Tampa Burn (13 page)

I thought to myself:
Uh-oh. Trouble.

There was that potential.

 

 

AT the bar, I paid for a Bud Light, told Mark, the bartender, that Tomlinson—a Rum Bar regular—would probably be in later, and strolled over to the little circle of men clustered around Dewey. They greeted me with cool glances, their body language screening me out, telling me it was their little party, go away.

But I didn't go away. I stood there watching for a quarter of an hour, listening to the kibitzing, trying to assess, evaluate, hoping Dewey would excuse herself and give me a chance to explain.

Her new friends were salesmen from a national sporting goods chain based outside Chicago. There were four underlings, judging from their ingratiating manner, and there was the big boss, Corporate Vice-President in charge of something.

I never heard what.

Corporate V-P was authoritative, but in the chummy way that head coaches use. He wasn't overtly arrogant, but he did have a CEO's knack for assuming center stage. He was shorter than I but much broader, with dense black hair and the layered, geometric facial structure that women seem to find attractive.

There were a couple of more details I noted: His underlings were working hard for him, through deference and flattery, helping him make a play for Dewey.

Something else: There was a wedding-band width of sunburned skin on the ring finger of his left hand.

Salesmen get an unfair rap. Their profession is a favorite target of derision, when in fact I know it to be among the most demanding of occupations. I know because, when it comes right down to it, I'm a salesman. I sell marine specimens—and I'm not the world's best.

If you're gunning to be a top salesman, you'd better possess all the social skills, and nearly every intellectual gift. The field's about as competitive as it gets. But there was something about this little group I disliked. Maybe it was the missing wedding band. Maybe it was the way the pack was trying to herd the female stranger into the arms of its alpha male. Or maybe I was deluding myself—I do it regularly—by trying to intellectualize my jealousy.

Whatever the reason, there was no doubt that I overreacted when Corporate V-P caught me staring at Dewey. He glared at me for a moment, and when I refused to break eye contact, he said, “This is a private party, champ. Or maybe you're just lost and mistook us for friends. Well, we're not.”

Which received nervous laughter from everyone but Dewey until I replied, “The only thing lost seems to be your wedding ring. I'm willing to make a guess. The ring's back in your hotel room. Probably hidden under the condoms you bought at the airport.”

Groaning, rolling her eyes, Dewey said, “Smooth, Ford. Jesus. Mister Congeniality,” as Corporate V-P stepped toward me, his underlings moving aside, creating room for us and thus a small stage.

“
What
did you just say to me?”

I repeated what I'd said, not budging as he advanced toward me, still looking into his eyes, which made him uneasy, I could tell. But he was committed to it, his employees watching, and he couldn't back down. Not without confronting me first, establishing for them that he held a higher rung on the machismo ladder, anyway.

He stopped, his nose close to my own, intentionally invading my personal space. “Do you know this guy, Dewey?”

“Yeah, Hal. Unfortunately. He's one of the local island playboys. A real lady killer.”

“He's got a big mouth.”

“Not usually. Which is why you should just let it go. Doc's not the physical type. He likes to look through his telescope. It'd be like taking a poke at your high school principal.”

To Dewey, I said, “Thanks, friend,” as Corporate V-P told her, “I'm tempted to knock those glasses right off his ugly face.”

Now Dewey threw her arm down between us like a toll gate and said, “Stop it. I want both you boys to do me a favor. Quit acting like jerks or I'll run you both outside, then spank your asses, O.K.? So knock it off!”

Which gave him his out. He grinned, then began to laugh. His underlings laughed along with him, but I noted what may have been an edge of disappointment. They'd wanted it to happen.

“O.K., gorgeous. For you, if he's a friend of yours. I'll let it go this time.” Corporate V-P used his index finger to warn me. “But no more smart-ass remarks.
Capisc'
?”

