Chapter Three

“Good grief! It still stinks like him!”

Philip Glossman pressed the autocontrol buttons for his car windows as he pulled out of the car wash driveway, rolling them all down simultaneously. He had been back in Odyssey from the Maxwell trip to the Chicago warehouse for three days now. His car had been sanitized inside three times, and it still smelled like Maxwell’s cheap cologne. It was bad enough that Blackgaard insisted Glossman give the punk kid a ride back to Odyssey. But now he had to put up with this?

“The gift that keeps on giving,” he muttered, sticking his ski-slope nose out the window for a breath of fresh air. “I’m gonna have to sell this thing!”

The smell also served as a constant and gloomy reminder that the warehouse meeting did not end well for him. Once Maxwell was out of the room, Blackgaard asked for a progress report on procuring a new building for him in Odyssey. Glossman had found the perfect one: the old Gower’s Landing shopping complex. It was the right size, was in a decent part of town, and had a good line of sight to Whit’s End. Best of all, the complex was already half empty; for some reason, a lot of the shops that opened there just couldn’t seem to turn a profit, and they soon closed down or moved. Over the years the complex developed a reputation for being bad for business.

Local folklore said it was because the original landowner, Old Man Gower, was swindled out of the land and cursed the property so no one would ever make money on it. It was superstitious nonsense, of course, but useful information, as it made it a breeze for Webster Development to acquire the property. Once it had been acquired, the remaining tenants were more than happy to have Webster buy out their leases —with a small bonus and a promise of helping them find locations better for business.

That is, all the tenants except one.

Mansfield Computers. Its namesake and founder, Bob Mansfield, started the company three years ago. It was the only store in the Gower’s Landing complex not just making money but good money. The booming home-computer market seemed to be curse-proof. Business was so good, in fact, that Mansfield refused Webster’s offer.

Needless to say, when Glossman told Blackgaard that news, Blackgaard was not pleased.

Blackgaard’s voice remained calm, but his coal-black eyes bored into Glossman’s. “Do I have anything to be concerned about with this, Philip?”

“No, sir.”

“You understand I need the entire building for what I have planned?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I suggest you take a different approach with Mr. Mansfield.”

“Different approach, sir?”

“Turn up the pressure. You’ve dangled the carrot before him, and he has rejected it. Now it’s time for the whip. If Mr. Mansfield won’t accept my generosity, then he will suffer my displeasure.”

“What kind of displeasure did you have in mind?”

“I’m sure you and Webster can think of something.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I can count on you to do this, can’t I, Philip?”

“Of course! Absolutely!”

“I certainly hope so.”

Before he and Maxwell left the warehouse for Odyssey, Glossman called Webster Development to convey Blackgaard’s displeasure and relay his orders. It always amused Glossman that Webster Development was actually just one man named Holden Webster, a short, pudgy, balding, doughy-skinned chum of Glossman’s from college, who had even fewer scruples than Glossman did, and almost as few as Blackgaard.

Webster immediately came up with several ideas for making Mansfield’s business more difficult: tripling the lease, tacking on surcharges for electricity, and hitting him with various code violations. Glossman approved them all, and Webster promised to implement them immediately. Today was Glossman’s first chance to check on the situation, and the Gower’s Landing complex was the next stop on his itinerary.

Glossman fully expected to see the store dark, with moving trucks outside. But as he pulled in front of the complex, he slowed his car to a crawl. The parking lot was nearly full, and people were fairly swarming to get into Mansfield Computers.

Glossman fought the panicked feeling rising in his chest. Don’t jump to conclusions, he thought. Maybe this is a going-out-of-business sale. He turned into the lot and drove up the main aisle toward the store.

That’s when he saw it.

A huge banner hung over the front door of Mansfield Computers. It read “Big sale! Must move old inventory for new inventory! Make us an offer!”

