Читать книгу The Company You Keep - Tracy Kelleher, Tracy Kelleher - Страница 11

CHAPTER TWO

“HERE’S YOUR ORDER, THEN—Ubatuba.” Vic Golinski pointed to two enormous slabs of polished granite. They were stacked vertically in a wooden pallet in the brightly lit warehouse the size of a giant airplane hangar. Several 747s could have fit in the space with no problem. Rows and rows of identical pallets held enormous rectangles of different stone, all finished on one flat surface, rough and scored on the reverse. The high-tech space was filled with the mechanical whirring and beeping of a crane maneuvering a slab of pink-flecked granite to a flatbed truck stationed by the open garage doorway.

“Ubatuba is our largest seller and a fairly uniform stone,” Vic explained. His voice was calm, solicitous, betraying none of the awareness that myriad tasks awaited him with a timeline of “yesterday.”

He waved the young couple next to him to come closer. “Have a good look here. See how the flecks are regular and there’s no discernible veining? That’s typical of Ubatuba granite—not a lot of variation from one shipment to the next.” He ran his hand up and down the polished side of the stone. “Still, I’m delighted you came in to check out your order. I always tell customers that it’s best to come to the warehouse to see what they are getting, rather than take the salesman’s word back at the store. It’s your money and your kitchen, after all, and you want what’s best.”

The woman, her hand resting protectively on her rounded baby bump, stood with her mouth open. “It’s beautiful,” she said in awe, reaching out to touch the polished black surface for herself.

Her husband leaned in to get a better look before stepping back to take in the inventory that surrounded him. “Wow. It’s like a museum in here,” he exclaimed. “I had no idea there were so many types of granite.”

“Not just granite. We’ve got all kinds of natural stone—marble, limestone, travertine, onyx, slate—”

“Vic. Vic Golinski.” A loud announcement carried over the speaker system. “You’re wanted on line one.”

Vic looked apologetically at the couple. His football days were long past, but his large shoulders and massive build tended to dwarf those who stood next to him. “I’m sorry, but it seems I’m needed elsewhere. I tell you what. I’ve got your order information here—” he held up the clipboard “—but feel free to go ahead and take a look around. If you see something else you like, we can always change it. And when you’ve made your decision, just check back at the reception desk. That way we can finalize all the delivery arrangements.”

He shook hands and nodded goodbye before heading to the door. As he moved along the cement floor, he winced. His lower back was reminding him of last night’s pick-up game of basketball at Baldwin Gym, the basketball arena at Grantham University. It had been a mistake to play given his knees, but he hadn’t been able to resist.

He pushed open a heavy door and entered the front office space. To the left, behind a decorative wall of marble stone with a cascading fountain, were the showrooms. Mosaic patterns, multi-patterned stone floors and walls displayed a seemingly endless variety of inventory. To the right, on the other side of the long reception desk, was a warren of cubicles and some larger offices along the front wall of the building.

Two women, both talking into headsets, were stationed to greet customers. One, Abby—a middle-aged woman with raven-black hair that Clairol needed to retool—looked up when Vic passed by. As she provided directions over the phone for the warehouse’s location on Route One in central New Jersey, she raised her penciled eyebrows and made a circular motion by the side of her head, indicating that the person on the other end of the line was loco. Abby didn’t believe in subtlety when dramatization was so much more satisfying. True to form, she snapped her fingers and pointed with her manicured acrylic nails—snowflakes adorned each tip—in the direction of his office. Pronto, she mouthed emphatically.

Vic nodded but only marginally picked up his pace. He’d long ago learned that whenever anyone wanted him, somehow it was ostensibly always a crisis. That seemed to be the best job description for his position. In his opinion, there simply weren’t that many crises in the world, let alone at Golinski Stone International. And if it were a real crisis—a cave-in at a mineshaft or flames engulfing an apartment building—the chances that a washed-up football player who was now a natural stone distributor was the man for the job were slim to none.

So with his usual display of understated calm he headed for his office prepared to deal with whomever was having an anxiety attack.

No doubt it would be his brother, Joe—or maybe his father. Though Pop rarely showed at the office these days. Ever since his sister, Basia, had started divorce proceedings against “The Lousy Scumbag” and moved in with Vic’s parents, his mother and father had been drafted for babysitting duty for Basia’s three-year-old Tommy. That way, Basia could juggle waitressing at a diner in Grantham with going back to finish up her degree in accounting. Vic was convinced though that the real reason their parents—more specifically, their mother—had jumped at the idea was because she wanted to keep an eagle eye on her only grandson.

