Shake the Trees (7 page)

“One more and that’s it.  I mean it this time.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

Sandi reached over and placed her hand on top of Sam’s.  “Sam, it’s not just you.  It’s me too.  I’ve been fixing myself and it’s taken a long time.  I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”  As Sam stood up, Sandi noticed his eyes were full.

“I need to wash this honey off my hands,” Sam continued as he bent over and briefly kissed her on the lips.

Dustin’s mouth dropped open in shock and disgust.  “Ewww!  That’s gross!”  His comments were loud enough for several of the surroundings diners to hear, and he looked to them fully expecting unanimous agreement.

CHAPTER 8

The sun was low over the Gulf of Mexico when Sam’s flight began its descent.  Now it was nearly dark.  As he rocked back and forth on the tram as it traveled from his gate to the main terminal, Sam turned his cell phone back on to check on Sandi and Dustin.  Then he remembered that it was two hours earlier there and not even dark yet.  They were probably still on the road.  In an area without cell service.  He would have to remember to call later.  People died every year in accidents on the switchbacks of the high mountain roads to San Luis.

As Sam left the secure portion of Tampa International Airport, a tanned young man with sun-bleached hair approached him.  The surfer look contrasted starkly with the conservative suit and tie the fit looking Floridian was wearing.

“Mr. Norden?”

“Yes.  I’m Sam Norden.”  Sam was momentarily frightened that something really had happened to Sandi, and this man was delivering the bad news.

“Mr. Norden, your limo is waiting.  If I could have the claim tickets for your luggage, I will collect your bags.”

Sam suddenly felt silly for his reaction.  “You’re from A.S.S.?”

The young man smiled.  “We prefer American Senior Security, or just American.  But, yes sir, I am.  I know that you will want to freshen up, sir.  The bags will be delivered to your room as soon as possible.”

Sam dug the luggage claim check from the back pocket of his jeans and handed it to the polite young representative of his potential new employer.

“Thank you, sir.  There’s your limo.”  The young man pointed to shiny new black Cadillac idling at the curb.  A uniformed driver was standing at attention next to an open rear door.  Sam turned to express his appreciation, but the American employee was already halfway to the luggage carousel.     

Sam walked through the automatic glass doors and the chauffeur smiled as he approached.

“Good evening, Mr. Norden. I hope you had a pleasant flight.”

“Good evening.  It was fine, thanks.” 

Sam slid into the passenger compartment of the limousine, and the door closed behind him.  The passenger area was separated from the driver by opaque glass, and he was surrounded by leather and walnut.  A small bar had been set up near the center of the compartment, a laptop computer was arranged on a retractable table - it was already logged onto the internet via satellite link and its cursor was blinking, and a small LCD screen hung from the roof tuned to some business channel with its volume muted and a stock ticker scrolling across the bottom of the image.  Suddenly the opaque glass turned clear and the driver’s voice could be heard in stereo from unseen speakers.

“Is everything satisfactory, Mr. Norden?”

“Uh.  Sure.”

“Sir, we will be traveling via the causeway to the Gulf beaches.  The trip should take no longer than twenty minutes.  Should I proceed directly to the Alhambra, or would you prefer the scenic route?”

“The Alhambra?”

“I’m sorry, sir.  I mistakenly assumed that the staff had provided you with an itinerary.  My apologies.  You will be staying at The Alhambra Resort.  It’s magnificent, sir.  I’m sure that you will be pleased.”

“Sounds good.”  There was a long pause before Sam remembered that he had been asked a question.  “Oh, the scenic route sounds nice.”

“Very good, sir.”  The glass partition became opaque again.

Sam was enjoying the tropical green foliage as revealed by the streetlights, when the vehicle slowed to a crawl and the white sands of the beach and the shimmering nighttime waters of the Gulf came into view.  Sam thought he’d found the button to lower the window of the door he was sitting next to, but when he pushed it every window lowered and all three sunroofs retracted.  His hair was tousled and a refreshing warm breeze of salty air filled the vehicle.  Soon a huge fairy tale like structure appeared.  It was obviously Mediterranean, or maybe Moroccan, in design, and it was obviously pink in color.  As the black Cadillac pulled under the portico and stopped next to a white Rolls Royce, an attendant wearing a red uniform trimmed in black and gold and a red fez with a gold tassel rushed to open his door.