New inventory? Why would someone who should be moving out order new inventory? Glossman still fought the panic rising inside him. It was possible that Mansfield was ordering new inventory for his new location, but Glossman saw nothing on the banner or in the store windows that indicated Mansfield was moving. He decided to go inside and see for himself. He parked his car, rolled up the windows —leaving them open a crack in the hope that fresh air would replace the stench of cologne —locked the doors, and crossed the lot to the entrance.

Inside, the place was a near madhouse. People were everywhere —in every aisle, nook, and cranny of the store. The three cash registers had lines five and six people deep, all buying personal computers and other electronic devices.

Glossman knew he couldn’t talk to Mansfield directly. Webster was the front man. So where was Webster? He needed to call the rotund little twerp. He headed for the door but stopped when he saw a familiar face. The face belonged to a skinny redhead with glasses and hair in his eyes. (How did he see through all that hair?) As usual, he wore jeans, a T-shirt, and a vest.

It was Eugene Meltsner.

One of Whittaker’s former employees, thought Glossman. Eugene was looking down at some papers and not really paying attention to where he was going. Glossman altered his route and headed straight at him.

“Ooof!”

Eugene’s papers went flying everywhere. “Oh dear!” Glossman exclaimed in feigned surprise. “I’m so sorry!”

“That’s quite all right,” Eugene responded, and as he started to retrieve his papers, he glanced at Glossman, did a double take worthy of a cartoon character, and then stopped. “Councilman Glossman?”

Glossman kept up his pretense of surprise. “Yes, I didn’t see you, and I —Wait. You look familiar. Have we met?”

Eugene stiffened. “Not formally. I’m Eugene Meltsner. I’ve attended some of your town-council meetings.”

“Yes! That’s it! With Whittaker, right?”

Eugene’s eyes dropped. “Uh, yes . . . er, correct.”

“Is he here too? I’d like to talk to him.”

“Uh, no, I don’t believe so . . . That is, I don’t really know.” He sniffed, scowled slightly, then continued. “What I mean is, if Mr. Whittaker is here, then we’re not here together.” He sniffed again, scowled more deeply, and then bent down to retrieve his papers.

Glossman bent down with him. “Here, let me help you with that.”

“No, it really isn’t necessary —”

“It’s the least I can do! I ran into you and —” Glossman stopped and held up one of the papers. “Application for employment?”

“I’ll take that,” Eugene snapped, looking extremely embarrassed. He plucked the paper from Glossman’s hand.

This is getting fun, thought Glossman. Look at him squirm. Aloud he said, “Does Whittaker know you want to moonlight on him?”

Eugene straightened his papers. “I’m not moonlighting.” He stood, and so did Glossman. “I no longer work for Mr. Whittaker.”

“Really?” said Glossman, feigning surprise again. “How come?” He could barely conceal his glee at how uncomfortable Eugene looked.

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss it.”

“Oh! Right! Sorry! I didn’t mean to pry.” Glossman gave a little headshake. “It’s just that . . . you were quite a fixture over at Whit’s End.”

Eugene sighed deeply. “Yes, well, no longer.”

Glossman leaned in slightly. “No offense, but isn’t working at a computer store a little . . . well . . . beneath you?”

Eugene stiffened again. “There may have been a time when I thought so, but I have since learned that no honest job is beneath an honest person.”

Glossman chuckled. “You sound like Whittaker.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Eugene started to turn, but Glossman stopped him.

“As I said, Eugene, I didn’t mean any offense. Listen, I’m gonna do you a favor. You’re a student at the college, right?”

“A graduate student, yes.”

“And you obviously know about computers, or you wouldn’t be applying here, right?”

Eugene nodded. “Computers are an expertise of mine, yes.”

Glossman leaned in again. “Well, I happen to know that the college’s computer department is hiring, and I also know the guy who is on the fast track to getting the supervisor’s job. I could put in a good word for you if you want. Maybe even get you an introduction?”

Eugene studied him for a moment, looking unsure. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Well . . . uh . . . thank you, Councilman Glossman. That’s very generous of you, but I must decline.”

Glossman blinked. “Are you sure?”

