Graveland: A Novel (3 page)

“No, but really, John, I mean it.” An edge in Howley’s voice now. “He’s still chairman and CEO. He’s still running things.”

Kemp nods along, but doesn’t pursue it. It’s a cocktail party, Saturday evening, East Hampton.

There’s a time and a place.

Which is just as well, Howley thinks. Because it’s bad enough to have a little
WSJ
prick like John Kemp fishing for gossip about Jimmy Vaughan, but here? With
these
people?

He moves along, glass in hand, mingling. Never his strong suit. Jessica is working the other side of the room, tireless as ever in promoting her latest gala benefit for the Kurtzmann Foundation. Howley admires the ease with which she carries herself in any setting. Although he’s now the number two at Oberon, and thus one of the top financial dogs in attendance this evening, he still considers himself more of a Pentagon guy than a Wall Street guy. He could effectively buy and sell half of the people here, but he doesn’t feel like he’s one of them.

At the same time, and given the rumors about Vaughan’s health, he knows that the question of who will ultimately take over at Oberon is one of the hot topics of the moment.

And that everyone assumes it’s him. Or at least assumes that
he
assumes it’s him.

Which he does.

So he has to be careful what he says, and to whom.

Because with Jimmy Vaughan you don’t ever assume anything. You just keep working, making connections, cutting deals, bringing it home.

Naturally enough, Howley does hope it’s him. Being brought in last year as COO is one good indicator, and a very clear public endorsement, but what he believes should be an even more reliable indicator is his actual working relationship with Vaughan. Complex and of many years standing, it’s a relationship that has benefited both of them hugely, a recent example being that thanaxite supply chain they set up out of Afghanistan. It’s been a cordial relationship, too, and generally free of bullshit, which Howley puts down to the fact that he’s not intimidated by Vaughan, and never has been.

“Craig.”

Howley turns.

“Terry.” Hasselbach. Another little prick, hedge fund guy. “How are you?”

“I’m good, yo.”

Howley groans silently, covers it with a smile. He’s twenty-five years older than this guy, just as Jimmy Vaughan is twenty-five years older than him. Which isn’t a problem, not in relation to Vaughan, he doesn’t think about it, but guys like this? Buffed, mouthy Adderall-heads, still in their early or mid-thirties … he doesn’t know, what is it? Anyway, they get talking—stock picks, dream deals—and within minutes two or three others have joined in.

And Howley realizes something.

For all their cockiness and walls of money, these guys are looking to
him
as some kind of an oracle. It’s clearly the Vaughan factor, a sprinkle of stardust from the old man—who you don’t let down, by the way. He drops you into the number two position at Oberon, you’d better
believe
you’re some kind of a fucking oracle—believe it and behave accordingly. At the Pentagon, it was a little different. There was always room for ambivalence, room for creative ambiguity. And expectations were different as well, less concrete, less performance-driven. In private equity you either make money or you lose it, and that’s it.

Who has the stones, who doesn’t.

“Where am
I
looking?” he says, and tilts his head to one side. “Well, I’ll tell you one area, it’s not the only one, but … health care.” This gets a muted response from the hedgies. What, no inside track on the latest DARPA-funded robotics program or new advanced precision-kill weapons system? Apparently not. Howley raises his glass to his lips, taking his time. Then, “Thirty years ago you know how much of our GDP was devoted to health care? Three percent. Now it’s heading for twenty. Think about it. You’ve got a whole generation of baby boomers coming to retirement age, and remember”—he waves his left hand around, to take in the room, the beachfront, the Hamptons—“this is the wealthiest generation of people we’ve ever seen, not just in U.S. history but in the history of the entire fucking
world
. So you think they’ll spare any expense when it comes to their artificial hips and knees and whatever? When it comes to, I don’t know, stem cell therapies and assisted living technologies? No? Me neither. It’ll be whatever’s required, and that’s going to mean more and more of GDP getting channeled into health care.” Everyone nodding now. “So in
my
view, over the next ten, fifteen years, investments in the sector will do pretty well.”

