STIX N’ BRIX
Joe Keppler
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 Joe Keppler
This book is also available in print at http://stixnbrixbook.com/
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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This book is dedicated to my wonderful wife, Linda. Thank you, beautiful, for always believing in me.
C H A P T E R 1
She’s up earlier than normal, he thought as he rolled over to glance at the clock. “Hey, what are you doing up so early?”
She barely even slowed down to answer the question as she moved from the bathroom to her new, spacious walk-in closet. “Hey hon, could I get you to do me a big favor?” she asked, instead of directly answering his original question.
“Sure, what’s up?” he replied. He knew where this was going.
“I’d kinda like to get to work early this morning so I can get home by three to try and finish painting the family room tonight. I was hoping to wrap it up before midnight. I’m really excited about how it’s coming together. Do you mind getting the kids ready this morning?”
“Sure, no problem. I don’t have to be in the office first thing.” He knew how excited she was about decorating the new house. They had worked hard to get in the position of being able to afford it, and now they were both looking forward to transforming their new Bradlin Home into something they could call their own.
“You’re the best.” She turned and smiled. “I can’t wait to finish the family room so we can get started on the kitchen. I really want to try out that faux painting technique we saw on TV a couple weeks ago. It’ll make the kitchen look so elegant.”
He knew she was happy with the way things had been working out. The least he could do was to keep things positive by getting the kids up, dressed, fed and off to day care.
“Oh, and hon, are you okay if I take your Explorer and you take my car? That way we don’t have to transfer the kids’ car seats.”
“Yeah, that works for me. Just remember… no food crumbs, right?”
“Yeah, whatever,” she exhaled, just before she jumped on the bed to engulf him in a passionate embrace. “I just love this place… and you too, of course.”
* * *
The sun was already up and so was the humidity as she fit the key in the ignition of the impeccably clean vehicle. Even though it had over 50,000 miles on the odometer, it looked as if it had just been driven off the showroom floor. But as she put it in gear and began backing out of the driveway, she immediately knew something was wrong, and she knew exactly what it was. “Dammit, I can’t believe this happened again! There’s no way!” She slammed her fists against the steering wheel in disgust. “He’s going to go ballistic,” she sighed as she got out of the car and pushed the driver door shut. This morning was going too well, she thought as she fumbled to put her key in the front door. “Damn, he’s going to be really pissed.”
* * *
“Hey, who’s in charge here?” he shouted to the half asleep quintet of carpenters. They weren’t paying him much mind as they moved about slowly but with purpose. They were collectively pulling air hoses and extension cords out from both the rear and side doors of their windowless van. “Hey you, yeah you, I’m talking to you. I want to know who in the hell is in charge!” he demanded even louder this time. Still, no one turned to look at him. It was as if they were deaf and he was mute. “If somebody doesn’t tell me who’s in charge right now, I’m going to call the police.” That got their attention.
“Hey man, we not making no noise,” one of the crew-members reluctantly offered. “We no start no saws cutting yet, amigo. We just setting up.” The carpenter just shrugged and walked back to unload the rest of his tools from his truck. “Qué tonto,” he muttered, paying no more attention to the irritated homeowner.
“I don’t care about you making noise. I want someone to reimburse me for my damaged tires. You guys are dropping nails wherever you damn well please and they’re ending up in my tires. I’m sick of it. This is the third time in less than two weeks. I want you – no, I demand that you stop dropping nails out in the street right now. Do you hear me? And I want to be reimbursed for three tires damaged beyond repair. Now, which one of you is going to write me a check for my tires?”
He had worked himself up into a pretty decent lather. The early morning heat combined with the stress of his rampage was draining the sweat from his pores. He wasn’t normally the confrontational type, but he was tired of what was happening. He felt like he had to make a stand to tell these contractors that their actions were unacceptable. “Okay, this is the last time I’m going to ask: who the hell is in charge?” He tried to make eye contact with the man who had spoken up just moments earlier, but it didn’t happen. The crew just kept moving tools from their van into the house under construction.
“Okay, that’s it, I’m calling the police and maybe they’ll bring the Immigration people with them. Then we’ll see who’s not talking!” With those threatening words hanging in the air like a dagger, one of the men dropped the nail gun he was carrying and quickly began making his way toward him. Just as he was within striking distance, the man stuck out his hand, pointed over his shoulder and said, “Mister, there is man in charge.” The carpenter smirked at him and slowly turned and walked away.
All hell broke loose as the jacked up, fire engine red pickup truck screeched to a sudden halt mere feet away from the homeowner. “Qué pasa, Pedro?” the driver shouted out to his crew chief as he jumped down from his monster truck. “You got all the stuff you need for the house, amigo?” he asked, totally ignoring the stranger standing in the street.
“Hey, are you in charge?” the irate homeowner shouted out to the all of five-foot-five inch Whit Thomas.
“And you are?” Thomas asked, turning to face him begrudgingly.
“My name is Peabody. I live in that house. That’s my SUV in the driveway. It’s there because the tires are flat again. It’s had three flat tires since we moved in because you guys keep dropping nails in the middle of the street. Sir, I demand you reimburse me for my damaged tires.”
“Excuse me?” was all the amused contractor could say.
Feeling a little more confident in confronting the much smaller Thomas, the homeowner stepped up just a few inches or so from the owner of WT Contracting. Towering over Thomas by at least half a foot, he leaned down and looked him squarely in the eyes. “You heard me, asshole. I want three new tires. And you’re going to pay for them.”
Thomas lowered his head as he ran his hands through his hair. Restraint was not one of his stronger skills. But this was a homeowner, and he didn’t care to discover the ramifications of entering into a physical confrontation with a builder’s customer. He certainly never hesitated mixing it up with builder personnel on the job site, but a homeowner? Probably not a smart thing to do he reasoned. But then again… “Listen, sport, you better get out of my face. Right now,” Thomas warned.
