. And because she was in a zero stress environment, her attitude was always friendly, always helpful; always sincere.
“You are suited for better things, you know,” Book said as he walked through the receptionist area.
Lena turned around in her chair, a smile on her face. “Such as?” she asked.
“Anything that will display your talents,” Book said.
Lena giggled. “I’m not an artist, Carlton!” she said.
Book smiled. “You are in your way,” he said. “You are just so ...human when you answer the phone.”
“’Human’?” she asked smiling. The line on the console blinked and she held up her hand. “Boone, Fitzsimmons, and Parnell Ltd.?” She smiled. “You would need to speak to Customer Service on that, sir. Would you like me to transfer you? Very good, sir. Do you have your account number ready? Then let me transfer you. You have a good morning.” She looked back at Book. “’Human’?” she repeated.
Book smiled. “That’s exactly what I mean!” he said. “People are used to hearing an automated voice ...“ Book cleared his throat and said in a robotic tone, “Please press one for Customer Service, two for Accounts Payable, three for Accounts Receivable, four for Sales ... “ He returned to his normal tone. “Or this dull irritated voice that sounds like you’re interrupting them from something. You, Love, do the same thing every single day. For years you’ve been doing this! And yet you still sound as fresh as you did on your first day.”
Lena smiled. “You’re just thinking that by now I should be bored and cynical and answer the phone like, ‘Boone, Fitzsimmons, and Parnell Ltd. ‘, right?”
His smiled widened when she said the name of the company in a flat monotone. “Yeah,” he said, running his fingers through his thick light brown hair. “Something like that.”
“Well, I am so sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Book,” she said. “I happen to like my job and maybe the fact that I do comes out in my voice.”
“I’m just saying that you should be doing something else,” Book said. “Like maybe Customer Service? Supervisor?” he added.
Lena gave him a questioning look. “Supervisor?”
“Many companies would benefit from your expertise, Lena,” Book replied.
Lena blushed and smiled warmly at the accountant. “I like being the receptionist,” she said with a tone of finality. She blew a stray lock of her reddish brown hair from her eyes and reached behind her neck to adjust her ponytail.
“I give up!” Book said, holding up his hands. “You win!”
“Didn’t know we were playing for anything,” she grinned.
“Dinner tomorrow?” Book asked.
She frowned and tried to keep the smile from spreading on her lips. “Carlton Book! You know fraternization between employees is not allowed!”
“Ah, you speak of my advantage!” Book said, holding up a finger. “I am – as you already know - your company’s freelance bookkeeper. I do not, technically, work for you full time, and my home is my office, so, even on a part-time employee level, I do not, technically, work here! So if there is any fraternization, it would not go against company policy.”
Lena began to giggle. “You’re not going to look me in the eye and tell me you just thought of that ... loophole?”
Book smiled and shook his head. “That was years in the making,” he said. “I was actually worried when I asked you to go out to dinner with me the first time ... “
“Almost three years ago,” she said with a tone of pride.
Book grinned. “Almost three years ago,” he repeated softly. “Anyway, I was worried you were going to cite the fraternizing rule and I came up with that. I’m glad you didn’t.”
“You’re cute when you’re logical,” she grinned. “Actually, I’m going out with Shirley to the movies tomorrow night. How’s Thursday?”
Book grinned. “Thursday’s a date then!” His eyes glanced at the clock on the wall. “Gotta go.”
“And I have work to do,” she said. “Unlike some people who work part-time.”
“Boone, Fitzsimmons, and Parnell Ltd. isn’t my only client, you know,” said Book as he picked up his leather bag.
“Crunching numbers tonight?” she asked.
“A little,” he said. “Got to finish early though. Part three of ‘I, Claudius’ is coming on.”
Lena stopped folding to look at him. “You know, there are more current things on television to watch?” she said.
“I checked,” Book grinned. “Nothing’s on.”
“Didn’t you say you were going to DVR it?” she asked.
“Oh, yeah,” grinned Book. “I’m recording every episode.”
One eyebrow dipped while the other rose. “Then you can watch something more ... current?”
Book smiled and shot her a wink. “Like I said, nothing’s on.”
She looked at him and shook her head. “Go crunch,” she said as her hands went back to stuffing envelopes.
“Go stuff,” he grinned mischievously.
Lena made an indignant ‘Oh!’ face, picked up a pencil and threw it at Book’s head. He caught it in mid-air and placed it on her desk.
“See you!” he said as he walked down the stairs to the street.
