Silent Treatment

Chapter4

Kevin Loomis, first vice president of theCrown Health and Casualty Insurance Company, slipped a folder of notes into hisbriefcase, straightened his desk, and checked his calendar for the followingday. He was a meticulous worker and never left for the evening without tying upas many loose ends as possible. He buzzed his secretary and turned on a mentalstopwatch. In six seconds she was in his office.

'Yes, Mr. Loomis?'

Brenda was fabulous — smart, organized,loyal, and an absolute knockout. She was a legacy to him from Burt Dreiser, nowthe president and CEO of the company. Kevin suspected she and Dreiser hadsomething going outside the office. But it really didn't matter. Dreiser hadbumped him up to the corner office over a number of others who had moreseniority and, in some cases, more qualifications than he did. And as far asKevin was concerned, if Dreiser was sleeping with Brenda Wallace, more power tohim.

'Do we have anything else we need to takecare of?' he asked. 'I'm just getting set to leave for the day.'

'Second and fourth Tuesdays. I know,' shesaid, a smile in her eyes. 'I wish you well.'

The poker game. For years, Dreiser, whowas a legendary workaholic, had uncharacteristically left the office at fouro'clock on the second and fourth Tuesdays of every month. Some sort ofexplanation seemed called for. Brenda was far too efficient and observant notto wonder. The poker game fit the bill perfectly. Now, Kevin had taken over notonly Dreiser's former title, office, and secretary, but, as far as BrendaWallace was concerned, his seat at the high-stakes card game as well. Secondand fourth Tuesdays. Four o'clock. In fact, Dreiser had made a point ofcorroborating the poker story to Kevin's wife, Nancy. The necessary rite ofpassage up the corporate ladder comfortably explained her husband'stwice-monthly overnights in the city. The avowed secrecy surrounding the game'slocation explained the need for her to communicate with him by beeper only.

'I've won maybe once in the four monthsI've been playing,' Kevin told Brenda dryly. 'I think that might be why Burtinvited me into the game in the first place. He could tell I was a greenhorn.Listen, seeing as how Oak Hills has decided to renew with us, I think we oughtto do something for them. You have the names of the members of the school boardand the head of the union. Send them each some champagne. Better still, make itchocolates. Godiva. About a hundred dollars worth for each should do fine. Putsomething nice on the cards.'

'Right away, Mr. Loomis.'

She left after favoring him with a smilethat would have melted block ice. His successes were hers, and the Oak Hillsschool system renewal was a triumph. The system was huge, one of the largest onLong Island. And by and large its teachers were young and healthy. Young andhealthy — the golden words in any group medical coverage. It was a featherin Kevin Loomis's cap, to be sure. But the victory really belonged to TheRoundtable. The Oak Hills system had been apportioned by the society to Crown.Any competition for the contract would come from non-members. And of course,dealing with nonmember competitors was what The Roundtable was all about.

The Oak Hills coup was meaningful onanother level as well. Kevin's first four months as Burt's replacement on TheRoundtable had been marked by controversy. A troubling situation had developedthat had resulted in the group's moving their meetings from the Camelot Hotelto the Garfield Suites, and the situation had involved Kevin. But in truth,nothing that had happened was his fault. Hopefully, the others saw it that way,too. He had no idea what would happen if they didn't.

He picked up his briefcase and overnightbag and took some time to survey the panorama of the city, the river, and thecountryside beyond. Kevin Loomis, Jr., had risen from gofer to first vicepresident, from a gerbil-village corkboard cubicle to a corner office. Hisparents, had they lived, would have been proud — damn proud — of the way he hadturned out. He swallowed against the fullness in his throat that memories ofthem always seemed to bring. Then he headed out toward the elevator bank. Histransformation to Sir Tristram, Knight of The Roundtable, had begun.

The Garfield Suites was on Fulton, a blockand a half from the World Trade Center. The cab ride downtown from the CrownBuilding took twenty minutes. Kevin rode quietly, staring out at the passingcity, but seeing little. The remarkable changes in his life could not have comeabout much more abruptly had he won the lottery. To be sure, he was good — verygood — at what he did, which for years had been to sell insurance. He had beena member of the industry's Million Dollar Roundtable for sales five yearsrunning, a branch manager, and then a successful department head at the homeoffice. For a relatively young man from the far wrong side of Newark, thosewere accomplishments enough. But suddenly, Burt Dreiser had started invitinghim out to lunch, and soon after that, to dinner.