“You listen to me, pal,” he said as sarcastically as he could, “I want to be reimbursed, you hear me?”
“I’ve got your reimbursement right here,” Thomas laughed as he grabbed his crotch and turned around to see his crew’s reaction to his antics.
The homeowner had had enough. He grabbed Thomas’ shoulder to turn him around. This move proved to be a game changer.
Being the runt of the litter, Whit Thomas had gotten used to being bullied very early on in his life. He spent his teen years learning how to defend himself, winning a number of Golden Gloves in the process and proving to all that tested him that he was, in fact, much tougher than he appeared.
Thomas made the first move but it wasn’t to throw the first punch. He had the presence to feign a move so he could let the other man be the documented aggressor. Peabody seemed happy to oblige. His punch barely glanced off Thomas’ chin, which was exactly what Thomas had planned. The next three blows came from Thomas and hit the man squarely in his stomach. He fell to his knees gasping for air. Thomas grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him up to his level.
“Okay, sport, you had enough, or you want some more?”
“You bastard. You won’t get away with this. I’ll have you arrested.”
“Go ahead, sport. You just go ahead and try to do that. I’ve got five witnesses saying you came after me first. I’ve got your skin on my chin. Got your DNA right here.”
Stunned at first, the homeowner’s anger quickly returned and he spat out, “You son of a bitch! You’re going to pay for this. You think this is over?”
Thomas let go of his shirt and pushed the man away. He stumbled backwards.
Thomas turned and walked away, not even breathing hard as he sarcastically said, “Come on, boys, we’ve got work to do. Gotta get this house done so we can move on to the next one. We gotta make our builders and their customers satisfied.”
C H A P T E R 2
Charles violently pounded his fist on the salon’s hand carved teak coffee table. He was oblivious to the lurching motion of his luxurious surroundings and inattentive to the action taking place just past the smoked glass sliding door separating him and his companion from the rest of the group. “We’ve got to do something to stop this from happening,” he demanded. “Vinny, this guy is capable of blowing it for all of us.”
Vincent D. Kastanza didn’t share the same sense of urgency as his bumbling employer, Charles Bradlin. “Charles,” Vinny sighed, “the old man hasn’t even hired the guy yet. Granted, he probably will, but it’ll be okay, trust me.” Charles, prone to fits of paranoia, calmed somewhat whenever Vinny used his trademark “trust me” line.
As Vinny soothed his boss’s easily stoked temper, a completely different struggle was taking place just outside the plush interior of the richly appointed fishing boat.
“Take your hand off the reel and let him have all the line that he wants,” the first mate instructed Billy. “Let him run deep so he swallows the friggin’ hook!”
Just then, Billy Capel’s shout pierced the air, “He got away, he’s gone!”
“No way, chief. He’s still there,” the veteran first mate, Darryl, insisted. “Keep your eye on the water over there, about thirty yards just aft. He’s about to break the surface. You’re about to see the prettiest sight you can imagine. So start reelin’ in the line, quick but smooth now,” Darryl coached Billy in typical Carolina boatman control.
At that exact moment, with almost magical timing, the prize trophy did indeed become airborne. All hands on deck knew from previous encounters that once an Atlantic blue marlin breaks the dark-blue, white capped ocean’s surface to begin its graceful, seductive dance, it was easy to become hooked on the near spiritual allure of sport fishing. “Tighten up the slack in the line,” Darryl shouted, more out of encouragement than direction. “He’ll try to spit out that hook, so don’t give him any quarters. Keep that line taut.”
“How big do you think he is?” Billy shouted back over his shoulder, grimacing in pain. He hadn’t been latched onto the fish for more than a few minutes and already his lower arms were beginning to burn from the weight of his reluctant catch. Before anyone had an opportunity to reply, the balance of power was literally thrown into reverse. The powerful single Cummins diesel engine launched the massive 58-foot Carolina custom-built sports fisher into a near instantaneous retreating direction. It was as if the awesome power of that dancing fish was pulling the twenty-three ton boat backwards.
“It’s at least a three, maybe four-hundred pounder,” roared Captain Max from the fly bridge over the heavy metal whining of his boat’s massive power plant. “We’re gonna be here for a while, so get comfortable and listen good to what Darryl tells you to do if you want to bring him in,” Max bellowed with undeniable authority.
C H A P T E R 3
The furthest thing from Martin Sampson’s mind was fighting some damn fish. He had his own battle looming and so far he wasn’t fairing very well. But what was most defeating to Sampson was the simple fact that he couldn’t reach his boss. Charles Bradlin had told Martin to call him just as soon as the engineer’s report came in, no matter what. The technical evaluation regarding the soils condition of Grants Landing, the fifty-acre site Martin was responsible for, had just arrived and it was just as damaging as the previous engineering company’s findings. According to the report, there were serious concerns with the soils on site. Significant enough concerns for a site development manager like Martin to be in a desperate fit to reach his boss.
In addition, Martin had another dilemma. He had a small army of earth moving equipment mobilized to develop the site, but with this newly arrived engineering report, he had to decide if it would be prudent to move forward. Whether or not all of those dozers, front-end loaders, pans and monster dump trucks moved a cubic yard of good or bad dirt, Bradlin Homes was paying big bucks just to have them sit idly by. With an anticipated weather front likely to bring heavy rains within the next thirty-six hours, Martin Sampson was beyond frustrated. He was certifiably desperate at this point. Aside from the steep costs of keeping all of that heavy equipment parked in formation, every day that slipped by without progress meant the loss of meaningful bonus dollars for him. He had to reach Charles to find out what he wanted him to do. He certainly wasn’t going to take it upon himself to make the critical decision of moving tons of shit for dirt. That just wouldn’t be acceptable in Charles Bradlin’s way of thinking.