Book walked three blocks and stopped at a payphone. He pulled out his BlackBerry and glanced at the small screen. He put it in his pocket and pulled out a small handful of change. He tapped a few numbers and waited. His eyes glanced around at the passing pedestrians, on their way to somewhere.
“Hi, Ellen!” Book said into the phone. “Yes, the surprise party is all set on my end. I’ll be picking up Leo at the time I promised. Yes. Did you send the balloons? Good. I’ll call you when I get Leo. Bye.”
Book hung up and walked a few feet to a hot dog vendor. He got one with mustard and walked to the train station. Book shivered slightly when the drop of rain hit the top of his head. He looked up at the rapidly darkening sky.
Carlton Book smiled.
* * *
Hanna McGee’s was a pub of a different kind.
Named after his sainted mother ‘who raised this wee tatterdemalion alone and without being on the dole’, Sean McGee honored the dear departed woman in three ways: first, by naming the pub after her; second, through the old fashioned design of the establishment, where shining brass fixtures accented the dark oak paneling, the ten-foot bar, the wide-backed chairs, tables, and hardwood floor. It all served as a reminder of the pubs she went to when she was a ‘wee lass’ in Ireland. And the third was movies.
Hanna McGee loved movies. When he lived at home, he could remember the nights they huddled on the couch in front of the television, watching an old movie (or any movie for that matter). From the moment the film began to the end credits, they would speak to each other in mutters. Comments like ‘He’s really good in this’, ‘What is this bollocks?’, ‘Look out! There’s someone in the next room with gun ’,‘ Piss-poor special effects, if ya ask me’ would pepper the soundtrack of every film.
Taking up the rear wall was a 65 inch plasma screen and a multi-disc, multi-regional DVD player. Presently playing on the big screen was the 1944 Frank Capra comedy, ‘Arsenic and Old Lace’. There was a small crowd of customers sitting at the tables and bar, fully engrossed in the film. There was a roped section to the far left of the screen that allowed smoking. In that corner was a large wooden plaque with an inscription decoratively carved in its surface:
There’s nothing more enjoyable than watching a good film with a drink in one hand and a stogie in the other – Sean McGee
When Cary Grant stabbed his ‘brother’ Raymond Massey in the leg with a dinner fork, the front door opened and the sound of the storm raging outside overlapped the soundtrack. McGee turned and grinned when he saw the bright yellow rain slicker dash for cover in the bar.
“Mr. Book!” cried McGee crossing his thin muscular arms across his narrow chest. “Are ye daft, man? It’s rainin’ like the end of Creation out there!”
Book flipped back his peaked hood and shook out his light brown hair. He smiled at the man behind the bar.
“But I always come in for a beer,” he said.
“And ye’ve been doin’ so for goin’ on three years, Mr. Book,” agreed McGee. “And you know you are always welcome, come rain an’ shine, but ... ‘ McGee pointed to the front window. The shower hitting the pane of glass made visibility impossible. “And pardon me for sayin’ so, but you’d have to be a daft bastard to come out on a night like this!”
Book slid onto a stool. “I’m a creature of habit, Sean,” he said, his smile gentle on his face.
“Aye, Mr. Book,” said McGee, nodding his head and pulling out a longneck Bud from under the bar. He placed it on a coaster next to an empty glass. “But don’cha think ye takin’ it a wee too far?”
“C’mon, Sean! Why don’t you call me by my first name?” asked Book, taking a sip from the bottle. “We’ve known each other long enough to go on a first name basis. I mean, how hard is ‘Carlton’?”
“As he deftly changes the subject,” replied McGee, his smile spreading his thick red mustache wider.
Book took a good sized swallow of the beer. He lifted a napkin from its holder and wiped his lips.
“I just like things a certain way,” he said. “I like to know that there are things I can count on.” He smiled. “Like coming in to a place as comfortable as my home, have a good talk with a friendly face, and maybe watch a good movie.”
McGee stared at Book for a beat, his head titling to one side, as if he was looking into the man. “Ye sure ye not Irish, Mr. Book?” asked McGee, ‘Cause that’s pure blarney I’m hearin’!”.
“French Canadian,” he answered.
“Humph,” McGee grunted. He broke into a smile and threw up his hands. “Guess it’s my charmin’ demeanor that’s rubbin’ off.”
Book grinned. “I guess so.” He rolled up the damp sleeve of his slicker and glanced at his watch. He lifted the bottle to his lips and drained it. “Gotta go!” he said. “See you tomorrow, Sean!”
McGee’s eyes widened. “Ye gonna stand there and look me in the eye and say that ye come out in this wet for one beer?”
