Ride a Cockhorse (33 page)

“Take them over, Mrs. Fitzgibbons!” Deborah Schwartzwald couldn't restrain herself. Her eyes were as wide as saucers. “Do it!”

“I'll do more than that,” said Mrs. Fitzgibbons. “I'll clip their wings good and proper. I'll replace every officer they've got with my own people,
my
experts, my friends. With you and you and you. One of them is courting me right now.”

“Right on!” Marcel was in paradise.

“They're going to get a
new
chief,” Emily sang out.

“When you see them in the streets,” said Mrs. Fitzgibbons, with facetious generosity, “tell them to be patient. Tell them I am coming. ‘
Be patient! She is coming!
' ” she said exultantly.

The response was one of stormy applause. Again, Mrs. Fitzgibbons raised a staying hand.

“We're in no hurry. The officers and help of the Citizens Bank will wait for us. The South Valley Bank will wait. I know what they're saying about us, I know they're worried, I know they're frightened. I have people in there. Please,” Mrs. Fitzgibbons apostrophized, as in an appeal to the heavens, “let me finish putting my own house in order.
This morning
”—she imparted special moment to those two words, with a raised finger and a smirk on her lips—“one of our own loyal associates was treated with brutality. I don't mind telling you,” she added, in a voice infused with sadness, “that Mr. Kim was a friend of mine.”

She struck a pose, and waited as her remarks took effect.

“Some have said today that I was responsible for this action. For how could it have happened if I wasn't? And yet, oddly,” she said, “I wasn't. Mr. Kim was a friend of mine, and now he's sitting at home, at the kitchen table, trying to explain to his puzzled wife and frightened little ones, the horrible thing, the atrocity, that befell him this morning. This pleasant man came to us a few years ago from over the sea, across the Atlantic or Pacific, or whatever ocean it was, for a new life here in America, and this morning he was struck down.”

“Bring him back, Mrs. Fitzgibbons!”

Scarcely aware of the ironies contained in the sudden sympathy she felt for a discharged employee, Mrs. Fitzgibbons could feel her blood starting to boil. “That's what came of Mr. Kim's American dream. Without any justification under the sun, other than the fact that he was more competent than his superior and came to work on time every morning, our friend, Mr. Kim, was dealt the shock of his life. Why didn't the United States Navy just leave him thrashing about in the water? I'll tell you why. So that we could hire him, give him a post suitable to his talents, make wonderful use of his efforts, and then, one frosty fall morning, somebody here could up and throw him and his family into the street! Somebody who was afraid of him,” said Mrs. Fitzgibbons. “Somebody who once had the balls to characterize Mr. Kim as a ‘little slanty-eyed adding machine.' And who himself”—her voice rose in indignation—“lost more money for this bank in one day than the Third World can urinate in a month! You
know
who it was! You
see
what I'm up against. These are the people”—out came the folded letter—“who protest what I'm doing. Who want me, your chief executive, dead and buried.”

Looking very righteous and in command, Mrs. Fitzgibbons made a little snapping noise with her fingers at Julie. “Get Mr. Kim on the telephone.”

The sight of Mrs. Fitzgibbons standing on her chair, with the telephone to her ear, the light twinkling on her forehead, as she spoke affably to the dismissed employee, was a moment of inspired theater. Even the vice presidents and other officers, despite themselves, betrayed signs of hopeful expectancy as Mrs. Fitzgibbons recalled Lionel Kim to the ranks of his friends and fellow workers at the Parish Bank.

“He lacked the authority.” She was addressing herself authoritatively to the ceiling, the black mouthpiece of the phone tilted upward. “We are all on your side. Everyone here is listening.” She laughed pleasantly as though to quiet Mr. Kim's gentle, self-effacing doubts. “They're standing around me. Everyone is. We'd be heartbroken if you didn't come back. No one,” said Mrs. Fitzgibbons, “gets discharged, or even seriously reprimanded around here, by anyone but me. You have,” she stressed emphatically, after listening to him for a second, “a spectacular future with us. One of the best. I reward competence. I promote it, and I pay for it.”

As Mrs. Fitzgibbons concluded what she judged to have been the most successful address of her career, and made her way through the milling employees toward her office, she could feel the love of all flowing upon her. They parted before her as if she were surrounded with a mystical aura that no one dared invade. Mrs. Fitzgibbons tossed out commands as she passed through them.