Martin was growing increasingly impatient. Neither of Charles’ cell phones were in range forty miles offshore of the Outer banks. Charles had no desire to be at sea, but he had no say in the matter. Once he heard what his land development manager Martin Sampson had to report, he’d be pissed Herschel had demanded he be fishing. Really pissed.
C H A P T E R 4
“You’re telling me that after all I’ve done for you, that’s the best you can do for me?” Brett Bradlin shouted into the phone.
“What exactly do you mean by ‘all that you’ve done for me?’” Whit Thomas coldly shouted right back at Brett. He was still on edge after his early morning customer confrontation. “If it wasn’t for you and your damn father screwing up a good thing, I wouldn’t be in the precarious position I’m in right now!” Thomas screamed. “I can’t get any of my sub crews to work on your job site. You’re the reason I’m losing all of my moneymaking crews. So listen to me, you little snot, you seem like a decent enough kid, but you’re in way over your head. I’m going to give you some free advice, and you better damn well listen closely to what I have to say. Get help from some of the older guys before you screw up things so bad that they can’t be fixed… like your old man has managed to do with your grandfather’s company.”
Those were the last words Brett heard before the line went dead.
Charles Bradlin’s only son, Brett, had been thrown into the role of a full-blown superintendent when the previous superintendent unexpectedly resigned. Brett, two months out of college, had worked summers for his grandfather’s company and was a bright young man who enjoyed the business. He was, however, woefully unprepared for this type of big people’s world responsibility.
One of the company’s best construction managers, Scot Kruper, had been working closely with Brett for the past few months. He was a highly regarded home building veteran who had been with the company for over ten years. He inherited the task of molding Brett Bradlin into a competent production-oriented professional. Scot was highly thought of by everyone in the company, except Charles. He’d had what he thought to be a minor run in with Charles over an insignificant issue. Unfortunately for Scot, Charles saw it as a much bigger affront.
Scot committed the unforgiveable sin of rebuking Charles in front of others. Charles’ ego was much too fragile for what he considered a direct insult, so he, in his small-minded way, began to make things difficult for Scot in retaliation. Scot quickly became fed up with Charles’ endless series of mind games, but it was only after he began to meddle with Scot’s compensation program that Scot decided to resign and go to work for one of Bradlin’s competitors.
Unfortunately for Bradlin Homes, when Scot resigned, Bradlin’s long-time production manager, Dusty Bennett, became so incensed with Charles’ feeble mismanagement of the organization that he quit as well. The loss of both Scot and Dusty and the resulting chaos of their departure began to slowly stifle the company’s ability to function.
With Scot gone there was no one keeping an eye on young Brett.
It took most superintendents years to settle into a series of successful routines. Adeptly running an active job site was more an art than a science. The rough and tumble image that personified the stereotypical super frequently belied the facts. The complex, multifaceted responsibilities could be overwhelming. It was not a job for the meek or timid. Superintendents had to be master strategists and planners. They had to have a sixth sense when it came to judging people and their workloads. A super’s command of technical details had to be fathomless. The common denominator for the successful ones revolved around their people skills. On any given day, a couple of key contractors failing to show up could throw a superintendent’s best laid plans into chaos for an entire week or more. Brett had been in crisis mode since day one.
Things were not going well for young Brett Bradlin and it was only 7:00 AM on an oppressively humid summer morning. When the construction trailer door burst open, in stormed the last person in the world Brett wanted to see. Things were about to get progressively worse for this 23-year-old superintendent.
C H A P T E R 5
The expedition had been Herschel’s idea. As soon as Herschel Bradlin discovered that Billy Capel had an unquenchable passion for sport fishing, Herschel seized upon what he felt would be the perfect opportunity to impress the man that he was targeting to save his company.
Over the years, most of Herschel’s plans had proven successful. The elder Bradlin was a virtual icon throughout the Southern Maryland home building community. In the late sixties, a younger Herschel had set his sights on building five to ten new homes a year. In a few short years after he founded Bradlin Homes, literally out of the back of his pickup truck, he was closing over a hundred homes a year. In the incredibly prosperous years that followed, Bradlin would settle close to twice that number of new homes.
He had offers. On more than one occasion he had inquiries about merging his organization with a large public company. Yet he had no intention of selling out to any of the big guys.
Having achieved an undergraduate and master’s degree in Psychology from Notre Dame, Herschel came off as more of a tenured professor than a garden-variety builder type. He had since realized that his overtly eloquent manner for speaking was something that some would always find pompous or snotty, but at his very core, Herschel was simply a lover of the poetic side of life and all things in it. He had chosen the home building profession because it allowed him to become involved with all of the intricate details and complexities that building something so life-changing as a home for people entailed.
Herschel Bradlin had devoted his life to achieving a level of success that others could only envy, but times and circumstances had changed. Now, at this juncture in his life, when he should have been enjoying the spoils of his life-long efforts, he was deeply mired in a battle to save his floundering company. Unfortunately, on many days, he had little constitution left to personally join in the fray.
Herschel Bradlin was desperately in need of William J. Capel, Jr. Billy was going to save the company. Herschel was sure of it. First, however, he had to persuade young William to leave an idyllic position with one of the country’s largest home building companies. Billy would be the key factor to re-establishing Bradlin Homes as the standard bearer of home building organizations. Herschel knew he would have to do the selling job of his lifetime to bring Billy on board… if only his health would allow him to see the situation through. At the same time, he needed to be certain that Charles wouldn’t interfere with his plan. Billy was going to be Herschel’s white knight, his savior. Charles, on the other hand, Herschel wasn’t so sure of.