Eugene took a deep breath and nodded slowly. “Yes . . . I’m quite sure. Thank you again, but no thanks.”

Glossman shrugged. “Suit yourself. But if you change your mind, just give me a call at my office.”

“Yes. Of course.” Eugene nodded again. “Well, I really need to be going. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Eugene.”

Eugene turned and exited the store. Glossman watched him disappear into the parking lot. He had no idea why he’d just offered to help the kid, except that it was something Lizzy would have wanted him to do. He remembered her telling him once that people have a duty to help others when they can. He reached into his coat pocket and ran his fingers over the pocket watch she gave him with her picture in it. Yes, his lost love was the only person who brought out the best in him. She would want him to help Eugene.

He suddenly yanked his hand out of his pocket. Best not to have those thoughts. Best to keep your mind on what you’re doing.

Besides, he just came up with another reason to help Meltsner: gathering allies. It’d be smart to have someone like Eugene beholden to him. He looked around, suspicious. Yes, this was a time for forming alliances. He had a feeling he was going to need them.

He made his way to a pay phone in a corner of the store, lifted the receiver, paid, and dialed. The phone rang once, twice, thrice, and then clicked, and a recording of Webster’s pompous voice said, “Hi! You’ve reached the Webster Development Firm. Your call is important to us. Please leave your name and number at the beep.” The machine beeped, and Glossman said, “Holden, it’s Philip. I’m at Mansfield Computers, and the place is buzzing. We need to talk. Where are you?”

“I’m right here.”

Glossman started, then turned. Standing there was a squat, round man, with a bad comb-over of a few strands of dark hair and a five-o’clock shadow. He wore a Hawaiian shirt with a palm tree and pineapple pattern on it, Bermuda shorts, huarache sandals, and sunglasses perched on a pug nose. The Hawaiian shirt had barbecue stains down the front, which Glossman could barely see over the shopping cart filled with computers and computer parts that Webster was pushing.

Glossman hung up his phone. “Holden, what in the world are you doing?”

“What’s it look like I’m doin’? I’m shoppin’!”

Glossman rounded the cart and grabbed Webster’s arm. “Let’s go,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “Outside.”

Webster yanked his arm away. “Hey, hey, hey! Not without my stuff! C’mon, you can help me take it to my car. I’m parked right out front.”

Glossman took a deep breath, then gripped the front of the cart and pulled it out the exit while Webster pushed. True to his word, Webster’s old jalopy was in a primo spot directly across from the entrance. Webster popped the trunk lid and started loading his purchases.

Glossman seethed. “Are you out of your mind? We’re supposed to be putting this guy out of business, not helping him stay in!”

Webster nodded and shrugged. “I know, but you would not believe the deals this guy is offering!”

“Holden —”

“Look, I tried, all right? I threw every single idea I had at him.”

“None of them worked?”

Webster shook his head. “I told him we were tripling his lease payments, and he produced an ironclad lease agreement that says we can’t do that for three years.”

“We can’t wait three years.”

“Tell me somethin’ I don’t know.”

“What about the electricity? The surcharges —”

Webster sneered. “He’s makin’ so much money, he doesn’t care about them.”

“Then raise them even higher. Come up with more!”

“We can’t. We’ve gone as far as we can legally go.” Webster stuffed the last of the boxes into his trunk, closed the lid, and took a couple of short sniffs. “What is that smell?”

“What smell?”

“Cheap cologne.”

Glossman sniffed himself. Oh, man! It’s on me now! Aloud he said, “Never mind the smell. Are you sure there’s nothing else we can do?”

Webster walked to his car door. “Positive.” He unlocked the door and pulled it open. “Sorry, but if you want this guy outta here, you’re gonna have to do it some other way. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have computers to set up!” He jumped into his jalopy, closed the door, started her up, and sped off.

Glossman stewed in anger and rank-smelling cologne. He had no building, no way to get the building, and no good news for Blackgaard. And to top it all off, he was going to have to sell his car and burn his clothes because they smelled like Richard Maxwell.

This was not a good day.