For some time Lord had been conscious of another young man, seated on a bar stool a few yards distant, who had occasionally glanced their way. Now he looked at them again, and this time Redmond returned the look and smiled, holding up the money before putting it away. The other smiled back. Lord felt a sense of distaste. Redmond said cheerfully, "I guess that's it, then.”
"I just have one question," Vincent Lord told him.”It's something I'm curious about.”
"Ask away.” Lord touched the manila envelope whose contents he had bought.”Why did you do this to Dr. Mace?" Redmond hesitated.”Something he said to me.”
"Like what?" "If you must know," Redmond said, his voice shrill and spiteful, "he called me a lousy fag.”
"What's wrong with that?" Lord said as he rose to go.”You are one, aren't you?" Before leaving the bar, he glanced back. Tony Redmond was glaring after him, his face contorted, white with rage.
For a week Vincent Lord debated within himself what to do, or not to do. He had still not decided when he encountered Sam Hawthorne. "I hear you were in Washington," Sam said.”I presume it had something to do with that money I authorized.”
Lord nodded.”Presumption right.”
"I'm not one for playing games," Sam said.”And if you think you're protecting me, forget it! I've a natural curiosity. I want to know.”
"In that case I need to get some papers from my office safe," Lord told him.”I'll bring them to you.”
A half hour later, when he had finished reading, Sam whistled softly. His face was troubled.”You realize," he told the research director, "that if we don't do something about this immediately, we're accessories to a crime.”
"I suppose so," Lord said.”But whatever we do, if it comes out in the open it will be messy. We'd have to explain how we got those papers. Also, at FDA, no matter who was right or wrong, they'd hate us and never forget.”
"Then why in hell did you get us into this?" Lord answered confidently, "Because what we have here will be useful, and there are ways of handling it.”
Lord was unperturbed; for reasons he was unclear about, he felt at ease in this situation, and in control. He had decided now, within the past few minutes, what was the best course to pursue. He told Sam, "Look, there was a time when I thought something like this would help move Staidpace along, but that problem is behind us. There will be other problems, though, and other drugs, and other NDA's we'll want approved without the unreasonable delay we had with Staidpace.”
Sam said, shocked, "Surely you're not suggesting...”
"I'm not suggesting anything. Except that sooner or later we're certain to come up against Mace again and, if he gives us trouble, we've ammunition we can use. So let's do nothing now, and save it until then.”
Sam was already standing. While considering what had just been said, he moved restlessly around the room. At length he growled, "You may be right. But I don't like it.”
" Neither will Mace," Lord said.”And permit me to remind you that he is the criminal, not us.”
Sam seemed about to say something more, but Lord spoke first.”When the time comes, let me do the dirty work.”
As Sam nodded reluctantly, Lord added silently to himself, I might even enjoy it.
Early in 1975, Celia was again promoted. Her new job was as director of pharmaceutical sales, a post that made her a divisional vice president and positioned her one notch below the vice president for sales and marketing. For anyone who had begun working in sales as a detail person, it was an excellent achievement. For a woman it was extraordinary. But there was one thing Celia noticed nowadays. Within Felding-Roth, the fact that she was a woman no longer seemed to matter. Her sex was taken for granted. She was judged-as she had always wanted to be-on how well she performed. Celia had no illusions that this acceptance held true in a majority of business firms, or for women generally. But it showed, she believed, that a woman's chances of reaching the top echelons of business were growing and would improve still more. As with all social changes, there had to be pioneers, and Celia realized that she was one. However, she still took no part in activist movements, and some of the newcomers to women's rights groups embarrassed her with their stridency and clumsy political pressures. They appeared to view any questioning of their rhetoric--even an honest difference of opinion by a man-as chauvinist. Also apparent was that many such women, without achievements of their own, were using women's activism as substitute careers. Although, in her new job, Celia would have less direct contact with Sam Hawthorne than she'd had for the preceding three years, Sam made it clear that she still had access to him at any time.”If you see something in the company that's important and wrong, or think of something we ought to be doing and aren't, I want to hear about it, Celia," Sam told her during her last day as special assistant to the president. And Lilian Hawthorne, during a pleasant dinner for Celia and Andrew at the Hawthornes' home, had raised a glass and said, "To you, Celia-though selfishly I wish you weren't moving on because you made life easier for Sam, and now I'll worry about him more.”
Also at dinner that night was Juliet Hawthorne, now nineteen and home briefly from college. She had become a beautiful, poised young woman who seemed to have suffered not at all from the attention lavished on an only child. Escorting her was a, pleasant, interesting young man whom Juliet introduced as "Dwight Goodsmith, my boyfriend. He's studying to be a lawyer.”
Celia and Andrew were impressed with both young people, Celia reflecting how short a time ago it seemed that Juliet and Lisa, as small children in pajamas, had chased each other through this same room where they were dining. After Lilian's toast to Celia, Sam said with a smile, "What Celia doesn't know yet, because I only approved a memo about it late today, is the real promotion. She now has her own parking slot on the catwalk level.”
"My God, Daddy!" Juliet said, and to her friend: "That's like being selected for the Hall of Fame.”
The so-called catwalk level was the top floor of a garage and parking structure alongside the Felding-Roth headquarters building. The level was reserved for the company's most senior officers who could park their cars, then use a convenient glassed-in ramp to reach the opposite story of the main building where a private elevator whisked them to the eleventh floor and "executive country.”
Sam was one of those who used the catwalk level and parked his silver-gray Rolls-Bentley there each day, preferring it to a chauffeured limousine to which, as president, he was entitled.
Others in the company with lesser status used lower parking levels, then had to take an elevator downward, cross to the other building in the open, and go up again. There was more good-natured banter about Celia's "double elevation" before the evening ended. In their car going home, Andrew, who was driving, said, "It turned out to be a wise decision you made, years ago, to hitch your career to Sam's.- "Yes," Celia said, then added, "lately I've been concerned about him.”
"Why?" 'He's more driven than he used to be, and he agonizes when something doesn't go right, though I suppose both things go with big responsibility. But there are also times when he's secretive, as if there are things he's worrying about but doesn't want to share.”
"You've enough responsibility of your own," Andrew reminded her, "without taking on Sam's psyche too.”
"I suppose so. You get wiser every day, Dr. Jordan.”
Celia squeezed her husband's arm gratefully. "Quit making sexual advances to the driver," Andrew told her.”You're distracting him.”