“Welcome to the Alhambra, Mr. Norden.  Your aide has already delivered your bags.  May I show you to your suite?”

“Sure,” Sam said as he stepped out of the limo.

The limo driver appeared as Sam stood.  “I’ll pick you up at nine thirty for your meeting with Mr. Mason, if that is satisfactory, Mr. Norden.”

“Certainly,” said Sam as he reached for his wallet.

“Oh, no, Mr. Norden.  I’m an American employee.  I’ll look forward to seeing you again in the morning.  Have a pleasant evening, sir.”

“Thank you,” Sam replied as the driver smiled.

“This way, sir,” the valet prompted.

The two-room suite was an opulent collection of dark wood, cream-colored marble and richly colored carpets and drapes.  His luggage had been delivered to his room and the hanging clothes placed in the closet.  The American aide had left a note with his cell number.  The note went on to inform Sam that the hotel restaurant was excellent.  The entire menu was available from room service.  He particularly recommended the crab-stuffed grouper with baby lobster tails in sherry cream sauce.

Later that evening, after consuming his room service meal and most of a bottle of pinot grigio, Sam moved to the small balcony and inhaled the heady fragrance of the tropical blooms in the gardens below.  He stared pensively thru the intricate design of the wrought iron railing.  He was concerned.  Not about Sandi. He had called earlier - she’d returned home before dark to check on the maternity ward, and was in the midst of preparing supper.  Sam was concerned about the inside of his arteries. 

The heavy lunch at Tia Vera’s and the mounds of shellfish covered in butter and cream had caused Sam to think about his family history of heart disease.  And he wasn’t even drinking red wine.  He had never thought about his long-term health before.  He was either too young or simply didn’t care.  He was beginning to care for the first time, and he knew why.  He had been thinking about her ever since he left Albuquerque.

Sam was impressed by the recently leased offices of American Senior Security, Incorporated.  The three-story glass and stainless steel structure was just off Westshore Boulevard, and near the causeway and the airport.  The first floor contained several high-end boutiques, while the rest of the building belonged to American.  The second floor was shared by the Operations Division and the Finance and Investments Division.  The third floor, which actually had a view of the bay, held the Data Mining Division and the Marketing and Sales Division.  And, of course, the executive offices of Marc Mason.

The same young man that had met Sam at the airport had also given him a complete tour of the facility upon his arrival that morning.  Sam had met the Directors of both the Operations Division and the Investments Division.  Both were polite, but typically driven executives with obviously important tasks to attend to.  The Director of the Data Mining Division had not yet arrived for work.  President and Chief Executive Officer Marc Mason was also Acting Director of the Marketing and Sales Division.  Apparently, this was a title he hoped to relinquish, although Sam understood that no one else had ever held the position.  As Sam entered his office, Marc Mason jumped up and rushed to greet him.

“Sam, I can’t tell you how delighted I am to finally meet you.”

“I’m very glad to meet you as well, Mr. Mason.”  Sam was attempting to conceal his surprise at both the youth of the executive and his casual attire.  Everyone else had seemed so buttoned up.

“Please, call me Marc.”

“Sure, Marc,” Sam replied.

“Sam, please have a seat, and Susie I’d like a latte no foam.  Sam?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“So, Sam, did you get a chance to look over the materials we sent you?

“Yes, sir.”

“And did the Ops and Investment guys bring you up to speed on their domains?”

“Very impressive,” Sam nodded.

“And I’m sure that Dr. Bob wasn’t in yet, was he?”

“Dr. Bob?”