What do you think of. .?What would you do if. .? Supposing you were asked to …? First came the questions,phrased and rephrased, over and over again. Then, with Kevin's responsesapparently acceptable, came the secrets. The sales force's well-publicizedroundtable had a counterpart, Burt explained, at the high executive level. Butunlike the Million Dollar Roundtable, which was an industry honor to beextolled in ads, on letterheads, and on business cards, membership in this Roundtablewas not only very exclusive, but very secret.

By the time Kevin had agreed to become SirTristram, replacing Burt Dreiser as Crown's representative, he realized that healready knew too much to refuse and remain employed. His rewards for acceptingthe appointment were the promotion, a generous raise, and an annual bonus ofone hundred thousand dollars or one percent of what The Roundtable saved ormade that year for Crown, whichever was higher. The deal was, Dreiser assuredhim, on a par with that accorded the other knights.

Following the recent scare, a number ofsteps had been instituted by the knights to protect their small organizationand its members. Adhering to one of them, Kevin paid off the cabby at Gold andBeekman and made a two-block detour to the Garfield Suites, cutting through astore, and doubling back once as well. Certain he was not being followed, heentered the hotel lobby. His reservation, under the name George Trist, wasalready paid for. Anyone trying to backtrack from that name to the source ofpayment would find only a dummy business account with a set of directors who hadlong ago died. Sir Galahad, in charge of security, did his job well. He wasparanoid about details. And after the undercover reporter had been discovered,he had become, if possible, even more obsessive.

Across the lobby, Kevin saw Sir Percivalewaiting for the elevator. Percivale was with Comprehensive Neighborhood HealthCare, the largest managed care operation in the state. Kevin knew that muchabout the man, but no more. Not his name, not his title at CNHC. Burt told himnot to worry about such things — it had been three years before he knewthe names of all six of the other knights. Their eyes met for just a moment,then Percivale was gone. Kevin glanced at his watch. In three hours they wouldbe meeting, along with the others, on the nineteenth floor.

He crossed to the registration desk. Thesecrecy, the code names, the nature of their projects. . Kevin thoroughlyenjoyed the intrigue and mystery that surrounded their small society. Andgradually, he was learning to cope with the less appealing aspects of it aswell — some of the methods employed to achieve their goals and, of course, theconstant risk of discovery.

Number 2314 was a two-room suite with adecent view of the World Trade Center. Kevin stopped in the living room andtwisted open a Heineken from the ample supply in the refrigerator. Then hestripped off his tie and laid his suit coat over the back of a chair. He hadjust kicked off his shoes when he tensed. He was not alone. Someone was in thebedroom. He was absolutely certain. He took a step toward the hallway door.There were house phones by the elevator. He could call Galahad or hotelsecurity.

'Hello?' a feminine voice called out.'Anybody out there?'

Kevin crossed to the bedroom doorway. Thewoman, in her early twenties if that, stood by the edge of the king-size bed.She had obviously been sleeping, and now was brushing out her waist-length,jet-black hair. She wore a bit too much makeup for Kevin's taste, but in everyother regard she was perfect. Her Asian features, her slender body, her high,full breasts, her legs. Perfect. Her emerald dress was wet-suit tight, slit upthe right side to her hip.

'Who are you?' he demanded.

She set the brush down, smoothed the frontof her dress, and moistened her lips before she spoke.

'My name is Kelly.'

'Who sent you here?'

'I … I don't understand.'

Kevin glared at her. After what happenedwith the reporter, surely this was either a joke or some sort of test.

'Where did you come from? That's a simpleenough question. How did you get in here? That's another simple question.

Fear sparked in the woman's dark eyes.

'A man met me outside the door and let mein. Each of us was given a room number to wait at. I … I'm here to please youin any way that you want.'

'Just sit down there and stay there,'Kevin said, motioning to the bed. 'No!' he snapped as she reached behind herback for her zipper. 'Just sit.'

He stalked to the living room, slammingthe bedroom door behind him.

According to Burt Dreiser, the women hadbeen part of second and fourth Tuesdays for most of The Roundtable's six-yearexistence. Lancelot, who had been there from the beginning, was responsible forthem. And until two months ago, there had never been a problem. Those knightswho wanted sex had it. Those who wanted nothing more than a massage or a lovelycompanion for dinner got that. The escort service Lancelot employed was one ofthe most upscale and discreet in the city. But somehow, they had beenpenetrated — not by a cop, but by a reporter.

Kevin snatched up the phone.

'Mr. Lance's room, please.'

Lancelot, Pat Harper of Northeast Life andCasualty, was the only member of The Roundtable whom Kevin had met beforejoining. In stature and appearance, Harper was anything but a Lancelot with anexpansive gut, ruddy complexion, fat cigar, and high-pitched laugh that werefar closer to Dickens than to Camelot. Kevin had once played in the samefoursome with him during an industry-sponsored charity gold tournament and hadbeen beaten by a dozen strokes. Harper had a wife and three or four grown kids.Beyond that fact, Kevin knew nothing of the man except, of course, that heliked young, beautiful women.