This isn’t some big secret or anything, but coming from
him,
with his signature delivery—conspiratorial, almost whispered—it very much sounds like one. It’s certainly enough to please the assembled pack.

Howley glances over at Jessica. She’s deep in conversation with some chunky, hatchet-faced woman he doesn’t recognize. A member of the board of trustees, no doubt, or the wife of a principal donor. He looks at his watch. He’d like to get out of here soon.

“So, Craig,” Terry Hasselbach says, “what’s this I keep hearing about an IPO?”

Howley turns and glares at him. The IPO story isn’t a big secret either, far from it, there’s been plenty of speculation about Oberon going public in recent days—but it’s not something he’s willing to discuss, not with these guys.

He peers into his glass and swirls what’s left in it around. “Speaking of rumors, Terry,” he says, looking up, “did I read somewhere lately that you were a nosy little cocksucker?”

No one reacts to this for a moment.

Howley keeps looking at him.

Then Terry Hasselbach laughs. It’s a weasely laugh, but it breaks the tension. To move things on, someone brings up Jeff Gale.

Again.

The subject has been unavoidable all day.

“They’re saying he might have been into some mob guys for—”

“Oh, what, gambling debts? Get out of here. That’s ridiculous.”

“No, that it was an escort thing, some agency, and that after Spitzer and all they didn’t want to lose—”

“No way. Besides, a mob hit in Central Park? Fuhgeddaboudit.”

Everyone laughs.

Except Howley, who’s looking at his watch again. He knew Jeff Gale—not well, but he knew him, saw how the man operated, could read him like a book, read all his moves. Gambling and escorts? It’s about as far as you could get from a plausible explanation for this.

That’s what bothers him, the seeming randomness of it, the casualness.

He glances across the room and catches Jessica’s eye.

Ten minutes later they’re in the car and on the way to dinner at Mircof’s in East Quogue.

*   *   *

Sitting alone in a booth at Dave’s Bar & Grill, Frank Bishop sips his second Stoli. It usually takes more than one for that exquisite hot-coals-in-the-belly sensation to hit, but it’s coming now, he can feel it.

Slowly, he takes another sip.

Blue. Icy. Viscous.

This is the sweet spot, alright, portal to a brief sun-kissed season of illumination and understanding. It won’t last very long, a few minutes at most, but that’s fine. In a while he’ll order some food—chicken, fries, plenty of carbs, a club soda—because if he orders a third Stoli he’ll only order a fourth and then a fifth and that’ll be it for the night. He won’t eat and he’ll get stupid and sloppy. He’ll end up feeling like shit and be hungover all day tomorrow. Then, before he knows it, it’ll be Monday morning again and
he’ll be back at work
.

For now, though, it’s Saturday evening.

He holds up his glass of filmy liquid.

To the LudeX console upgrade, and a long, strange day at Winterbrook Mall.

He takes a sip.

Frank used to be an architect.

Up to a couple of years ago, and
for
a couple of decades—designing office buildings and airport terminals, frozen music, he ate, drank, and slept the stuff. Worked for Belmont, McCann Associates and had an office in Manhattan. But now? Now he manages an electronics store in a second-tier mall in upstate New York.

WTF.

It’s not as if he’s the only one, though. A dozen others were let go at the same time, and most of
them,
as far as he knows, are struggling. The younger ones, still in their twenties, either take it on the chin and go off in an entirely different direction, or they obsessively hone their résumés and send them out to anyone they’ve ever come into contact with, co-workers, classmates, contractors, people they meet on fucking Facebook. The older ones, like Frank, mid-forties and beyond, either manage to hang on by trading their experience and skills for much-reduced salaries, or they take anything at all, whatever they can get, retail, driving a cab—it doesn’t matter, really (except for the serious damage this will do to their marketability if they ever want to get back in the game). Frank is one of these, and he figures the damage is already done. The idea of getting back in the game is remote to him anyway, a little intimidating even.

