I rose to accept with a handshake and squeezed harder than I needed to. “Pat, I know this wasn’t an easy decision,” I told him. He brushed it off but I could tell he was very proud of the “courage” he exhibited in selecting me. “You made the right decision.”
Not one to miss an opportunity to cut someone down a peg, he shot back, “Then you have your mission. Prove it to me.”
We chatted a little bit further about the group and direction it needed to go in but he had no time for petty details. His work was done and it was time to get another coffee. At the door, I turned back to ask the question that was gnawing at me.
“Hey Pat, if you don’t mind telling me, what was it that made you go with me?”
He thought about it a moment, then said:
“You were very honest in your interview.”
The truth would be revealed some time later when I discovered the real reason I got the job. It had nothing to do with my answer in the interview but everything to do with a few well-placed telephone calls by Carl Valenti to a few select, influential men at the firm. But I wasn’t disappointed in the least. I had always believed that career success was driven by ten percent skill and ninety percent luck. I would forever be grateful for the opportunity to enter into that rarified air of upper management where one’s entire role was just to be — to be and to give opinion.
My old boss Bob Gershon questioned this foundation but that was his biggest mistake. He searched for value, for meaning in the role. The value was simply having the role in the first place.
Later that day I got Paul’s concession speech. He came into my office and gushed on and on about how happy he was for me, but I didn’t believe it for a second. I would in time hear about how Paul had done everything in his power to discredit me with anyone who would listen during the run-up to the interviews. This was revealed to me on numerous occasions after I got the promotion. It was standard corporate operating procedure to curry favor with the new lead by bad-mouthing the guy who had bad-mouthed me.
But I was the victor and needed to display a modicum of humility and to rise above it all and be the better man; righteousness came easily when I had all the power. I put out my hand and Paul, in typical Paul fashion, took hold of it and pulled me in close for a big man-hug. He slapped me hard on my back, too hard, and I winced from the still lingering pain from the hammer blows.
“Paul, let’s meet next week to discuss the obesity campaign,” I offered as an olive branch. Paul accepted it enthusiastically and rattled off several new ideas on how to make it a success. I just smiled to myself because I knew that my very first decision as head of the group was to cancel all work on the campaign. Paul’s rabid pursuit of anyone over a hundred and fifty pounds would finally come to an end, and the one great accomplishment of my career would be what I chose not to pursue.
I had other designs for Paul. And decorum be damned, I was going to make his life a living hell. His first job for me was to make a recommendation on whether we should renew the contract with Badger as our lead investigator. I would let him do the due diligence he needed to discover all of the unseemly details about Badger. I would let him passionately recommend that we terminate relations with him and his firm. And I would wait until the very end before I over-ruled him without even the slightest of reasons why. Badger was someone I wanted around.
No one wanted Sami Halilayen around. He was convicted of the murder of Morgan McIlroy and sentenced to life. Police easily pieced together the events that led to her being strangled in the back seat of her own car and it ended up being a fast trial. Morgan was one of Sami’s many conquests, one of several involving underage girls. Upon learning about his relationship with Jeanette, she confronted him in a meeting at the parking lot in Chinatown. She threatened to dismantle whatever fragile spiritual empire he was building, never mind the threat to land him in state prison for statutory rape, and for that she had to be killed.
There never was any link between Sami and Tala’s activities to extort money. As far as the police were concerned, they were separate incidents. There were surprisingly few details about Morgan’s murder in the press and no charges were ever filed for the illegal acts he performed on underage girls, one of which resulted in a baby boy. For once the influence of the powerful resulted in a good deed — it was better for all involved if the past remained in the past.
As for Valenti and the others, it became clear that they didn’t want me around much either. I tried several times to connect with the Valenti clan but all of my feelers went unanswered. It felt like a non-verbal dismissal. I instead followed their lives from afar through the press.
The museum plan for the edge of Chinatown was scratched in favor of a different spot further up the hill in the Alpine district. It was another random spot but maybe not as random as it looked on the surface. Gao Li was back in the fold as he and Valenti formed a partnership to develop the area into a mixed-use space with the museum serving as the cultural centerpiece. Valenti had seized upon the opportunity with his granddaughter in the birthing clinic to knock Gao Li off his perch. But they were each man enough to put their differences aside when this new opportunity arose — money once again proved to be the great uniter. There they were on the TV praising each other’s virtues as they unveiled the elaborate design for the new museum. Valenti had hired a new architect who clearly understood his vision and the need for that third story with his name emblazoned across the top.
Also back in the fold was the hapless Jeff Schwartzman. He was there during all of the ceremonies but you sort of had to look for him back among the throngs of people. He was the one smiling the most. Valenti had pardoned him for past sins and granted him that which he wanted all along — directorship of the museum. He had the title but it was unclear if any power came with it. I had the sense Jeff only wanted the title.
It was too late to remove the ballot initiative that was at the heart of the museum conflict. As autumn fell over the city, voters went to the polls and overwhelmingly endorsed a measure they didn’t understand. Some bright developer would eventually exploit this unwanted measure in the years to come but for now it was just a bunch of meaningless words etched forever in the books of this great city.
With autumn came the bright days and cooler nights, and my desire for central air conditioning dissipated but not my desire for the hundred grand that I was supposed to use to install it. Valenti stiffed me on the payment. Perhaps he thought saving my job was enough of a reward but I never would have needed that offer if I didn’t get involved with him in the first place. I let my anger fester until one Saturday I decided to confront him. I drove out to Benedict Canyon and parked my car in front of the Valenti compound. I waited most of the day before the front gate. I convinced myself that I needed that money but inside I knew it was for other reasons.
Late in the afternoon the front gate swung open, and I saw the black sedan coming down the driveway. I got out of my car and stood in the middle of the entrance to block it from leaving. The sedan slowed to a stop. Hector was at the wheel. He stared at me from behind dark glasses. I could see the white-haired gentleman in the backseat. I went around to the side of the sedan, the rear window rolled down, and Valenti stuck his head out.
“Let me guess,” he smiled, “you want your money.”
“Fuck off,” I told him. “I want to talk to Hector.” There was a long, awkward pause. “Alone,” I said.
Eventually the rear door opened and the old man dragged himself out. I watched him take the long walk back towards the house and at that moment it was worth far more than any hundred thousand dollars.