The Carolina sun had sunk noticeably lower in the sky. Herschel glanced at his watch. The fishing boats were due to enter the channel at any time.
C H A P T E R 6
The official greeting party was assembled on the marina’s main dock, awaiting the return of “the boys,” as Herschel referred to the members of the fishing expedition. The seemingly endless line of returning sports fishermen with their three foot high trailing wakes had begun to file through the channel into the harbor. A surprising sight to first-time casual observers, some of the returning crafts were painted in distinctive shades of frilly pastels. It was hard to fathom that the main hull of a 55-foot, Carolina-built boat named ‘BIG DICK’ would be painted a shiny, bright pink more representative of a lipstick shade than the color scheme of a testosterone-producing fish-fighting machine.
As the boats rumbled toward the docks, onlookers stopped to see how each boat fared on their mission. Small colorful triangular flags depicting the outlines of fish, ruffling in the wind, represented each boat’s catch. The more flags, the better the day. It was an especially good time of year to hunt for some of the most coveted big game fish found in the Atlantic, thanks in large part to all of the high-pressure systems lined up in the south Atlantic. Churning seas seemed to cause a veritable feeding frenzy among the bountiful array of sport fish, especially in the legendary Oregon Canyon area. Almost every returning boat displayed at least one flag. By a quick, informal tally, the last Bermuda high that had raced by two hundred miles offshore had obviously served as a wake up call for the blue and white marlin population. It was almost impossible to count the sheer amount of flags that snapped and waved triumphantly in the warm breeze.
As Lisa stood on the dock watching the boats return she asked, “Is that them? All of those big boats look the same.”
“That’s them,” Herschel nodded. He could tell their boat from the others because of the insignia of a goofy-looking duck imprinted on the preserver chest predominately displayed on the main deck of the Dumb Duck. He might have been advancing in age and declining in health, yet when he was in full control of all his faculties, Herschel did not miss many details.
“Yes, Herschel, that’s their boat. And by the looks of it, they tagged both a white and a blue marlin and some tuna!” Catt exclaimed. Catherine Capel was a veteran wife of a sport-fishing fanatic. She had learned long ago the meaning of each flag. She could also tell by the flags being flown upside down that the boys had released the marlin.
“Little boys with their toys,” Lisa mumbled to herself. “I hope all of this is worth it.”
Lisa Parker was in attendance for one reason: to help Herschel in the critical negotiations with Billy. And whenever he asked Lisa for anything, she was more than pleased to comply. Herschel had picked up the entire tab for Lisa’s law school costs, simply out of the goodness of his big heart. The petite, freckled-faced redhead was the youngest daughter of two of Herschel’s closest friends that had died in a horrible car accident years ago. Immediately following their tragic death, Herschel gladly took on the role of Lisa’s surrogate father, a relationship that both Herschel and Lisa cherished dearly. He had always secretly wished that she had been one of his own.
Lisa was an incessant force of energy packed in a tiny frame, barely five feet tall. She often rebelled against being described as perky, but she begrudgingly admitted to herself that she could understand the description. She couldn’t have weighed over a hundred pounds fully clothed, but she was, at times, as feisty as someone more than twice her size. Though small in stature, Lisa was impossible to miss. Maybe it was the fiery red curly hair that drew others’ immediate attention. Or it might have been her constant animated gestures that embellished her communication skills.
Most of her trademark freckles had disappeared both naturally and otherwise years before, but for those who had known her since “Uncle Herschel” took her in years ago, the early memories of the rambunctious, pigtailed, freckled-face tomboy were not easily forgotten. She didn’t consider herself pretty, but she had developed a sort of classic, sharply defined attractiveness that turned many heads. She could be in a room with a hundred other people, but it was generally the short, spirited redhead most people remembered.
When Lisa became old enough, she worked part time for Bradlin Homes as an administrative assistant, verifying the details in sales contracts. After college, when she found the job market limited, Herschel hired her full time. Once passing the bar, she became Bradlin Homes’ full-time staff attorney, which was a luxury that both Lisa and Herschel appreciated. Her job description had greatly evolved over the years. Recently she began reviewing the details of all Bradlin Homes legal documents, particularly relating to Charles’ half-baked land deals. She also took it upon herself to protect the organization against the threat of frivolous lawsuits which seemingly surfaced out of thin air. With the increasing myriad of government regulations facing builders, she helped to draft the compliance standards that Bradlin field personnel had to interpret and enforce. As the company grew, she inherited the duties customarily performed by human resource directors.
She took her role in the organization very seriously. While there were some that felt she took her role too seriously at times, Herschel personally made sure that Lisa kept things in proper perspective. On more than one occasion, Herschel would stroll into Lisa’s office, grab her by the hand while humming a song, and start dancing with his favorite young lady.
The wise old man could do no wrong in her eyes. No matter how trivial Lisa found this fishing expedition to be, she would do her part to make sure that Herschel came home with his catch.
As Captain Max expertly – and rapidly – maneuvered the Dumb Duck back into its slip, Herschel yelled out, “So what have you brought us back?”
“Well,” beamed John David Holmes, “our new friend here caught the big one. Catherine, your husband is quite the fisherman. He fought that 400-pounder for over an hour and a half and never complained once except when the fish took the whole spool of line for the third time and Billy asked the Captain to take out a gun and just shoot either him or the damn fish,” Bradlin’s solidly built CFO joked.
“A 400-pound fish!” exclaimed Charlene, Herschel’s companion. “Where is it?”
“We released him,” Billy said, almost indignantly. “You don’t kill a beautiful creature like that just for the hell of it.”
Charlene was skeptical of his fish story.
Just then, Charles and Vinny emerged from behind the salon’s huge tinted sliding doors. It was obvious that neither Charles nor Vinny had participated in any fishing activities on this day.