“You find out for me, Marcel, who was responsible for smearing on that graffiti in the men's room.”

“I will, Mrs. Fitzgibbons, don't worry,” he promised.

“Emily, tell Alec to lock up Hooton's office. Everything in there is impounded. Julie, I want Matthew outside the mall waiting for me at five o'clock, and tell Eddie to bring my own car for the rest of you to ride in.

“Did you hear,” Julie whispered to her chief in a mortified voice at the first opportunity, “Mr. Hooton actually had the nerve to pick Dolores up in his car right in front of Mr. Brouillette's own house!”

“So?”

“In front of her house?”

“What did you expect her to do?” Mrs. Fitzgibbons snapped. “Walk over to
his
house?”

Julie appeared genuinely struck by the depravity and brazenness of it all. “Gosh, I'd've thought—”

“Mr. Brouillette's wife is expensive,” Mrs. Fitzgibbons said. “She's not some tart that comes running across town for a quick buck or two. You saw her. Dolores is top of the line.”

“She's beautiful.”

“Use your skin.” Mrs. Fitzgibbons strode into her office. “You're not a child. That's Dolores's M.O. She's pricey. She probably kept him waiting out there.”

Among her corps of followers, the only one who saw fit, or perhaps even dared by now, to question Mrs. Fitzgibbons on the wisdom of her plans to ruin her arch adversary was her most devoted admirer. Bruce had been apprised by his friend Matthew of the outline of Mrs. Fitzgibbons's intentions.

“It's important that I look my dramatic best,” she explained, as Bruce toiled absorbedly on her eyelids and lashes. “Especially my eyes. Fix them up a little scary.”

“Wouldn't it be as well,” Bruce persisted worriedly, “to let fate take its course? After all, the poor thing has lost millions in his department. He hasn't a leg under him. The chairman and staff are behind you. Now, in addition, you've successfully overruled his dismissal of Mr. Kim.”

She actually enjoyed having someone articulate the reasonable approach to a crisis of this kind, as it reinforced her pleasurable awareness of her opponent's defenselessness. Mrs. Fitzgibbons's motives in hounding Mr. Hooton to his ruin were no longer those of the aggressive competitor seeking power, but rather of the hate-filled victor determined to pour the full measure of her wrath on the head of one who had had the gall to oppose her in the first place. The mere thought of the man, with his big suspenders bulging, and his gold half spectacles balanced snootily on the tip of his nose, contemptuous and self-important, started her insides churning. The knowledge that the man was at her mercy imparted dark feelings of satisfaction.

“The man is going to fall,” Bruce argued. “It can only be a matter of days.”

“I appreciate your sensitive nature, Bruce. That's how you're built.” She humored him while regarding herself in the wall mirror.

“It's illegal, as well.”

That line touched Mrs. Fitzgibbons's fancy; she reacted mirthfully, while lifting her face to show Bruce a pitying glance. “Nothing's illegal when you win, pussycat. Please. The man is nothing more than an adulterous blowhard who had the bad luck of getting in the way.” Words of this sort thrilled Mrs. Fitzgibbons. She clasped tightly the arms of her chair. “Besides,” she added, referring to her associates, “I have to consider the needs of the others. They want action. They're in a fever state. They're champing at the bit. They're different from you, darling. I have to give them what they want.”

“Ever since Matthew began driving for you,” Bruce complained, “he's become a different person. He almost never cooks. He's out at all hours. He doesn't clean. He leaves his clothes and beer cans lying about.”

Mrs. Fitzgibbons laughed.

“He talks like a thug,” Bruce said.

“He is a thug,” she cried. “What did you think he was?” Mrs. Fitzgibbons's wit carried clearly from one end of the salon to the other. “What on earth are you worried about? With your looks and brains and sex appeal, he's not going anyplace. If you can't control the affections of a measly city hall clerk who wants nothing more from life than to go out beer drinking and banging heads at night, you're not the artist I thought you were.” Mrs. Fitzgibbons twisted around in her chair and looked him in the eye. “Slap his face!” she said. “Throw him out of bed.... Deny him!”

These jocular cracks set both the patrons and hairdressers in Bruce Clayton's salon laughing aloud. Bruce blushed but chimed in laughing.