Before I could answer, though, he made a serious error. He threw his right arm around Dewey, pulled her roughly to him, and kissed her on the side of her mouth—a kidding sort of roughhousing move that was also markedly territorial. Some women endure that behavior with mild, passive smiles. But it's not the sort of thing Dewey has ever tolerated, or ever will.

“Hey . . . what the hell do you think you're doing, you
jerk.
Get your hands off me!”

I was already moving toward him as Dewey knocked his arm free, then shoved him hard in the chest. She's a big, strong woman. I've spotted her when she's bench-pressed 160 pounds, sets of ten.

Hal, the Corporate V-P, went backpedaling through his covey of underlings, who, surprisingly, did not catch him. The refugee boat is hip-high. He somersaulted over it backward, knocking off all the drinks that were on it.

From the bar, seeing it, a couple of women whooped, and the band, who'd been playing right along, stopped now, except for the drummer—his unplanned solo creating a hollow, galloping sound as others called,
“Whoa, fight. Hey, a fight!”

The bartender, Mark, was immediately there as Hal got to his feet, fists clenched, humiliated, furious. Because he knew us, Mark asked me, “What the hell's going on here? I'm not going to tolerate any trouble. You know that. Doc, you of all people!”

Dewey was gulping down the rest of her margarita, talking as she did. “Don't worry about it, Markie. My ex-boyfriend, Professor Dumbass, and I are hitting the bricks. Especially him.”

I could see that Hal and his friends didn't like it at all when she added to Mark, “If any our local girls come in here, warn them about this group of short-tails. They're just slimy types on the make. O.K.?”

 

 

HAL,
the Corporate V-P, couldn't let it go. He had to follow us into the parking lot.

“Whoa, whoa, hold on you two. You think I'm going to let you say that kinda crap and get away with it?” Hal's tone saying he had no choice—he had to stand tall for his team.

All I wanted was to be alone with Dewey, to try and explain why I'd said what I'd said. Not that I was even sure myself. The shock of it all had rattled me. It'd dredged up old feelings and long-gone memories. But Dewey was an integral part of my present. I hoped we were close enough friends that I could tell her about it, and that she'd understand. If she'd just give me a chance.

Which she wasn't willing to do. Not here, not now.

Car door open, she turned to me and said, “Look, pal, it shouldn't be such a big deal. You got caught screwin' around. It happens to people all the time.”

I said, “Not to us, it doesn't. Dewey, something's happened I just found out about. I'll follow you home and explain.”

She was getting in the car. “Yeah, I know, I know. The only woman you'll ever love is on Sanibel. I heard. So go back to your love shack and tell it to her, Romeo.”

I realized she was feeling the margaritas.

When I touched her elbow, she yanked her arm away . . . and that's when Hal, the Corporate V-P, came striding across the parking lot.

Saying, “Stay in the car until I get rid of this guy,” I turned and walked toward Hal to put some distance between him and Dewey. Which, as I should have known, guaranteed that she'd get out of the car.

Hal was saying, “Lady, I think an apology is in order.”

I was holding both hands out—
Stop right there
—as I said, “She's not going to apologize to you or anyone else, so just drop it. What you should do, Hal, you and your buddies, is march yourselves back into the bar and have a drink. Because I'm really not in the mood to put up with you and your self-important bullshit.”

Behind me, I heard Dewey say, “Jesus, Ford, you really are in a mood tonight,” as Hal's voice changed, all pretense of control gone: “Fuck you,
champ.
Who the fuck do you think you are? You don't even know who I
am.
Do you have a clue who you're talking to?”

Dewey was right. I was in an unusual mood. Whatever it was, I'd had enough. I walked toward Corporate V-P, saying, “I'm the guy who's going to knock you on your ass in front of all your little playmates if you don't turn around and leave us alone right now. Go. Get out of here. Leave!”

Which he couldn't do. Not now. I'd left him no wiggle room, no honorable egress—a stupid choice on my part. So he took two fast steps toward me and tried to take me out with a single, mighty, overhand right fist. I stepped in close, absorbed most of the impact with my shoulder. Then I locked my left arm under his right elbow as I dug the fingers of my right hand into the delicate area behind his jawbone, just below the neck. I tilted his face back toward the stars as I applied pressure to his elbow—already furious with myself that I'd allowed the situation to escalate to this point and eager for a way out.

