Material Girl (9 page)

Satisfied that she would live to call him a pervert again, Jake quietly pulled the door to.

Figuring he had sometime before the monster awoke, Jake returned to the entry, where he proceeded to lay tarps, silently cursing Chuck Zaney's name. Zaney had been his best friend since high school—they had played baseball together until Jake had gone on to the minors and Zaney had gone to the oil fields. When a torn Achilles tendon ended any hope he had of playing ball, Jake had gotten a job in construction.

He had landed in the restoration and renovation business by accident, but one job led to another, and before long, he had enough to occupy himself full time. It was a little lean

now and again (now), but he was steadily building a business.

Then Zaney fell off a rig one day and landed on his head. No lie, the dude had landed on his head and had lived to tell about it. The only problem was, his brain was stuck somewhere between 1965 and 1976, and no one wanted to hear about the Nixon years. Jake had taken him on to help out a friend. It had been tough going at first, but he had eventually discovered that once Zaney knew a task, he could do it well. He just wasn't your go-to guy on something new.

Last night, Zaney had gone out for a few beers after work. He ended up, he had told Jake at the detention facility this morning, at one of their old haunts on the east side of Houston , and had managed to get himself into a fight over a game of pool. In addition to a charge for public intoxication (for which Jake had bailed him out) and a mean hangover (for which Jake had given him two aspirin), Zaney had severely sprained his right arm (for which Jake had dropped him at the clinic).

Jake could hardly bear to think how far behind he was going to get. He tried to concentrate on the work in front of him. He was carefully removing years and layers of paint from these old brick walls, a tedious process that allowed him to save any gems of paper or paint he might find beneath the surface. Today, the work was made all the more tedious by the shrill beep of the answering machine picking up calls for Robin Lear.

The first call came from a guy named Evan who sounded totally gay to Jake. “Robin, it's Evan. Pick up if you are there.”

“Robin won't be picking up anything for a while, pal,” Jake muttered.

“Shit. Robbie, are you all right?” the guy asked breathlessly into the answering machine. “I heard about the fire, and I'm worried sick about you. Look, just call me, okay? I need to know you're okay. Call me.”

Fire? That piqued Jake's interest. Maybe she was arrested

because she started a fire. That was an intriguing thought. A beautiful arsonist…

The next call came from a woman who sounded like she soaked her Wheaties in Tabasco sauce every morning. “Where the hell are you, Robin? Jesus, you would not believe the calls the yard is getting about the fire!”

Must have been some fire.

“Everyone wants to know where you are, including me, t hank you! Your grandma said you looked like hell—were you out drinking last night? Evan has called three times now and says he's coming down tomorrow, so I booked him in at the Four Seasons, but they're having a wedding or something and he can't get his usual room, so he was all upset about that. Oh yeah, and Darren somebody from Atlantic ? He's called twice and wants you to call him as soon as possible. I told him about the fire, and he acted like I was bothering him. Man, where are you? I'm at the yard, and you know that guy, Albert? He—”

The answering machine clicked off, stayed silent for a while. Jake became engrossed in his work, digging through four layers of paint to old brick that was good quality, antique vintage. He had tested two layers of paint when the phone rang again.

“Umm, hey, Robin… Bill Platthaus here. I'm back in New York . Long flight.” There was a pregnant pause; Jake picked up the Code Red he had bought at 7-Eleven to wash down his doughnuts, waiting for the Platypus guy to ask about the fire. “Uh, listen, Robin, I have been trying to get hold of you for over a week now…” He paused again, laughed nervously. “You know, I'm starting to wonder if maybe you don't want to talk to me? I'm probably just imagining things, huh?”

Jake rolled his eyes, downed half the Code Red, and put it down. “You're not imagining things, pal,” Jake said. “Just consider yourself extremely lucky.”

“Listen, I'd really appreciate it if you would give me a call. I'll be home tonight. Let me make sure you have that number. 212-555-9249—”

“Don't wait up,” Jake added, and wondered, as the guy

repeated the number again, why he was not surprised that double-trouble mocha mama had a bunch of guys on a string.