The mate was cleaning the fishing deck when he looked up and said to the land-based skeptics, “Folks, if you don’t believe Billy here, you’ll get to see first hand that he’s not only telling you the truth, but he’s really being overly modest. Captain Max videotaped the whole fight from right up there in the tower, including the part when the blue did his little jig across the surface of the swells,” Darryl waxed poetic. All eyes trained on Capt. Max, still on the fly bridge, covering his electronic fish-finding apparatus. With a slight grin and an even less conspicuous nod, the good Captain signaled that what they had heard was not some overly boastful fish story.
“Well, Billy, where’s our dinner since you released the big one?” Lisa asked. She had barely finished her sentence when Darryl reached into the live well and started pulling out six yellow fin tuna in the twenty-five to thirty-five pound range, tossing them onto the dock’s worn planking.
“Dinner is served,” he announced with an exaggerated stage bow and a sheepish grin.
C H A P T E R 7
The house was built on huge wood pilings and seemed to rise into the sky in perpetuity. Its two main floors of custom wood and stucco elegance were topped off with a third floor that highlighted a 360-degree panoramic view of both the sound as well as the Atlantic. The view seemed to stretch into forever. The stunning “bird’s nest”, as the owners referred to it, was made almost entirely of glass. The glass used in the nest was of the same composition and strength as found on the bridge of most American-made aircraft carriers. Sitting in one of the overstuffed love seats, with drink in hand, a person might wonder if things could get any better. The rest of the house was just as awe-inspiring. It was an extraordinary model of ultimate opulence. The oversized plasma TV was currently displaying the video proving that Billy was in fact the great fisherman that his mates claimed he was.
“Here’s to a wonderful day,” Herschel said as he raised his glass in the air. “I inherited the better part of this deal because I was afforded the opportunity to spend the day with these three lovely ladies while you boys spent your time chasing smelly fish.” Charles smirked at the old man’s remark. Some days were better than others for Herschel, and today was one of his better days.
Even though Charles was still perturbed at the thought of Billy running the company, he felt that Vinny would somehow see to it that things worked out. Charles grinned sluggishly and looked around, impressed with the lavish surroundings. Maybe it was the gin and tonics, but he was actually beginning to loosen up. Then again, maybe it was the thought of his plans to go out trolling for his own trophy catch later on. In the meantime, he drained the rest of his glass and admired the breathtaking view from the screened-in deck overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.
The evening was turning out to be everything Herschel could have wished for, though he was still wary of how his son would behave around Billy. On this night, however, Charles Bradlin was to be the perfect gentleman. His son’s cordial demeanor actually set Herschel even further on edge. He silently prayed that the other shoe wouldn’t drop.
“Mr. Bradlin –” Billy started to say.
“Billy, please, please call me Herschel,” the elder Bradlin cut him off with a polite wave.
“Alright, Herschel, I can honestly say that you, as well as everyone here, have made Catherine and I feel very comfortable. After an utterly perfect day on the water, and now in these grand surroundings, we find ourselves totally at ease with all of you. We want to thank you all for your gracious hospitality.” Billy was sounding more like a politician than a home building professional. In actuality, he had practiced that very verse for days. He was always prepared. It was part of his nature and the exact reason Herschel had courted him so aggressively for a position in the company. This was an opportunity he was carefully considering and he was resolved to make his typical best impression.
“Billy, if you think this is grand, just wait until you see what awaits you in Maryland,” Herschel offered. “We have everything that you could ever want.” That was the rehearsed cue for Lisa. Rising from her seat, she turned and reached for a leather binder on the mahogany buffet. Without a word, Lisa handed the binder to Herschel and returned to her seat.
“Catherine, Billy, this is for you,” Herschel offered, intensely following Catherine’s eyes as he handed the binder directly to her.
Catherine opened the binder. When she realized what she held in her hands, she smiled slightly and looked up to see Herschel grinning broadly.
Without losing the emotions of the moment, Hershel began to speak. “As you can see, Catherine, before you is a listing of private schools. Some of the finest schools in our area, I might add. We want you to know that we realize we’re not just offering your husband a job. We want him, as well as you and your children, to become part of the Bradlin family. We also want you to know that if you find any one of these schools to your liking, we are prepared to pick up the full costs associated with your children’s education.”
“Mr. Bradlin – I’m sorry, Herschel,” Catherine corrected herself. She took a deep breath and braced herself for the reaction she was fervently hoping she was not about to provoke. “This is awfully kind of you, and I certainly don’t want to seem ungrateful, but Billy and I have planned to raise our children in the public school system.”
“I completely understand,” Herschel said with a nod. “If you thumb through the binder, you’ll notice that we have included a section on the county’s public school system and it’s rather impressive history.” He smiled at the young woman, whose color had returned to her face. “Obviously you know what’s best for your children. We just want you to know that while we want Billy to be a part of our organization, we also want you and the children to feel comfortable with the move.” Herschel’s speech came with all of the charm and conviction he could muster.
“Herschel,” Catherine said, with tears beginning to well up in her eyes, “I already feel like part of your family.”
“Holy shit, Catt,” Billy mumbled to himself. This was not something that Billy had expected from his wife. They had talked about their plan of keeping their comments as noncommittal as possible, but it was obvious that Catherine was beginning to take a liking to Mr. Herschel Bradlin. The fact was that his beautiful wife was susceptible to becoming overly sentimental. It was one of the reasons he loved her so much. Yet, it was still up to him to accept or decline the offer, and to his knowledge he had not given Herschel a hint of which way he was leaning. He couldn’t have. He didn’t know what he was going to do himself.