As I held him, I said, “I'm going to give you one more chance to walk away. The lady's right. I'm no fighter. You win . . .
O.K. ?
So let's stop it now. You go back to the bar, we'll get in our cars and leave.”

Behind me, I heard Dewey call to him, “He's wearing
glasses,
for Christ's sake! You think that's fair?”

Talking about me like I was handicapped, yelling to protect me.

Maybe Corporate V-P found encouragement in that, because, despite the hold I had on him, he began to kick wildly, trying to knee me in the groin.

I blocked most of them with my hip, but he got in one shot that nearly connected. Came close enough to make me woof and my lungs spasm.

That did it. He'd had his chance, and I'd had enough. I released his jaw, squatted slightly, then drove my open palm hard up under his chin. I used my thighs to create torque, twisting at the hips.

The blow cracked his teeth together—a sickening sound—and lifted him momentarily off the ground. I caught him in both arms, controlling his body, then pinched the thumb and middle fingers of my left hand around his throat. With my right, I slapped his face once . . . twice, and then I swung in behind him, threading my forearms under his armpits.

His voiced was an octave higher now: “You son-of-a-bitch. I'll
kill
you for this.”

There was enough light in the parking lot to see that his mouth was frothing blood.

Breathing heavily, wrestling him, applying more pressure now, I said into his ear, “No more threats. You're just making it worse.”

Then I leveraged my arms up through his, locked both hands together, and forced my palms against the back of his head—a dangerous pressure hold called a full nelson.

I was aware that Corporate V-P's four men were not standing idly by while I humiliated their leader. They were the vocal type, at first calling out encouragement and instruction. Then commanding me to stop, to let him go, or they were going to call the cops or kick my ass. The threats varied. I thought I was keeping careful peripheral track of them—they were banded together off to my left.

But not all of them.

My hands locked behind his head, I walked Corporate V-P toward my truck and slammed his body hard against the fender, then slammed him hard a second time. I increased the pressure on the back of his head as I said, “It's time for you to go home, Hal. What do you think?”

The pain he was in changed his voice, and his attitude. “Yeah, O.K., O.K., Jesus Christ, that's enough. It was a misunderstanding. Seriously, no hard feelings . . . goddamn it! You're breaking my neck!”

So I let V-P stand, releasing pressure, unthreading my fingers—which is when one of his sales crew jumped me from behind. The guy had a strong arm around my throat, but I got my fingers around his wrists and snapped his hands free without much trouble. Then I ducked under, pivoted, got behind him, and drove his arm up into the middle of his back. Drove it with such force that it certainly dislocated his shoulder, and maybe broke it.

Along with his scream of pain, I heard, “Doc, watch it!”

I turned to see Dewey intercept another of the salesmen—Hawaiian shirt, beer gut—who was charging toward me. She stopped him with a stiff-arm, then dropped him with a single overhand right to his nose. The punch had all the speed and accuracy of her once much-feared tennis serve.

That was the end of it. Hal's underlings had risked enough for their Corporate V-P. He'd lost, so had they, and I knew they'd never look at him or behave the same around him again.

Something else I knew: Back at corporate headquarters in Chicago, the story about Hal, the fight, and how it started would spread quickly. Either Hal would soon be gone, or he would muster sufficient political muscle to oust his underlings. But there was no way his career could endure them hanging around, because he'd been exposed for what he really was, and they'd witnessed it. Authentic leaders are sustained by the strength of their own character. Sham leaders succeed only because they are passable character actors.

Hal had been unmasked.

The hierarchy of corporations is as complicated—and no less primal—than the hierarchies of pack animals. In such packs—wolves or lions or chimps, for instance—alpha males rise to power, then survive or are banished by jockeying underlings.