The Platypus guy had hardly hung up the phone when it was ringing again. “Robbie, it's your grandpa. You're not in jail again, are you?” Grandpa laughed roundly at his own joke. “Well, I talked to the police, and they say it looks like the fire was probably an accident, so I guess no one was trying to kill you. Okay. Bye now.”

Big surprise there. But at least it explained the fire.

It was almost a half hour before the next call came. “Robin, it's Bec. Hey, Mom said your office burned down and you were arrested for hitting an officer! God, what are you doing? Listen, I know you are having a bad day, but I really need to talk to you. Bud is already gone! That asshole didn't have the decency to wait until I got home, just left Grayson with his mom—”

The sound of a large object crashing onto the floor in the bedroom covered up whatever else sister Bec might have said, as well as a string of very colorful profanities. Another crash, then Robin's muffled shout. “Rebecca, are you there? Hey, I did not hit an officer! God, is that what Grandma is telling everyone?”

The shouting was suddenly crystal clear as the door to the bedroom was flung open, and Robin Lear emerged in her pajamas, her hair a riot of dark walnut-colored corkscrew curls spinning off in every direction. Oblivious to Jake, Robin and dozens of Curious Georges marched blindly down the corridor to the dining table, ear to the phone. “God, no, of course not!” she cried, falling into a chair. “I just sort of mouthed off to him, and—I was not drinking! Why does everyone keep asking me that?” she said irritably and vigorously scratched her head.

Jake lowered his brush, aware that he was unable to keep from looking at her as she exclaimed at the fine of seven hundred fifty dollars for driving without a license or insurance. She was, admittedly, a very attractive woman in a wild, Curious George sort of way. She had slender feet, bright red toenails, and elegant hands. Her hair, while a little

on the enormously untamed side, was actually very becoming on her, framing her ivory skin in dark brown curls. And her eyes were electric blue, which also seemed fitting, the lashes dark and thick, and her lips… well now, those were a pair of lips.

He watched her as she talked on the phone, still oblivious to him, her free hand slicing and dicing savagely into space as she expounded on her night in jail. Somehow, that conversation shifted to Bee's woes with someone named Bud. Robin listened intently, squinting at the wall in front of her, exclaiming over and over again, without hesitation, that Bud was a huge prick. And then her voice changed again, to a soft, almost vulnerable voice, and she asked nervously, “How's Dad?” Whatever she heard seemed to sadden her. Her shoulders slumped; she nodded, finally said, “I know. Yeah, I know.”

But Jake had the strong feeling that she really didn't know, and against his better judgment, felt a little sorry for her.

When Robin finally said good-bye, she carefully placed the phone down, rubbed her fists in her eyes, and looked up. That was when she saw him standing there, and she blinked, surprised. “What are you doing?”

So much for empathy. “Working.”

She blinked again, nodded as that registered somewhere in her brain. After a moment, she asked, “Where's my coffee?”

“Where are my doughnuts?”

“I only had a couple. I was starving! Anyway, that was hours ago.”

Like the coffee wasn't? “You ate more than a couple. You ate five.”

“Five?” she exclaimed, shocked. “Ohmigod, how many calories is that? Wait! What time is it?”

Confused, Jake glanced at his watch. “ Quarter to five .”

“Oh jeeeez.” She sighed and ran her hands through her curls, making them look even bigger. “Okay, so shouldn't you be wrapping it up for the day?” she asked, impatiently gesturing in a “wrap-it-up” way.

“Sorry, but I lost a little time going for coffee this morning,” he said, looking pointedly at the cup full of the cold mocha crap still on the table, “and I'm not to a place I can quit just yet.”

The phone rang; Robin started, glanced at the phone, then at Jake. It continued to ring, but she made no move to answer it, just smiled sheepishly. “I'm not in the mood to talk,” she said by way of explanation and let the phone ring until the answering machine picked up.

“Robin Elaine, this is your father! I know you are there, I just got off the phone with Rebecca! Now pick up the goddamn phone!”

Robin Elaine moved so fast that Jake unconsciously jumped back a step. She lunged at the phone, and in the process, sent the coffee sailing from the table across the tiled floor.

Robin scarcely noticed the coffee or anything else other than her father's voice blaring out of the answering machine. This was the call she had dreaded, the inevitability of it haunting her deep sleep. She grabbed the phone before Jake Manning heard Dad go off like a madman. “Dad?”

