"And that would be ViatiPro or a ViatiPro investor."
"Right."
"But you'd have to know who the viator was before you could help him pack his bags for a one-way trip to heaven on the gospel train."
"Uh-huh."
Daddy steered the Chrysler onto the exit ramp and eased into the heavy traffic moving west on I-495. "ViatiPro would have the names of the viators on file, of course, but how would I, as an investor, get this kind of personal information? Surely the viators are assured of privacy?"
"One would assume so."
"So, again, if you're not considerate enough to die and make me richer, how do I find out who you are and make it so?"
"That's what I hope we're about to find out."
I'd been spending a lot of time in offices lately, but Steele's was the handsomest of the lot, occupying a suite on the top floor of a glass and steel building overlooking Route 450 and the Washington beltway.
When the elevator doors slid open and deposited us into the lobby at the stroke of three-thirty, we could see, even through the double glass doors to our right, that Steele and his staff went about their business with the hum of commerce tastefully absorbed by plush plum carpeting, dark wood paneling, and handsome, custom-upholstered overstuffed furniture.
The receptionist, a clean-cut young man who looked like be should be selling Bibles door-to-door, buzzed us in. "Mr. Steele's expecting you," be said. "Please have a seat."
I settled comfortably into a leather wingback chair that would have looked quite at home in a men's club. If I worked there, I thought, I'd spend half my time curled up in the furniture, fast asleep.
Daddy picked up a copy of Field & Stream and began leafing through it. I grabbed a National Geographic with a dinosaur on the cover and began reading about islands in the South Pacific.
On the wall behind the receptionist's head the big hand of a bronze Art Deco clock clicked slowly from VI to VII. I coughed.
The receptionist looked up.
I pointed to the clock.
He made a Y with his thumb and little finger and tapped his ear: Steele was on the telephone.
I went back to drooling over pictures of Pacific atolls.
The big hand had clicked onto the IX when the elevator doors slid open and a stocky, balding man erupted from them. When the receptionist buzzed him in, the guy-a symphony in brown with tie ends flapping-straight-armed his way through the glass doors. He brushed past without even looking our way, and loomed over the reception desk like a malevolent mushroom.
"He in?'
"He's on the phone, sir."
"I gotta see him, Matt. Now."
"If you'll just wait a minute, sir." The receptionist picked up the phone and was punching buttons as if his life depended on it. Maybe it did.
"Can't wait" The guy turned and chugged down the hall.
The receptionist leaped up with the telephone still pressed to his ear, his left hand raised as if hailing a cab. "You can't… Please! Wait!"
I peeked around the wing of my armchair in time to see the guy's brown coattails disappear around a corner.
The receptionist sat down with a resigned and audible thud that sent his chair, which must have been on wheels, rolling backward into the wall. "Shit."
"Who was that?" I asked.
He looked up, startled. "Oh, sorry about that. I shouldn't swear in front of the clients."
"That's all right," I said. "It's a technical term. I use it every day."
The young man grinned, relief flooding his face.
"So," I asked again, "who was that impatient son of a gun?"
"Nick Pottorff," he replied. "One of the investors."
My father cleared his throat importantly. "Excuse me, but we're investors, too," he complained.
"I'm sorry, sir, but-" He extended his hands, palms out, and shrugged.
I laid a hand on my father's arm. "That's okay, sweetheart. Pottorff's an impatient jerk. It's not the young man's fault."
I beamed at the receptionist. "Your name is Matt?"
"Matthew," he replied.
"Well, Matthew, my husband has a theory about brown-suited men."
Daddy raised an eyebrow as if trying to remember what, if anything, he had ever said to me about brown-suited men.
“Tell him, sweetheart," I prompted. “Tell him your theory about brown-suited men."
"Brown suit," Daddy said, sounding puzzled.
I nodded.
"Brown socks."
"Uh-huh."
“Tacky tie."
I shook my head to disagree. "Cheap. The Three Stooges on a tie is tacky. Or Christmas elves. Brown and orange triangles are just plain cheap."
"Cheap tie, then," Daddy amended.
"Right."
"And therefore…" Daddy scanned my face, desperate for help.
"Untrustworthy!" I concluded.
Matthew laughed out loud. "You're right," he said. "Pottorff's a royal pain in the ass. If I didn't need this job-" His voice trailed off. "I'm in school. University of Maryland," he explained. He raised a chemistry textbook from where he'd had it concealed under the counter. "Working here usually gives me plenty of time to study."
Daddy had returned his attention to Field & Stream, no doubt thinking I'd lost my mind with the brown-suited man bit. It was a little dopey, I admit. Just my feeble attempt to lighten the situation for a clearly embarrassed Matt.
"I'd like to go back to school," I embroidered dreamily. "Maybe to study fashion design."
Daddy looked up from the magazine and rolled his eyes. "The wife," he said carelessly, "is an expert on fashion. She has charge accounts at Saks, Neiman Marcus… "
I made a fist and punched him, hard, on the arm. "Stop it, George!"
"… Nordstrom, Lord and Taylor." Daddy might have continued the litany of department stores forever, had the telephone not rung.
Matthew answered, then looked up, relief plain in his eyes. "Mr. Steele will see you now."
The young receptionist escorted us down the hallway to a conference room where C. Alexander Steele, CEO, was seated at a round mahogany table. On a nearby credenza, a tray of coffee paraphernalia sat next to a silver bucket brimming with ice. Next to the ice, neatly arranged on a matching tray, was an assortment of bottled fruit juices and colas. There was no sign of the obnoxious Mr. Pottorff.
Steele stood up as we entered and extended a hand. "Captain and Mrs. Alexander. Welcome. Please sit down."
Steele gestured toward a sofa, chair, coffee and end-table grouping that reminded me of a living room, or what a living room might look like if one were married to Donald Trump. Daddy and I perched next to each other on the gold brocade sofa, and Steele settled his elegant, silk-clad buns into an adjoining armchair.
"May I offer you some refreshment?" Steele asked.
Daddy turned to me. "Sweetheart?"
Although my mouth was dry, I shook my head. I was so nervous I knew that if I tried to drink anything I'd probably end up sloshing it all over Steele's beautiful upholstery.
"Nothing for me, either." Daddy reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a piece of paper and laid it on the coffee table. I could see it was a printout from the Internet: Viaticals: The Perfect High Return/Low Risk Investment. For the moment, though, Daddy ignored it.
"I don't want to waste any of your time or mine, Steele, so let's get down to it," Daddy began. "One of my tech stocks went up like a rocket. I've decided to cash in and take my profits. So, I've got close to ninety thousand floating around that I'd like to put to work in something that has potential for a quick turnaround."
Steele nodded. "I hear you."
"I've got a unit trust that's maturing in a year," Daddy continued with easy confidence, although as far as I was concerned, he might as well have been speaking in tongues. "If I can turn that ninety thou around fast, then I'll have a substantial piece of change to work with.
"Viatical investments were new to me," Daddy admitted, "so I did some research." As he tapped the printout, his Naval Academy class ring captured the light from the lamp and flashed it across the ceiling.