Marc smiled.  “Robert Delgado Martinez, Jr.  Director of the Data Mining Division.  Sam, you need to understand right off the bat that Dr. Bob is a genius.  I’m serious.  His freaking IQ is off the damn charts.  He’s also weird as hell, but he’s my friend.  And the success of this company is, in large part, attributable to his unique skills.”

Marc paused briefly and then continued.  “Sam Norden, please meet Dr. Bob.”

Before Sam could turn around, he realized that Dr. Bob must have been standing in the doorway for the little speech that Marc Mason had just delivered.  Suddenly two hands grasped his shoulders and held him in his seat.

“Don’t get up, dude.”

Sam tipped his head back and nearly brushed a scraggly three-inch long goatee with his forehead.  Sam tipped his head farther back and found himself looking into beady bloodshot eyes behind tiny granny glasses, all on a face that still had to be in its twenties.

“How they hangin’ cowboy?”

“Okay,” Sam replied.

“What’s with the monkey suit?”

Sam turned slightly to look at Dr. Bob’s attire.  The Grateful Dead t-shirt looked like it was held together by memory.  Baggy shorts ended just below his knees.  The flip-flops looked like they needed to be sterilized.

Suddenly Marc spoke up.  “Sam, there are three people in this company that wear whatever they want.  Me, Dr. Bob, and you.  We don’t have anybody to impress.” 

Dr. Bob was now massaging Sam’s shoulder muscles.  Sam looked at Marc.  “I’m trying to impress you.”

“You’ve already done that, Sam.”

“What about the other Division Directors?

“They wear suits and ties,” Marc responded.

“We don’t even allow those assholes on our floor, dude.” Dr. Bob added.

Marc cleared his throat to change the subject.  “Sam, my intuition tells me that you think our business plan is a little on the sleazy side.”

Sam had that deer in the headlights look.  Marc had hit the nail on the head, but Sam certainly hadn’t said anything like that to anybody - even Sandi.

Marc smiled and continued.  “That’s okay, Sam.  It’s a common misperception.  Dr. Bob has a little road trip planned that should allay those concerns.  Don’t you, Dr. Bob.”

Dr. Bob took his cue and finished up the shoulder massage by messing up Sam’s hair - just the way Sam did to Dustin.  “Come on, Dawg.  I haven’t had breakfast yet.  I’m starving.”

Where are we going?” Sam asked as he and Dr. Bob settled into the limo.

“To the plane, Dawg.”

“I thought I was dude, or cowboy,” Sam joked good-naturedly.

“You were.  But it looks like Marc wants you.  So now you’re The Dawg.”

“So the Director of Sales and Marketing is The Dawg?”

“Exactly.”

“What is Marc?”

“The Master.”

“Okay.  I get it.  The Dawg serves The Master?”

“Exactly.”

“What are you?”

“I feed The Dawg.”

“The Director of Data Mining feeds The Dawg?”

“Of course.”

“What about everybody else?”

“Worker ants.”

“Where are we going?”

“The plane.”

“When do we leave?”

“After we eat.”

“Where do we eat?”

“On the plane.”

“Huh?”

Dr. Bob laughed.  “American leases a corporate jet. A CitationJet.  It’s staffed and catered.  Two pilots and two stewardesses.  I ordered blue crab omelets, sweet rolls, and fresh squeezed orange juice.” 

Dr. Bob’s eyes seemed to glaze over as he apparently contemplated the breakfast he’d ordered.  “What was I talking about?”

“Why we eat before we leave.”

“Oh, yeah.  We’re going to The Palms Gracious Living Retreat.  It’s one of our elder resorts in Venice, Florida.  About a hundred miles south of here.  It’s like twelve minutes in the air.  Straight up and then straight down.”

“Why are we taking a catered private jet for a twelve minute flight?”

Dr. Bob looked Sam in the eyes as if he was attempting to communicate a critical point.  Then pointed both index fingers at Sam and cocked both thumbs.

“Because . . . ?”  Dr. Bob asked. 

“I’m The Dawg?”  Sam replied tentatively.

Dr. Bob simultaneously released both thumbs.  “BAM!”