'Lancelot, this is Tristram,' Kevin said.'I thought we decided no more women.

'Ah, Kelly. . What do you think of her?A ten and a half, don't you agree?'

'Yes, except she's not supposed to behere.'

'Oh, lighten up, my friend. Life is tooshort. We decided no more women from the old escort service. Kelly andthe others are from a new one. Don't worry, every one of them has beenchecked out. There won't be any more screwups.'

The name the reporter had used wasDesiree. She had spent two Tuesdays with Sir Gawaine and two with Kevin. Theowner of the escort service had learned of Desiree's duplicity from one of theother women, whom the reporter had tried to interview and who was certain thatthe impostor had recorded her sessions with her two clients. At Galahad'sinsistence, the escort company was terminated immediately, and Roundtablemeetings were moved.

During the tense questioning that followedthe discovery, Kevin learned a bit about Gawaine, the last member admitted tothe group before he was. From the very beginning, Kevin had found the man'sbutton-down composure and varsity club accent threatening. Gawaine seemed tofit right in with the others, while Kevin's hardscrabble Newark upbringing madehim an instant outsider. Now Kevin knew that he and Gawaine had at least onething in common: both were contented family men who had never wanted orreceived more than a massage and some conversation from their escorts.

Apparently, however, Lancelot had beengiven the green light to start up again with a new service. Kevin was about totell the guy that no more women were to be sent to his room. But he rememberedone of Burt Dreiser's warnings about The Roundtable.

'So much is at stake,' Dreiser had said,'that nobody trusts anybody. The best thing you can do is not to stand out inany way. Look and act like everyone else, and you'll do fine.'

Kevin had drawn the conformity line atscrewing the women Lancelot brought in. But he had never mentioned that toanyone. In fact, if he and Gawaine hadn't been asked during Galahad'sinvestigation whether or not they were actually having sex with Desiree, no onein the group would have known.

'Listen, Lance,' he said now. 'Don't takeit personally. Kelly's beautiful. I'm very pleased with her. I was just makingsure there weren't any problems. That's all.'

He set the receiver down and returned tothe bedroom. Kelly, slowly stroking her thick mane of ebony hair, smiled up athim from the bed.

'Is everything okay?' she asked.

The sight of her sitting there, her rightleg exposed to the hip, sent an uncontrollable surge of blood to Kevin's groin.

'Everything's fine,' he said. 'Listen. Howabout calling room service and ordering dinner. Get anything you want foryourself. I'll have a filet. Medium rare. And then maybe a massage. Are yougood at that?'

'I am very good at that,' she said.

Harry had lived in Manhattan for much ofhis adult life, but until today he had never been in Tiffany's. With MaryTobin's help, he had freed up the last hour and a half to makeearlier-than-usual rounds at the hospital and head home. The idea of doingsomething special for Evie had been his. The suggestion to do it at Tiffany'shad been Mary's.

Now, silently humming Joe Kincaid'srendition of 'Moon River', Harry tried for George Peppard's Breakfast atTiffany's nonchalance as a saleswoman laid one prohibitively expensive gemafter another on the black velvet display cloth.

'This tennis bracelet is quite charming,'she said. 'It has alternating beautifully matched rubies and diamonds, each aneighth of a carat.'

'My wife doesn't play tennis too often.. Um. . how much is it, though?'

'Thirty-six hundred, sir.'

Well, then, perhaps I could seesomething in a Ping-Pong bracelet?

Eventually, he settled on a half-caratdiamond pendant flanked by two small rubies. Evie loved precious stones. Withthe help, Harry suspected, of her ex-husband and ex-suitors, she had amassed asizable collection by the time he started dating her.

'I want to sell every piece I have,' shesaid, soon after they were married, 'so we can buy a camper and drive acrossthe country.'

Harry knew that Evie had never beencamping in her life and suspected that she would not be too enamored of blackflies and blackened burgers. The declaration was part of her commitment tomoving her life out of the fast lane and into whatever lane she perceived himto be traveling. Eventually, though, she stopped talking about the simple lifeand put her jewels into a safe-deposit box. They never did go camping.

There's nothing to worry about.. I hope this will mark a new beginning for us. . Everything's going to beall right. . Believe it or not, there are places I want to take you whereyou can actually wear this. . Harry considered then rejected any number of messages forthe card, before writing simply 'I love you.'