Mrs. Fitzgibbons concluded with a catalog of her driver's strong points. “He can drive a car, count to a hundred, and form an erection. Where is somebody like that going to find a lover who owns his own business and wears Italian silk boxer shorts at fifty bucks a throw?”

She was on her feet then, pulling on her coat. She was impressed with Bruce's artistry. Her hair and makeup were just what she wanted. Her features were beautified to perfection. Her eyes looked deep-set; they glittered brightly, lending a sinister quality to her appearance.

“I wasn't being critical.” Bruce followed her to the front door. She was snapping on her gloves. She loved Bruce more than anyone on earth. That was a fact.

“You're supposed to be critical. That's your function.”

“I would be willing to go, if you wanted and insisted. You know that.”

“It wouldn't be fun for you,” said Mrs. Fitzgibbons. “You stay home. Believe me, this is not your kind of outing.”

Outdoors, Matthew was waiting behind the wheel of the Buick and came round in smart fashion to open the door for her. Pulled to the curb behind Matthew's sedan was Mrs. Fitzgibbons's own avocado green Honda, containing Eddie Berdowsky and Howard Brouillette up front, and Julie and Emily in back. They were all staring out at Mrs. Fitzgibbons as she emerged from the mall and strode briskly to the car. After Matthew closed her door, she didn't look back at Bruce, who watched worriedly from the sidewalk, but she was appreciative of his concern for her safety. She settled back in her seat. She was not smiling.

Mrs. Fitzgibbons snapped at Matthew. “Let's get started. Take me out the Rifle Range Road to the old German Club. Get moving. Step on it.”

As the cars pulled smoothly out, one behind the other, accelerating in tandem, Bruce was left standing in dismay on the curb. He watched till the two cars were lost from view in the supper-hour traffic.

The wooded hills west of town, especially in the higher elevations, sustained the flimsy residue of an early snowfall. The two cars slowed to a crawl on the unpaved gravel road leading a mile up through the trees to the club. The whitened trees on either side formed a glowing channel, illuminated by the headlights. It was almost past twilight. The sky still presented patches of blue, discernible at intervals through the treetops, as darkness collected under the hardwoods and pines. Soon they came in sight of the old club. The green wooden structure looked more like a hunting lodge than a gin mill. The only car parked under the pines was that of the owner and bartender, Rudy Harnisch, as Matthew brought his black sedan to a halt near the front door. Seconds later, Mrs. Fitzgibbons's Honda pulled noiselessly alongside and stopped. Getting out, Mrs. Fitzgibbons relished at once the feeling of solitariness and suspense which the whitened forest greatly magnified. She paused to look about herself in a grave manner, as though to impress upon the others collecting about her the gravity of their actions. Mrs. Fitzgibbons motioned with two fingers for Eddie and Matthew to precede her up the steps. Howard Brouillette and the two young women followed at her heels. From somewhere in the twilight, a shutter banged softly.

Inside, Howard went at once to see that the public telephone was working, while Eddie checked out the rest rooms. The club was empty, save for Mr. Harnisch, who folded up his newspaper and stepped behind the bar. Years ago, the club was headquarters for a local fraternal society called the Turn Verein. The interior consisted of thick pine ceiling beams, planked paneling, and an ornate walnut bar. Behind the bar, an immense but delicately frosted mirror reflected an array of neon-lighted beer signs. Mrs. Fitzgibbons led the way to the big table by the window that looked out on the summer beer garden, where metal chairs stood stacked atop a dozen tables; strings of electric lights dangling in the naked branches formed a visible tracery on the winter sky. Mrs. Fitzgibbons permitted the members of her party to order beer, but demanded a glass of mineral water with lime and ice for herself.

While waiting for Dolores to telephone from Mr. Hooton's summer house at the lake, Mrs. Fitzgibbons maintained an edgy silence. Her face was colorless. From time to time, she turned her full attention onto one or the other of her followers and stared concentratedly. In fact, though, Mrs. Fitzgibbons's thinking during this waiting period was unusually disorganized. For a second or two, she confused Rudy Harnisch with a tomato-faced Sacred Heart priest named Lavelle, who had married her to Larry in 1962, and who was summoned to the hospital one summer evening three years ago to give her husband his last rites. Even more confusing, a little time after that, Mrs. Fitzgibbons suddenly heard the sound of her own voice, only to realize with a start that she had been talking aloud for some while; that that segment of her brain was functioning independently.