This
job he got as a favor. It was through an old connection, a middle-management guy in Paloma he dealt with when Belmont, McCann were doing their new regional headquarters over in Hartford. And he only got it because it was Winterbrook Mall. If it’d been anywhere else, chances are he wouldn’t have been hired. Like Dave’s Bar & Grill, which is beside it, Winterbrook Mall is a relic of the 1980s, morning in Mahopac, and will very probably not survive this recession. In fact, it’s hard to know what’s keeping the place afloat right now. It’s vast, but more often than not deserted, with a distinctly creepy feel to it, especially at night when you could imagine B-movie zombies emerging from behind the fake backdrops of some of the empty retail spaces to search for stragglers and lost shoppers. However, Winterbrook’s biggest problem lies two miles down the road in the shape of the sparkling and relatively new Oak Valley Plaza Outlets Center.

That’s where it’d make sense for Paloma to have their store, but if they did, Frank would be out of work.

He looks into his glass.

The truth is, he’s hanging on by a thread here. There are over eight hundred Paloma stores across the country, and this is probably the only one he’d be able to hold down a job in. And that’s because—with the exception of today—it’s probably the only one that’s empty most of the time.

Which suits Frank just fine.

Not because he can’t do the job, or he’s lazy, it’s just that dealing with people, customers, members of the public … he’s not cut out for it. Heavier foot traffic than the store gets and he’d more than likely crack up. It might take a while, a few weeks, a month or two, but he wouldn’t last—there’d be an incident with someone out on the floor, he’d raise his voice, they’d file a complaint, and who’d end up with their second pink slip in as many years?

For the moment, though, this position he’s got at ghostly, creepy Winterbrook Mall seems secure enough.

Which is a big relief.

He finishes the drink and orders some food.

Because as long as he’s able to meet his basic financial obligations, as long as he’s able to—

Phone.

Vibrating in his pocket.

He pulls it out and looks at it.
Lizzie
. Pretty much on cue. “Hi there.”

“Hey Dad.”

Tone alert.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m … I’m fine.”

Lizzie’s at Atherton, and even though she got a scholarship it’s still costing him a fortune. She wants to be a Web … something, he can’t remember what exactly. He finds it hard to keep up, to stay in the loop, especially the tech loop. When she was starting out, he was all over it, but that was two years ago.

“So … what’s happening?”

“Not a whole lot. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

Frank looks up, slowly, and out over the dusty, wood-paneled expanse of Dave’s Bar & Grill.

Hear my voice?

“You can hear my voice anytime you want, sweetheart, you know that.”

He swallows. Was that the right thing to say? Lizzie is extremely smart, but she’s hard work sometimes, and you have to know what you’re doing. When she was small, he and Deb had to choose their moments with her. She could be charming, too, of course, and some of the stuff she came out with would blow your socks off. Unfortunately, Lizzie’s teenage years are a bit of a blur to Frank, because after the divorce he burrowed down and didn’t do much else besides work. Then, a year or so before he was laid off, things changed again, and he started making more of an effort to see both her and John. It seemed like a new phase, a new era—college looming, Deb married to someone else, their early lives together as a family in the house in Carroll Gardens receding like a brittle dream. Lizzie hadn’t changed, though, not really, and her renewed presence in his life, her occasional attentions—e-mails, phone calls—sustained him in a way that he hadn’t expected.

“I know, Dad.”

Silence.

Well, at least
that’s
settled.

“So,” he says, trying again. “Saturday night. What are you up to?” But why does he want to know
that
? Doesn’t he worry enough about her as it is? With nothing at all to go on? Now he’s fishing for
ammo
?

“No plans. Just working. I’ve got a paper due.”

He’ll settle for that. Moving his empty glass around the table like a chess piece, he proceeds to tell her about his day, the LudeX upgrade, the early torrent of excited geeks, the subsequent stream of disappointed ones. Trying to make it funny. But at a certain point he realizes she’s not laughing, and then guesses she’s probably not even smiling. Which is when he remembers that Lizzie hates hearing about his job. It freaks her out. She thinks of her old man as an architect who works in Manhattan, not as some loser sales guy in a suburban mall. Either that or she’s racked with guilt about what he has to do to keep her and her brother in their good schools.

Actually, he doesn’t know what she thinks. They’ve never really talked about it. It’s what he imagines she thinks, what
he’d
think.