I need to talk to you. . WithEvie's words playing over and over in his mind, he took a cab to the co-op theyhad owned since shortly after the wedding. The sixth-floor apartment, fivedecent-sized rooms and a tiny study, was in a well-maintained building on theUpper West Side, a block from Central Park. Over Evie's eight-plus years there,the flat had changed, in her words, from 'exquisite' to 'adequate' to 'small,'and, most recently, to 'depressing.'

I need to talk to you. . Health?Money? The marriage? Her job? Could she possibly be pregnant? It had been solong since she had needed to speak with him about anything. Maybe shefinally wanted to clear the air and start over again.

There were two apartments on the sixthfloor. The narrow hallway between them always seemed imbued with Evie — possibly some combination of her perfume, shampoo, and makeup. As usual the,scent evoked powerful impressions of her. But this evening Harry was toodistracted to pay much attention. He knocked once and then used his key.

'Harry?' she called out from the bedroom.

'Yes.'

'I'll be right out.'

From her tone, he knew she was on thephone.

Harry set the Tiffany's box on thedining-room table and paced idly. The apartment was immaculate, brightened byseveral vases of fresh-cut flowers — Evie's trademark. An Eric Clapton albumwas playing on the CD player. Clapton was one of Harry's favorites. He wonderedif Evie's playing it now was significant.

'You want a drink?' he asked.

'I have a vodka and tonic on the kitchencounter. Just add a little ice for me. .'

She must be off the phone.

'. . I'll be out in a minute. I madereservations at the SeaGrill if that's okay.'

'Fine.'

Harry tried unsuccessfully to readsomething — anything — into her voice.

She emerged from the bedroom wearing blackslacks and a red silk blouse. The colors looked smashing on her. Then again,most colors did. She kissed him on the cheek — nearly an air kiss.

'Was it hard getting away from theoffice?' she asked, retrieving her drink.

'Not really. Mary cleared my schedule andcanceled me out with the band. She can do anything she sets her mind to.'

'How's she doing?'

'Mary?'

'Yes.'

Harry couldn't remember when Evie had lastasked about his office staff- or, for that matter, the guys in the band or hisco-workers.

'The arthritis in her hips is pretty bad.But in general she's doing fine. Are you okay?'

'As well as can be expected, I guess.'

She sipped her drink. Harry gave up tryingto see behind the small talk and instead handed her the necklace. She seemedgenuinely charmed and impressed by the gift and immediately replaced the goldchain she was wearing with it.

'This is really very sweet of you,' shesaid, glancing again at the card.

'I just wanted to be sure you know thateverything's going to be okay.'

Her smile was enigmatic, but there wasunmistakable sadness in her eyes.

'You always tell me that things have ahabit of working out the way they're supposed to.'

'That's me. Harry Corbett, mild-manneredGP by day, impenetrable philosopher by night.'

'Well, I think this time you've got itright, impenetrable one. Things do have a way of working out.'

She gazed out the window, absentlyfingering the pendant. The early evening light glowed against her pale skin andhighlighted her flawless profile. She was, if anything, even more strikinglylovely than she had been when they first met.

'You. . um. . said you needed tospeak with me.'

Even as he heard his voice saying thewords, Harry cursed himself for not having more restraint. If she felt ready tosay something, she would have said it.

She glanced at him and then turned back tothe window. 'I–I just wanted to spend some time talking together tonight,'she said. 'After all, medical science may have broken through the envelope, butbrain surgery is still brain surgery.'

'I understand,' Harry said. But in truth,he was not at all certain that he did. 'So. . are — are you hungry?'

'I will be by the time we get there.'

'Want to walk?' The question was almostrhetorical. Evie was invariably in too great a rush to get wherever she wasgoing to walk.

'Let's do that,' she said suddenly. 'Let'swalk. Harry, this is a beautiful necklace. I'm really very touched.'

Harry searched for the cynicism he hadgrown used to from her but found none. His fantasies about a return to the lifethey had once had began to simmer. Evie had already turned and started towardthe bedroom when he realized the phone was ringing.

'I'll get it,' she called out, hurryingdown the hall. 'I want to get my purse anyhow.'

Harry shrugged and, still feeling uneasy,went to the kitchen and set his glass in the sink. Through the eight Bosespeakers mounted throughout the apartment, Eric Clapton was reminding him thatnobody knows you when you're down and out.

Down in the hall in the bedroom, her handcupped over the mouthpiece of the phone, Evie was holding a brief, hushedconversation.

'No. . no, I haven't told him about usyet,' she said. 'But I'm going to.'

She set the receiver down and held thediamond pendant up where she could see it.

'At least I think I'm going to,'she murmured.