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 not making this up,” the secretary hissed, shaking his head from side to side.
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 find people who do know what we’re looking for. For the money you’re willing to pay, we can find people willing to do just about anything.”
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 managers to deliver their midday business reports. Stoner was soon immersed in his work, thoughts of Jack Doyle dismissed.
Chapter 13
Among the numerous targets of RexCom’s recent cost-cutting program was Thaddeus “Red” Marchik, a thirty-year veteran of racing journalism who had been in RexCom’s employ for nearly five years, and fully expected to remain therein until the arrival of what he deemed to be his well-earned retirement.
The “well-earned,” however, was not an assessment shared by Marchik’s immediate supervisor, managing editor Paul Lipscomb. When Lipscomb had received the most recent staff reduction order from RexCom corporate headquarters, he began to compile a list of potential firees. Marchik’s name led off.
As Lipscomb told one of his assistants, “I don’t know why in hell we’ve kept him as long as we have. Marchik has been dogging it since Lassie was a pup. No matter where we assign him, he finds a way to slow down the pace, all the while complaining about how he’s overworked and underpaid. We used to have a summer intern take care of all the racing commission rulings that we publish in two hours a day. Marchik has somehow managed to turn this function-an almost mindless function, I might add-into a full-time operation requiring overtime, for Chrissakes! ”
He drew breath. “Marchik has got to go.”
Co-workers who heard the howl that erupted from Marchik upon being informed of his firing cowered in their cubicles. “You can’t treat a Navy veteran like this,” Marchik shouted, pounding a large fist on Lipscomb’s desk. A broad-shouldered six-footer, Marchik, even at age fifty-nine, made for a formidable sight with his sweaty face as bright as his full head of red hair.
“Red, face the facts here,” Lipscomb advised. “You just haven’t worked out for us. I couldn’t do anything to save you if I wanted to,” Lipscomb lied. “These are orders from the top.”
Marchik looked at him incredulously. “You mean Mr. Rexroth himself?”
In an attempt to mollify Marchik by making him feel important enough to be a personal concern of the media kingpin, and also anxious to get Marchik out of his office, Lipscomb nodded his head affirmatively. “He just felt it would be best for all concerned if you took your talents elsewhere.” Lipscomb struggled to keep a straight face.
Red Marchik rose to his full height. “That tub of guts will regret the day he decided that. He’ll learn you can’t fuck over a Navy veteran.” He then stormed out of Lipscomb’s office.