Anyway, his kid sister had had to abandon college when she’d gotten married and had a baby, which was a real shame in Vic’s opinion. Not that he didn’t think his nephew was aces. It’s just that of all Golinski siblings, Vic had always thought Basia was the one most deserving of an Ivy League education. She was scary bright, and he’d never understood why she refused to take advanced placement courses in high school.

“I want to be in classes with my friends,” she’d say with a yawn. “Don’t bug me. I’m not you.”

“No, you’re smarter than me,” he’d reply. Fat lot of good it did him. Only thing she didn’t fight him about was the violin lessons. He even paid for them to make sure she kept at it. Instead, it was his mother who hadn’t seen the point.

“The violin? How’s that going to put food on the table or help her find a husband?” his mother had repeated whenever anyone was in earshot.

“Mom, she’s got a gift. Leave her alone,” he’d responded.

His mother had just shaken her head. “I could understand if it was an instrument that she could play in the band at high school football games.”

Vic would let the matter drop.

When Basia had graduated high school, Vic had taken comfort that she’d enrolled at Rutgers, the state university in New Brunswick. Then she promptly dropped out when she got pregnant, and then got married. Vic had had the decency not to point out to his mother that, see, Basia found a husband anyway—for all the good it did her.

But before Vic could get to his office, his brother accosted him outside his own, one door down from Vic’s. “Vic, some guy from a private equity firm in Manhattan has been trying to get you for the past half hour. He said it was urgent,” Jozef or “Joe” announced, practically treading up the back of Vic’s brown Rockport shoes.

Vic didn’t respond and instead headed through the open glass door to his own modest office. The wall facing the hallway was also glass, but blinds provided partial privacy. He maneuvered past a coat stand with his blue blazer and North Face jacket and headed around to his plain wooden desk. Then he squatted down in the back corner to greet the one member of his family who never failed to live up to expectations. “Hey, beautiful girl, Roxie. How ya doin’? How’s the ear feel, huh?”

Two of the saddest brown eyes in the world looked up at him. A thick white bandage stuck out from one ear. A large white cone circumscribed her head, and in silent protest Roxie lifted her head and banged the hard plastic against his knee. But even that seemed to require too much energy, and she ended up dropping her head to her pillow.

Vic patted the long flank of the eight-year-old white golden retriever. “You’re a good dog, Roxie, and I promise you I’ll get that collar off your neck as soon as the vet gives his okay.”

“Geez, you’re more attached to that dog than any human being,” Joe complained.

Vic looked over his shoulder. “That’s because she’s a better listener and certainly more loyal than just about anybody out there.” He turned back to the dog. “Aren’t ya, sweetheart.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “Please, you’re making me ill. Just because you were taken to the cleaners by Shauna in the divorce is no reason to go all gaga over a dumb dog.”

“My ex was welcome to anything she could get her hands on—anything except you, Roxie, right?” He scratched behind the dog’s good ear. “That’s why you’ve got to look after yourself.”

Joe circled the desk to get closer to his big brother. Roxie immediately inched away on her belly. “Geez, you’d think after all these years she’d be used to me.”

Vic went on petting the dog. “She can’t help it. She had a hard life as a puppy, kicking around all those shelters. You’ve got to give her some slack.”

“So what did the vet say?” Joe asked, making an effort to show some concern.

Vic rested his hand on Roxie’s flank. “He said that the kind of tumor she had is ninety percent cancerous and spreads through the bloodstream. That’s why he also took a large part of her ear in case it had already gone beyond the lump. But we won’t know for sure until he gets the results of the biopsy in a couple of days.”

“Well, until then, you could get Mom to pray for her. Light a candle, do the whole bit. You never know.”

“Mom has her ways of dealing with problems, and I’ve got mine. I keep my nose to the grindstone and just do my job. Whatever happens with Roxie, happens. In the meantime, I’ve got the family to think about—and the hundreds of employees who depend on this company running smoothly.”

“And don’t think we’re not all eternally grateful. It certainly saves me from having to be the responsible son.” Joe commandeered Vic’s desk chair and swiveled it around to face his brother. Then he crossed his legs, the tassels on his Gucci loafers jiggling as he lazily rocked his foot.

Vic gave Roxie a final pat and stood. The dog wearily thumped her tail on the ground. “Do you mind?” Vic indicated his chair.