“Billy, Catherine…,” Herschel began as he paused and stared at them, “please come and be a part of our organization. We need you. You can become the author that writes the next chapter of history for Bradlin Homes.”
A prolonged silence hung over the room. Despite Herschel’s best-laid plans, his statement seemed more like a desperate plea than an open invitation. Eye contact was nowhere to be found.
Several uncomfortable seconds later, Charles stood up. “Bill, I know I speak for my father when I say that we are looking forward to a fresh new management style that I know you’ll bring to Bradlin Homes, and I, for one, am looking forward to learning from you,” Charles Bradlin abruptly offered with a remarkably straight face. He sounded genuine, but those who knew him did not believe a word of it.
The elder Bradlin was waiting for his son’s punch line. The other shoe was certainly about to drop. He was afraid that Charles was going to ruin everything that he had done to bring Billy into the fold. And when he did, Herschel was going to disown him.
The ever widening rife between father and son had begun many years before. It was only recently that the tension between Herschel and Charles had become nothing less than a tragic folly. Two years before, against all of his considerable business instincts, Herschel reluctantly turned over the day-to-day operational controls of his company to his son. He had little choice at the time. His health had begun to fail him.
Just before Herschel relinquished control of his company to Charles, the Bradlin Homes balance sheet, as well as its position in the Southern Maryland home building market, couldn’t have been stronger. The Waldorf area was experiencing a phenomenal rate of growth, and there was Bradlin Homes, smack dab in the middle of the frenzy, gobbling up more than it’s fair portion of market share and profits. It was only fitting then, that when prosperity finally arrived in his backyard, and he was in a position to take full advantage of the opportunities, Charles became involved. Bradlin Homes had not been the same since.
In less than a year and a half, Charles, through a series of incomprehensibly reckless business decisions, tore down what it had taken his father more than thirty years to assemble. Long-term employees left in droves. Sales stagnated. Charles was able to hide the dismal financial condition of the company only because he hired and subsequently fired a grand total of four CFO’s during his year-and-a-half tenure running the company. To make matters worse, he had coerced the last two controllers into falsifying company results. When Herschel finally found out just how bad things had become, there was little he could do except to try and restore order to the operation of the company himself. Charles had other incentives motivating him to keep his father’s company intact – If for only a little while longer.
Charles knew that his father’s company was his only current source of income. So, he conspired to get back into his father’s good graces, even if it meant fooling his old man into believing that his actions were honorable in nature, though incompetent in effect.
C H A P T E R 8
Several months earlier, Charles had entered into a disastrous land deal with a local land broker who snookered him into believing that he had purchased a literal gold mine. As it turned out, the piece of property that Charles had agreed to purchase was landlocked. To gain access to the property, an easement had to be acquired. Complicating matters, the adjoining property was owned by two brothers who had no intention of relinquishing any part of their hallowed land to the likes of a developer, who, they assumed, would rape and pillage the heavily timbered acreage. But so strong was Charles’ desire to own the property, he neglected to do the due diligence required when purchasing property and ignored the standard Bradlin land contract.
Land had always been an overwhelmingly critical factor in determining a builder’s level of profitability. Even marginally competent builders could make money if they bought the right piece of dirt at the right price. But in recent years, even in emerging markets, developable land could be scarce. The slow-to-no-growthers combined with the not-in-my-back-yarders passionately fought to slow down the pace of development. It didn’t take long for a contingent of small, medium and large public builders to burn through a stockpile of available building lots. Without an adequate supply of dirt out in front of them, builders would find themselves out of business.
Charles was dead set on purchasing the brother’s property without anyone else’s knowledge or involvement. He had no intention of losing the property to any of his competitors, especially considering the deal he was working outside of his company’s boundaries. The stress of securing the brothers’ land was what led Charles to the bar in the first place.
As he sat slumped over a bar top in the dingy watering hole he had come to call home, he began spilling his guts again to complete strangers about the desperate predicament he had gotten his company and himself into.
As he babbled on and on about how none of the mess was really his fault, he confided to the same faceless bartender that what he really needed was someone capable of applying persuasion to those despicable brothers who were unwilling to grant Charles the easement he needed to develop his newly purchased property. A dozen drinks later, and well past the legal limit, he made no secret of his ability and willingness to compensate someone handsomely to make his troubles with the brothers go away. The bartender turned away from washing his glasses and discretely picked up the phone.
Another two vodka tonics and three shots of Beam later, Charles managed to relocate himself to the bar’s filthy bathroom. Suspended just above a total state of blackout, he lay sprawled out on the hard, cold concrete floor. As incoherent as he was, he sensed that someone was standing over him. When Charles finally pried his drooping eyelids partially open, he caught a blurry vision of a menacing figure hovering over him. Charles sobered up almost immediately in surprise. He struggled to move away from the shadowy figure’s approach, but his alcohol-fatigued muscles wouldn’t permit escape.
Suddenly, the stranger reached down. Charles got the feeling that he was about to be rolled like some drunken bum. But Vincent Kastanza wasn’t about to rob the pitiful, distraught Bradlin. Rather, after helping Charles off the cold, urine-soaked floor and walking him back to a bar stool, he listened quietly and carefully to his future employer’s rambling plea for help.
The desperate businessman confided to Vinny that he would do whatever it took – pay whatever the price – to anyone who could help him find a solution to his problem. Charles was certainly in no condition to realize who he was talking to at the time, but he would soon discover the remarkably persuasive talents that Vinny possessed.
Vinny took Charles up on his request to help him find access to the expensive property he had purchased. And through a series of highly illegal steps, Vinny made the reluctant brothers see the advantages of selling a small parcel of their land to Bradlin Homes.