“What in the hell is going on?” he demanded the moment he heard her voice. “I heard the goddam office burned down and that you spent a night in jail for hitting a policeman!”

“I did not hit a policeman! I was arrested for driving without a license and—”

“HOW IN THE HELL DOES SOMEONE GET ARRESTED FOR DRIVING WITHOUT A LICENSE!?”

Wincing at the sheer decibel level, Robin jerked the phone away from her ear for a split second, then cautiously put it back. “It's a long story, Dad, and just a really stupid mistake. I sort of talked back to him—”

“Goddammit, Robin, that is exactly what I am talking about! You are too arrogant for your own good! You think you know better than everyone else!”

“I do not think—”

“I've had enough of your bullshit—”

“You don't even know what happened!” she cried angrily. Her blood was boiling; she could feel it inflaming her face. She glanced at Mr. Fix-it, who was staring at her like she was starring in some made-for-TV movie. Mortified, she turned and hurried to her bedroom for a little privacy.

“I don't need to know what happened!” Dad was yelling at her. “I already know that you got arrested and your goddam office—”

“Stop yelling, Dad!” she snapped as she slammed her bedroom door shut behind her.

“Ah to hell with it! See? I didn't do you right, Robin. I didn't teach you the ropes; I didn't show you how to run a business. I just let you prance around—”

“Oh God, not this again,” she moaned, sinking onto her bed.

“—I know you try hard, but you don't know a damn thing. Now I've given this a lot of thought—I gave you too much too fast. I think the best thing to do right now is send you to school.”

“School?” she exclaimed with a snort. “What school?”

“The school of life] The school of business, of working your way up the ropes. You have no business being in a vice presidency, not with your lack of experience—”

“I've been with the company four years!”

“And in four years you haven't learned enough to keep one freight yard afloat. I've talked this over with your mother and my mind is made up.”

Panic set in; Robin gripped the phone tightly. “Talked what over with Mom?”

“I've decided to put you in a position where you can learn a little about the freight industry. Iverson and I've been thinking of acquiring a subsidiary company—packing materials. It's something you can do from home.”

“What do you mean, 'do from home'? Do what from home?”

"Put together a proposal for acquiring one of the two companies we've been considering. They teach you that in

business school, don't they? Cost-benefit analysis? Acquisition strategies? I hope so, or else I paid a goddam fortune for nothing!"

Stunned, Robin collapsed back on the bed, blinked up at her ten-foot ceilings. This could not be happening. She was hallucinating, smack in the middle of one horrendously long nightmare.

“One of the companies we've been looking at is in Minot , North Dakota ,” Dad blithely continued. “They make bubble wrap, foam packing products, Styrofoams. The other is in Burdette , Louisiana , just this side of Baton Rouge . It's the same sort of operation, only a little bigger. You need to get out to see them.”

Minot , North Dakota ? Louisiana ? She was used to New York , Paris , Stockholm ! Not Burdette! “Dad!” she exclaimed in horror, “you aren't making any sense! You don't mean I am going to Burdette! What would I do there?”

“Well, for one, you would meet with the folks and learn about packing materials—”

“Are you insane? You want me to learn about the stuff that goes into boxes and crates?”

“Well… and boxes and crates, too. You know, how they make them, what it takes to operate an outfit like that, sales volume, revenues, the whole nine yards. And while you're at it, you are going to try and sell yourself and LTI and convince them that letting LTI buy them out is the best thing they could do for the long-term health of their company and their employees. Then you are going to study which one you think we ought to acquire and work out a deal.”

“A deal for Styrofoam peanuts and bubble wrap?” she asked helplessly, teetering on the verge of torrential tears for the umpteenth time that day. "God, Dad, are you trying to punish me? If you want to punish me, choose something a little more urbane, would you? I. CAN'T. GO. TO. BUR-DETTEr

“Oh yes, you can,” he growled, “and if you think that is beneath you, if you think that for some reason you are entitled to your salary and perks just because of who you are instead of what you know, then I guess I have no choice.”

The tneds were making him crazy! Robin suddenly rolled over, propped herself on her elbows to try a different tact. “Dad,” she said calmly, “be serious. I know you are mad at me, but—”