“Be my guest.” Joe rose and crossed the gray carpeting to the small leather sofa opposite the desk. He plopped down at one end and rapped his knuckles on the wooden arm. “But tell me, oh, wise and great brother, if you’re so responsible, why haven’t you answered your phone for the past half hour?”

Vic settled into his desk chair, slipped off his shoes and let his feet rest atop the carpet. “In answer to your question, I was showing a couple a slab of Ubatuba for their kitchen countertops.”

“One slab? Of Ubatuba? What are they doing? Upgrading their galley kitchen in some track house in Levittown? Excuse me, but what are you—the CEO of the company—doing showing small-time customers their order?” Joe glanced dismissively around the office. “You know, I think it’s about time you upgraded your décor, starting with the carpeting. What is it? Indoor-outdoor from some box store?”

“I like the carpeting.” Indeed, Vic would never tell his family, but at times he really could do without padding around barefoot on cold marble floors. “And Roxie likes it, too.”

“That dog of yours sheds all over this stuff.”

Vic was unfazed. “If it bothers you so much, there’s a vacuum cleaner in the janitor’s closet.”

Joe held up his hands. “No, thanks. Besides, Pop banned me from manual labor around the place after that incident with the forklift.”

How could Vic forget? Forty thousand dollars worth of travertine down the drain. Joe wasn’t much better when it came to driving that ridiculous Porsche 911 of his. At least whenever he wrapped that around a pole it was his insurance, not the company’s.

Vic bit back a sigh. Why was he always the responsible sibling? True, as the oldest, he bore the burden of carrying on the family business and keeping his brother and sister out of harm’s way. But deep down, he was afraid that he was just born old.

He continued in his usual mature, patient fashion. “No one else appeared to be free, and I don’t like customers standing around waiting. As I’ve said before, a CEO wears many hats and pitches in wherever needed, even on the floor dealing with first-time customers. And two, more importantly for this company, that couple placed their order through Home Warehouse, whose contract with us—as you undoubtedly know since you’re senior vice president in charge of sales—is up for renegotiation in the spring. And, seeing as they’re the largest home improvement company in America, we need to continue to be their sole supplier of natural stone. So, if we satisfy their customers with top service, word will get back—trust me—and that will place us in a much better bargaining position.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the lecture, Mr. Miyagi, my personal sensei.”

“Anytime. My ‘Wax On, Wax Off’ lecture is scheduled for tomorrow.” Vic rested his elbows on his blotter. “Now, who’s so anxious to talk to me—” he shuffled through the pink paper slips “—that he keeps calling…what…three…no, four times?”

“The head honcho at Pilgrim Investors. I checked around, and they’ve got their own building on Park Avenue, besides offices in London, Tokyo and Shanghai. Rumor has it that they’re planning a new office in Australia—the economy’s booming there what with their large supply of raw materials going directly to China. They’re players, big time—trust me.” He shot back Vic’s own words.

Vic could do without players. But business was business. “So, if there’s a possibility of new construction, why didn’t they contact you?”

Joe shook his head. “I tried pointing that out to him over the phone, but got nowhere. He’s one of those blue-blood types who only talks to the top dog. If it gets down to the nitty-gritty, then his lackeys will step in and deal with me.”

Vic rubbed his bottom lip thoughtfully. “All right, let’s see what the big man has to say. Little does he know I was born in Trenton and grew up in a row house.”

“Ah, but you’re still the one with the Grantham degree,” Joe needled him.

“See, if only you had stuck with football,” Vic replied, and he could have said, “studied a bit harder,” but he didn’t. Why rub it in? Instead, Vic picked up one of the message slips and started to punch in the number.

Suddenly, Abby stuck her head in the open door. “Hey, boss, thought I’d let you know. That young couple you helped in the warehouse?” She worked the chewing gum in her mouth. Abby was a smoker, and since there was no smoking in the building, she was a constant gum chewer in between cigarette breaks in the parking lot. “Well, they ended up going with the Verde Typhoon granite from our Platinum Collection, and are now thinking about the Yellow Bamboo stone for the vanity top in the master bath. I told them no problem—we’d hold a slab, and they could just call in the dimensions. If we don’t hear back in a day or two, I’ll follow up.”

Pleased, Vic nodded. “Good work, Abby. We just quadrupled the price of the sale. You could teach my younger brother here a thing or two.”

Abby eyed Joe and laughed knowingly. “That’s not what I heard. Word is he’s the one who likes to play teacher.”

Joe tugged at a starched cuff of his white dress shirt. His onyx cufflink winked. “Hey, anytime you want to be a pupil I’d be delighted.”