Charles paid Vinny handsomely for his astonishing accomplishment in securing the easement. One quick solution wasn’t enough for Charles, though – he wanted more. He pleaded with Vinny to stay on with him as a well-compensated “land procurement” consultant. Vinny decided to take Charles up on his offer since his other free-lancing gigs had all but dried up entirely.
Vinny became Charles’ closest advisor. No one would intimidate him with Vinny around. He convinced himself that Vinny was his ticket to success in the business of running Bradlin Homes.
C H A P T E R 9
“We would just like to say again how appreciative we are for your hospitality,” Billy said, after a deep breath. The day had been surreal. He felt like he was living someone else’s life. He worked hard to get here. He had paid his own way through college, working several jobs and graduating with honors. He built his sterling reputation in the world of home building from the ground floor up. From his humble beginnings as a superintendent, to the company’s youngest production manager and now a top producing Division President, he had forged an impeccable track record at Regal Homes. He averaged at least two calls a month from executive search firms. Until now, nothing had interested him enough to even return their calls.
He was living quite the dream, he thought to himself as he continued to address his hosts. “This has been a day that neither Catherine nor I will forget for quite some time. Thank you all for everything. I can assure you all that we’re going to give this serious consideration.”
Herschel had a gut feeling that Billy had already decided to accept the offer. Allowing himself to relax a little, he decided to try and get a good night’s sleep; something that had been eluding him for some time. He stood up and said, “Everyone, thank you for coming. Billy and Catherine, I especially want to thank you for being here. Please enjoy the rest of your evening.” He excused himself from the table. The remaining guests began to leave the dining room, discussing their after dinner plans along the way.
Charles and Vinny headed out to do some of their own brand of fishing. While Lisa, Charlene and John David made their way toward the birds nest for some frank discussion on how to save the world or some other ambitious undertaking.
And, in no time at all, Catherine and Billy were out the door and headed toward the roar of the crashing surf within a few dozen yards of the house.
C H A P T E R 10
“So, what do you make of all of this, Mr. Capel?” Catt asked in her most hoity-toity voice as she placed her hand firmly in her husband’s. The temperature had dropped a few degrees as they made their way to the darkened beaches near the house. The breeze, even at this late hour, was still warm.
“What’s not to like of all this attention, Mrs. Capel?” he asked back in the same lofty tone as he squeezed her small hand tightly.
“I know how starved you are for attention,” she said playfully.
“I can always count on you to put me in my place, can’t I?”
As they walked along the ocean’s edge, Catt suddenly released Billy’s hand and raced back towards the dunes. Billy was startled. Confused, he wondered if he had said something to upset her. He watched Catt disappear behind the tall mounds of sand ahead. He was beginning to worry. Was Catt beginning to have second thoughts about all of this? He hastily headed towards the dunes. Damn, things were going too well, he thought to himself.
He reached the dunes and began to call out her name. He had not so much as taken a step behind the sea grass covered sand dune when he felt a hand around his ankle. Billy jumped in surprise. He instinctively spun around with the full intent to strike out at his attacker when he saw his wife in the soft light of the night sky. She was smiling up at him and had not a single stitch of clothing left on her body. Her eyes sparkled with pleasure. Catt was like a lovesick teenager tugging on his leg, reaching up and unzipping his shorts. She impatiently ripped open his shirt. Buttons flew off in all directions.
As she pulled him down to the sand, he managed to breathlessly stutter, “Catt, what… what’s gotten into you?” Her reply came in the form of soft laughter. Billy fell to the sand and together they rolled in the wet sea grass. She nibbled the side of his throat and moved on to caress the inside of his ear with her tongue.
“Billy,” Catt moaned, “I wanted to make sure that you’re really not starving for attention tonight.” With all of the strength she could summon, she rolled him over on his back. “You won’t starve from a lack of attention from me, not tonight anyway,” she softly whispered as she enveloped him wholly with salacious abandon.
Billy could barely believe how passionate Catt was tonight. But at the moment, he had no intention of either questioning or suppressing her playful sexual energy – even if he could – as he reached the first of the evening’s moments of closure.
C H A P T E R 11
“Who is she and where’d you find her?” Emma quizzed her long time investment-banking colleague, Nathan.
“I really can’t take credit for Madelin,” Nathan confessed. “She collaborated on last year’s annual report and the new chairman’s profile – the one that was so well received. She’s been free-lancing regularly for us ever since. Looks like she hit another home run with the piece she just finished on community relations,” he told Emma matter-of-factly. “She’s making the entire department look real good.”
This wasn’t the first time that Madelin Martucci’s literary prowess had cast a magic spell on one of her clients. Madelin was quite the gifted writer – among other things.
“Let’s give her a call and set up a meeting to see if we can convince her to become involved with the story we’re doing about the proposed merger,” Emma suggested. “Lord knows how scrutinized we’ll be on this one.” She had barely finished her sentence when another idea popped into her head. “You know, Nathan, we’ve got a couple people in the communication department leaving later this month. Maybe we could get this Madelin woman to fill in for a while. What do you think?” Emma excitedly asked.
“Sounds like something to consider, but then again, we don’t really know anything about her.” Nathan paused as he suddenly remembered a peculiar conversation he’d had about the woman before. “I was talking to one of the guys in communications and he told me that for the chairman’s piece, she interviewed him over the phone. Can you believe it? She gets to interview the big guy over the phone and she pulls it off masterfully. According to everyone I spoke with, all communication with her has been either on the phone, by fax, or online. No one has even seen her.”
“With her writing and composition skills, who cares what she looks like? Hell, I don’t care if she ever steps through the door,” Emma said as she stood and began pacing animatedly around the room.
