many has he got lined up back there, Doyle wondered, as Deirdre began zipping around the track with quick little strides.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Doyle said, “how often do the shifts change?”
“As often as I want them to,” Rexroth growled. Then his expression cleared.
“I find the presence of such active beauty to be a remarkable tonic-both physical and mental. Variety…variety kick-starts creativity.
“Variety kick-starts creativity,” he suddenly shouted, startling Doyle, the dozing bulldog, and even the television-watching behemoth.
Rexroth jumped to his feet. “Stoner,” he said to his assistant, “write that down and have bumper stickers made of it for every RexCom employee. Display will be mandatory on each employee’s vehicle. Have the bumper stickers distributed along with paychecks. They’ll be taken more seriously that way.”
Rexroth shook his head, recalling past promotional and motivational schemes that had fallen short of his expectations. “It’s a shame, I sometimes think, that you have to have people working for you in order to run a business.”
Doyle remembered reading, in the background information on Rexroth that the FBI had given him, how the RexCom chairman made it a practice of once each year arriving at each of his major corporate offices to harangue the employees-his “troops.” as he referred to them-while dressed like his hero, General George S. Patton. Rexroth would strut up and down the auditorium stage in front of a huge American flag, snapping a riding crop against his polished boots, bald dome covered by a gleaming silver helmet.
Attendance was mandatory at these performances, so much so that one worried RexCom office manager, hospitalized for hemorrhoid surgery, had himself delivered by ambulance to the auditorium one year in an attempt to demonstrate his fealty. Rexroth fired him anyway once the man had returned to his job. “The troops were paying more attention to that suckass Schullman that day than they were to me,” Rexroth said, in explaining this dismissal.
After Rexroth had riffled through papers that Doyle recognized as his phonied-up resume created by the FBI agents with the cooperation of some prominent West Coast breeders who were eager to be of aid to the agency, the publisher again turned his attention to Doyle.
“I see that Aldous Bolger knows you,” Rexroth said. “He’s quite complimentary about your abilities.”
“Aldous and I go back a long way,” said Doyle, lying resolutely. He then went on to mention other aspects of his fictional career on some of California’s leading horse farms.
“Have you ever trained horses?” Rexroth asked.
“I’ve had some experience on the racetrack,” Doyle replied truthfully, “but I got tired of the traveling around. I’m engaged to be married,” he lied again, “and I thought it was time I tried to find a job with more permanence to it.” He gave Rexroth his most sincere, polished at Serafin Ltd., look. Rexroth didn’t seem either impressed or unimpressed. He looked more uninterested than anything else.
“You know the salary,” he said. “I’ll review your performance with Bolger after your first month, and we’ll see where we stand. Welcome to Willowdale,” Rexroth added, dismissing Doyle as he turned to pick up the slightly damp cellular phone.
Stoner accompanied Doyle out of the pool area and toward the front door. He must have read his boss’ body language, for he said, “Congratulations on your new job, Mr. Doyle.”
Doyle nodded. Then he said to Stoner, “Is that some sort of whirling harem Rexroth has going back there?”
“No, not necessarily. I wouldn’t describe the situation quite in those terms,” the secretary replied. “It’s true that one of the girls occasionally falls into what might be termed Rexrothian favor, and as a result takes up residence in the house. But, by and large, these women are hired for exactly what you see them doing.
“In addition to the rollerblading,” he continued, “Mr. Rexroth’s favorite of their public exercises, they also perform aerobic routines during the course of the day. He insists that the sight of them, the aesthetically pleasing counterpoint they provide to the labors required of him in operating a giant business enterprise, serve to sharpen his acumen.”
“That redhead would have my acumen standing at attention,” Doyle remarked. Stoner ignored it. He said, “Mr. Rexroth does, however, as is quite widely known, have a mistress at his New York City residence, another one on the old family homestead in Montana.” Stoner supplied this information with a touch of pride, perhaps even the hint of a vicarious thrill of possession, Doyle thought.
“Has Rexroth ever been married?”
“No, he has not.” He paused.
“As Mr. Rexroth has commented on more than one occasion, a man of his financial stature has to be extremely cautious. At the same time, as he puts it, the thought of a prenuptial agreement, something de riguer in his level of society these days, causes his ‘cock to shrivel up like a retractable telescope.’
“Not a condition a man with Mr. Rexroth’s appetites would relish,” he added.
As Doyle took one more glance back toward the girl circling the track, he saw a portly black woman, dressed as a hospital attendant, wheeling a food cart toward Rexroth’s desk. Once she’d reached it, the woman lifted a tray off the cart and placed it before Rexroth, who was rubbing his hands in anticipation. He looked up at the black woman, said something to her that Doyle could not hear, gave her a broad smile, then dismissed her with a wave of his hand. Rexroth then began to eat, with obvious relish.
Doyle looked inquiringly at Stoner. The secretary was silent, but Doyle saw that Stoner was watching him out of the corner of his eye. Stoner was waiting for Doyle to bite on this, Doyle just knew it.
“Dare I ask?…” Doyle began, but Stoner interrupted him, perhaps eager to get this explanation over with.
“Since a childhood skiing accident that put him in the hospital for an extended period,” Stoner said, “Mr. Rexroth’s favorite food has been…hospital food. He likes the servers to be as authentic as possible as well.”
Doyle said, “You’re jerking my chain here, aren’t you, Stoner?”
“I am
Doyle said, “Hospital food? In the tradition of, well, hospital food? We’re talking mystery meat, vegetable remnants, jello parts? That’s what you’re telling me?”
Stoner nodded, shrugging his narrow shoulders. In defense of his employer, he said, “It’s obviously one of those acquired tastes that few people ever acquire.”
Stoner smiled thinly as he waited on the front door threshold for Doyle to descend the broad steps of the mansion to his car. The smile left his face as Doyle’s car disappeared down the long drive, and Stoner frowned as he re-entered the mansion and walked to his office. There was something about Jack Doyle-he couldn’t put his finger on it, but it was there-that Stoner found troubling. This, despite the fact that Doyle’s impressive resume and list of references checked out perfectly.
Byron Stoner came from a business background in Toronto where he had worked in RexCom’s Canadian division, specializing in labor relations. Later, this field changed into “human relations,” but the work remained the same: finding the most effective ways to beat down the unions and slash personnel costs.
Stoner’s successes in Toronto brought him to the attention of Harvey Rexroth, and Stoner accepted the offer to become the publisher’s executive assistant, i.e. number one trouble shooter. A lifelong bachelor, with no close family remaining, Stoner had no compunction about crossing the border and eventually becoming engaged in far more serious acts than framing union officials or bribing shop stewards.
Rexroth realized early on that Stoner could be entrusted to do anything, thus leaving his employer at a presumably safe legal remove from possible recriminations. Rexroth once remarked to the little Canadian, “I’m not sure I understand how you know the kind of people we occasionally need to hire for special jobs.”
“Oh, I don’t, Mr. Rexroth,” Stoner had replied. “But I know how to
Rexroth took great pride in having secured the services of Byron Stoner. “Look at him,” Rexroth once commented, “with his thinning hair and those glasses, that expressionless face, he looks like the chief accountant in some backwater button factory. But he’s got no more morals than a musk melon.”
When Stoner entered his office, his phone message light beaconed. It was time for the various RexCom