Abby threw back her head and erupted in a gagging smoker’s cough. “Please, not only am I old enough to be your mother, I have three sons of my own. No one can spot bull faster than a mother of sons.” Long divorced, Abby had grown up in the same Polish neighborhood of Trenton as Vic’s parents, and it had been his father’s idea that she work for the company.

“You two can go at it all day if you want, but some of us have work to do.” Vic picked up his phone and started to dial again.

Abby saluted and scampered off.

For a fiftysomething mom she still looked pretty good in a tight black skirt, Vic thought. He leaned on his elbow and waited, listening to the phone connection.

“Mr. Lodge’s office,” a male voice answered at the other end.

Vic shifted the phone to the right hand so he could write with his left on a legal pad. “This is Vic Golinski from GSI, Golinski Stone International. I’m returning—” he looked at the slip again since names were not his strength “—Mr. Lodge’s calls.”

“If you’ll hold, I’ll see if Mr. Lodge is available.”

“No problem.” Vic began doodling a grid pattern on the legal pad. He covered the mouthpiece and spoke to Joe. “I’m on hold for the great man.”

Then he leaned back in his chair and winked at Roxie. She blinked, her thick white lashes fluttering, but her brow remained furrowed. Roxie was one of those dogs that seemed to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders. Just look at her cross-eyed and she was convinced she had cancer. Maybe this time she was right.

“Mr. Golinski.” A gravelly male voice drawled out Vic’s name. The aristocratic overbite extended the last syllable into almost two. “Conrad Lodge III here. You’re a hard man to track down, Mr. Golinski.”

“Vic, please, and I’m sorry for the delay. Things have been slightly hectic this morning, but now I’m all yours. What can I do for you, Mr. Lodge?”

No first-name familiarity was reciprocated, not that Vic had expected anything else. But then he had a thought. Conrad Lodge? “I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but your name is very familiar.”

“Perhaps because you’ve seen me mentioned in the Wall Street Journal or the Financial Times.”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Yes, I suppose for someone in your line of work—stone and all—that wouldn’t be your usual reading matter.”

Vic didn’t feel the need to convince him otherwise. What point was there in informing him that he had an MBA from Stanford and that GSI was now the leading distributor of natural stone in North America.

No, he wasn’t about to set the record straight because he knew all about people like Conrad Lodge III. They liked to look down at people in “the stone business”—good honest people like his father, who worked with their hands and believed that if you worked hard enough, anything was possible—especially for your children.

No, he wouldn’t give Conrad Lodge III the satisfaction of knowing he’d pissed him off. “I suppose you’re right. I don’t usually get beyond the sports pages—being an ex-jock and all,” Vic responded. He leaned back in his chair and rested his stocking feet on the lip of the trash can next to Roxie’s pillow.

The dog stirred and knocked the plastic cone around her head against the black container. Clearly, it annoyed her. If Vic knew that Roxie wouldn’t bother the bandaged ear, he’d take the thing off.

Conrad chortled as if he were actually sharing the joke. “Of course. Which is exactly why I called.”

“Not many people have any interest in my short-lived football career.” Vic wasn’t being modest, merely stating a fact. But he also knew that prospective customers, once they found out about his former sports career, liked to dish the dirt. Everyone was an expert or a fan, it seemed. Then after that ritual dance, they usually got down to business. “How can I help you?” He continued to draw on the pad, adding vertical lines to the grid pattern.

“You may recall that I’ve sent you several emails regarding Grantham University, in particular Reunions in June.”

Vic had a vague recollection of deleting some emails with a Grantham email address. He figured it was yet another solicitation for the alumni fund or the latest capital campaign. Not that he didn’t value his education and the opportunities it had opened up for him, but that didn’t mean he was about to fork over more than his two hundred dollars a year that he obligingly offered. Let the Conrad Lodge the Third’s of the world dip into their ample trust funds… . With a few quick jabs, he drew some arching lines, fanning outward.

Wait a minute… Conrad Lodge III?

Vic abruptly lifted his foot off the garbage can and planted both feet firmly on the floor. “Hold it. Now I remember why I know your name.” He lay the pen on the pad. “You wouldn’t happen to be Mimi Lodge’s father?”

“Why, yes, Mary Louise is my daughter.”

Vic looked down at his pad and frowned. He’d unconsciously drawn what looked unmistakably like the fountain in the courtyard of Allie Hammie. He ripped the paper from the pad and scrunched it up.

And that’s when he hung up—without another word.