Book dropped a few dollars on the bar and grinned at McGee as he pulled the hood over his head.
“Ye a daft bastard, Mr. Book,” said McGee, running his fingers through his graying red hair. “A good ‘un, but a daft bastard just the same.”
“’Night, Sean!” Book called as he walked out the door and into the storm.
The wind lifted the ends of the slicker, allowing the rain to dampen his pants. Book walked a block to a subway station, went downstairs, purchased a Metro card, and went to the downtown platform. He reached inside the slicker and pulled out a pair of bud-headphones and adjusted them carefully in his ears. Just as his selection of music on his IPod began, the train pulled into the station.
Book rode the train for six stops and got off. He and the few other passengers took the stairs to the street. He exited the station and walked two short blocks, his body leaning forward, pushing against the gale force wind. Regardless of the downpour, he contentedly hummed ‘I’ll Be Seeing You’ as he walked to a bus stop that stood in front of a large parking garage. Under the protective kiosk’s hard plastic canopy Book consulted his watch for a moment. He looked at the office building across the street.
On the fifth floor, one office was lit. Book could see a man trying to put on his overcoat while speaking into a cell phone. The man spoke for a minute then pocketed the phone. The light in the office went off. Book reached into his pocket and shut off the IPod.
* * *
A minute later, the man in the overcoat walked out of the building. Balding and hatless, the man’s sour expression went rancid when he looked up at the raining sky. He flipped up his collar and walked to the parking garage across the street. His eyes went into squints as he looked right and left for oncoming traffic. He looked straight ahead and saw a man at the bus stop, wearing a yellow rain slicker and headphones who was tapping his foot in time to whatever was playing on his IPod or disc player. Out of curiosity, the hatless man looked at his watch. A nasty grin spread across his face. If he remembered the schedule correctly, the poor bastard was going to have to wait some forty-five minutes before the next bus arrived. By the time the bus picks this jerk up, he thought, I’ll be in my warm dry condo, on my second bourbon.
* * *
As the hatless man in the overcoat walked past the bus stop, chuckling to himself, Book drew a nine millimeter with a silencer from his pocket, aimed at the back of the man’s passing head and fired two shots from five feet away; the gunfire nothing more than a spitting sound.
The man went forward, his shoulder catching the outer frame of the kiosk and he slid down on his side. He slowly flipped over on his back. His wide dead eyes and his mouth - which was opened in a small surprised ‘O’ - began to fill with rain.
Goodnight, Leo , Book thought.
Book pocketed the shell casings, turned and walked back to the subway station, turning his IPod back on.
Book went to the turnstiles and entered using the Metro card. On the way to the stairs he tossed the traceable card in nearby trash receptacle. He waited on the uptown platform, tapping his foot to the third movement of Gershwin’s ‘Concerto in F’. He took the next train and got off six stops later. As he walked to the street, he pulled a cell phone from his inside pocket and entered a number. He let it ring three times, and then ended the call.
He walked past Hanna McGee’s to the 24 hour store across the street. He went to the store’s limited frozen food section and brought a chicken pot pie to the register. His purchase secure in a plastic bag, Book rushed out into the storm, not stopping until he reached his apartment.
Book closed the door and removed the nine millimeter from his pocket. He walked over to the desk in the corner of the living room and placed the weapon on the mouse pad, shooing the cordless mouse over with the side of his hand. He removed a key from his pocket and unlocked the lower left hand drawer, opened it and removed a black steel case with a combination lock. His fingers rolled the wheel of numbers until a small click was heard. He unscrewed the silencer from the gun’s muzzle, then opened the box and placed the weapon and its attachment in their foam recesses. He reached into his pocket and dropped the spent shells into a small well, then shut the box and rolled the wheels again. The box was returned to the drawer which was once again locked.
He hung up the slicker on the shower rack in the bathroom and went to the bedroom to change out of his damp clothes and into a pair of sweatpants and tee-shirt. As he tightened the drawstring, he felt a need to urinate. He went into the bathroom and did so, his eyes glancing at the yellow slicker hanging from the rod. Flushing, he went to the mirror over the basin and looked at his face; at his eyes. He sighed, smiled slightly, and shrugged his shoulders at his reflection and walked the few steps to the kitchen.
Book shed the pie from its cardboard container and placed it in the oven. While it warming up, he used the microwave to make a mug of tea. When the pie was done and the tea was no longer at a scalding temperature, he brought them to the living room and turned on the television. He leaned back on the couch and entered the three-digits on the remote and smiled when the screen changed.
Part Three of ‘I, Claudius’ had just started.