Nathan considered making some lewd, politically incorrect joke about how she might stack up, but he wisely decided against it. “Sure, Emma, we can do the routine background check in almost no time while we tie her up with some small projects so we don’t lose her to someone else. We could make her the offer when we meet with her. We could explain to her that it would be contingent upon everything checking out. I think we should do it as soon as we can. She could be a huge asset for us all. With someone like this, it’s not likely she’s an axe murderer or something,” Nathan mumbled as he sat back in his chair, proud of his and Emma’s impromptu plan and totally unaware of just what or who they were talking about.
C H A P T E R 12
In a semi-inebriated state, Charles stumbled through the door of his hotel room. No way was he staying at the beach house with his father’s entourage. His giggling little companion wasn’t in much better shape. He wasn’t sure if her name was Susan or Sharon, but he was pretty certain that her name began with an S. But, then again, he really didn’t care.
The chubby, middle-aged Bradlin was certain he was in for a grand time. His young friend was seemingly mesmerized by his boastful stories of wealth and power, and he was more than aware of her apparent awe over his diamond-studded Rolex conspicuously adorning his wrist. It wasn’t the first time he had used his expensive timepiece as “fishing bait.” What Charles didn’t know was that this wasn’t the first time this little lass had purposely swallowed the hook, with no intention of spitting it out until she did a bit of reeling in herself.
As he reached wildly for her, she began to moan uncontrollably. All at once, she arched her back, lost her balance and tumbled onto the bed, knocking over the clock radio and telephone on the night stand in one fell swoop.
Charles wouldn’t notice the message light flashing on the telephone until much later. It was now buried beneath the heap of hastily discarded clothing. The message was from Martin Sampson, who was desperately trying to reach his boss. Charles had neglected to listen to the other messages that Martin had left earlier as well. Retrieving Martin’s messages was the farthest thing from Charles’ mind at the moment. Charles had a little message of his own that he was planning to send.
* * *
The sun hadn’t even begun to creep up over the Atlantic, but he was wide-awake. Charles was so mad he could hardly breathe. “I’ll find that little bitch and I’ll kill her. She stole my watch. I’m going to find her and kill her,” he repeatedly mumbled to himself as he paced the hotel room. As was typical for Charles, he had worked himself into such a state that he stumbled as he paced. He needed Vinny. Yeah, Vinny would find his expensive watch, the one his late wife gave him several Christmases ago. Vinny would make that little bitch pay for messing with Charles Bradlin.
Focusing on the hate, Charles slowly started to regain his composure. It was as he reached down to fetch his trousers, stuffed partially under the bed, that he finally noticed it; the telephone, with its message light still flashing. Charles pushed the button and retrieved the message. It was the message from Martin. It simply said, “Call me immediately! As soon as possible! We have big problems!”
As quickly as it had calmed a moment before, Charles’ breathing once again began to accelerate. He repeated the message out loud, his brow furrowed. What in the hell was that supposed to mean? Charles reached for his cell phone and hit speed dial. “Martin, what in the hell is going on?” Charles screamed over the phone to a man who was about to experience an all-time bad day.
“I’ve been trying to get in touch with you since yesterday, Charles.”
“Obviously you didn’t try hard enough.”
“Norton’s Consulting report came in early yesterday and it’s not good,” Martin said quickly, getting to the point of the matter. He had neither the intention nor inclination to beat around the bush with Charles regarding the troubling engineering report.
“What exactly do you mean by ‘it’s not good?’” Charles spit back. He had enough on his plate to deal with without Martin adding to his problems. “How does this report differ from the previous engineering study?”
“The only difference between Norton’s and Advanced’s report is that Norton’s is more detailed. Their findings are based on more data because we asked them to perform more tests. We had Advanced conduct the basic studies if you recall,” Martin told Charles, knowing full well that Charles was the one who had decided to limit Advanced’s scope of site analysis.
“Okay, so we have some problems that we have to deal with.”
“Charles, we don’t just have some isolated soils issues here, the whole damn site has unstable clays. You saw Advanced’s initial conclusions. We’re faced with some damn severe consequences.”
“Listen, Martin,” Charles said, trying to somewhat defuse the tense, long-distance phone conversation. “Let’s not make this out to be more than it is, okay?”
At first, Martin couldn’t believe what he was hearing. But he reminded himself he was talking to Charles Bradlin. “Charles, I don’t think - ”
“Here’s what I want you to do,” Charles cut him off. “I want you to pick me up at National Airport at 11:30 and we’ll continue our discussion to determine our best course of action on the drive back.”
What other choice do I have? Martin thought to himself. “I’ll meet you in front of the short-term lot.” Martin had to appease Charles. He needed him. This was a big-time problem, and if it weren’t dealt with properly, the whole thing would quickly become a nightmare.
C H A P T E R 13
“When is he getting back?” the rotund, balding man sitting behind the antique desk demanded.
“His plane is scheduled to arrive just before noon,” his timid assistant responded in a fragile voice.
“I want him here today and I want to be sure that he’s under control. Do you understand me?”
“I understand, I understand.”
“I also want Kastanza here with him. That man is a piece of work.” Douglas Adams had first hand knowledge of Vinny’s soiled reputation. “I want total priority given to following the whereabouts of those two. Total priority. Do you understand me, Sam?”
Douglas Adams, president of Providence Savings and Trust, did not become co-chairman of the old guard financial institution via birth right alone. Granted, he was the only son of Providence founder, Gerald Adams, but Douglas Adams had more than earned his position. Though some might say his position was seized more through his ruthless style of managing his family institution’s considerable assets. Old man Adams had built Providence from the most meager of beginnings. He had been a former corner grocer who first entered into the money-lending business by letting his grocery store customers make their weekly bread and milk purchases “on time.” Cashing paychecks, advancing tax return refunds and other bank functions for fat fees spurred the elder Adams on to bigger and more lucrative banking opportunities; albeit activities frowned upon and highly scrutinized by several federal agencies.