Kent let the words soak in slowly. “So basically either I gain favor with one of Borst’s superiors and work internally, or I’m screwed. That about it?”
“Well, like I said, I really need to read this thing through, but, barring any hidden clauses, I’d say that’s the bottom line. Now, we can always sue. But without someone backing up your story, you might as well throw your money to the wind.”
Kent smiled courageously. But his mind was already on Price Bentley’s face. He cursed himself for not taking more time to befriend upper management. Then again, they’d hired him as a programmer, not as a court jester. And program he had, the best piece of software the banking industry had seen in ten years.
“So I go back there and start making friends,” he said, looking out the picture window to the cars flowing below. From the corner of his eye he saw Dennis nod. He nodded with him. Surely old Price was smart enough to know who deserved credit for AFPS. But the idea that another man held the power to grant or deny his future sat like lead in his gut.
KENT WALKED straight to Price Bentley’s office on Tuesday morning before bothering with Borst.
He’d spent Monday afternoon and evening chewing his fingernails, which was a problem because he had no fingernails to speak of. Spencer had wanted to eat chicken in the park for dinner, but Kent had no stomach for pretending to enjoy life on a park bench. “Go ahead, son. Just stay away from any strangers.”
The night had proved fitful. A sickening dread had settled on him like a human-sized sticky flysheet, and no matter what twists and turns he put his mind through, he could not shake it free. To make matters worse, he’d awakened at three in the morning, breathless with panic and then furious as thoughts of Borst filtered into his waking mind. He’d spent an hour tossing and turning only to finally throw the covers across the room and swing from bed. The next few hours had been maddening.
By the time the first light filtered through the windows, he had dressed in his best suit and downed three cups of coffee. Helen had collected Spencer at seven and had given Kent a raised eyebrow. It might have been his palms, wet with sweat. Or the black under his eyes. But knowing her, she had probably seen right into his mind and picked through the mess there.
He had nearly hit a yellow Mustang at the red light just before the bank because his eyes were on those sweeping steps ahead and not on the traffic signal. His was the first car in the lot, and he decided to park on the far row in favor of being seen early. Finally, at eight sharp, he’d climbed from the Lexus, swept his damp, blond locks back into place, and headed for the wide doors.
He ran into Sidney Beech around the corner from the president’s office. “Hi, Kent,” she said. Her long face, accentuated by short brown hair, now looked even longer under raised brows. “I saw you yesterday. Are you okay? I’m so sorry about what happened.”
He knew Sidney only casually, but her voice now came like warm milk to his cold tremoring bones. If his mission was to win friends and influence the smug suits, a favorable word with the assistant vice president couldn’t hurt. He spread his mouth in a genuine smile.
“Thank you, Sidney.” He reached for her hand and grasped it, wondering how much would be too much. “Thank you so much. Yes. Yes, I’m doing better. Thank you.”
An odd glint in her eye made him blink, and he released her hand. Was she single? Yes, he thought she was single. The left corner of her lip lifted a hair. “That’s good to hear, Kent. If there’s anything I can do, just let me know.”
“Yes, I will. Listen, do you know what Mr. Bentley’s schedule is today? There’s a rather important issue that I—”
“Actually, you might catch him now. I know he has an eight-thirty with the board, but I just saw him walk into his office.”
Kent glanced in the direction of the president’s office. “Great. Thank you, Sidney. You’re so kind.”
He left, thinking he had overdone it with her, maybe. But then, maybe not. Politics had never been his strong suit. Either way, the exchange had given him a sensibility that took the edge off the manic craziness that had gripped him all night.
True to Sidney’s words, Price Bentley sat in his office alone, sorting through a stack of mail. Rumor had it that Price weighed his salary: 250. Only his salary came in thousands of U.S. dollars, not pounds. The large man sat in a gray pinstriped suit. Despite being partially obscured by a layer of thick flesh, his collar looked crisp, possibly supported by cardboard or plastic within its folds. The man’s head looked like a plump tomato atop a can. He looked up at Kent and smiled. “Kent! Kent Anthony. Come on in. Sit down. To what do I owe this pleasure?” The president did not rise but continued flipping through the stack.
If the man knew of Gloria’s passing, he was not going there. Kent stepped to an overstuffed blue guest chair and sat. The room seemed warm.
“Thank you, sir. Do you have a minute?”
“Sure.” The bank president leaned back, crossed his legs, and propped his chin on a hand. “I have a few minutes. How can I help you?”
The man’s eyes glistened round and gray. “Well, it’s about AFPS,” Kent started.
“Yes. Congratulations. Fine work you guys put together back there. I’m sorry you couldn’t be at the conference, but it went over with quite a splash. Excellent job!”
Kent smiled and nodded. “That’s what I heard. Thank you.” He hesitated. How could he say this without sounding like a whiner?
But sir, his blue ribbon was bigger than my blue ribbon.
He hated whiners with a passion. Only this was not about blue ribbons, was it? Not even close.
“Sir, it seems there’s been a mistake somewhere.”
Bentley’s brows scrunched. “Oh? How’s that?” He seemed concerned. That was good. Kent picked up steam.
“The Advanced Funds Processing System was my brainchild, sir, five years ago. In fact, I showed you my rough diagrams once. Do you remember?”
“No, I can’t say that I do. But that doesn’t mean you didn’t. I see a thousand submissions a year. And I’m aware that you had an awful lot to do with the system’s development. Excellent job.”
“Thank you.” So far so good. “Actually, I wrote 90 percent of the code for the program.” Kent leaned back for the first time. He settled into the chair. “I put a hundred hours a week into its development for over five years. Borst oversaw parts of the process, but for the most part he let me run it.”
The president sat still, not catching Kent’s drift yet. Unless he was choosing to ignore it. Kent gave him a second to offer a comment and then continued when none came.
“I worked those hours for all those years with my eye set on a goal, sir. And now it seems that Borst has decided that I do not deserve that goal.” There. How could he be any clearer?
The president stared at him, unblinking, impossible to read. Heat rose through Kent’s back. Everything now sat on those blind scales of justice, waiting for a verdict. Only these scales were not blind at all. They possessed flat gray eyes, screwed into that tomato head across the desk.
Silence settled thick. Kent thought he should continue—throw in some lighthearted political jargon, maybe shift the subject, now having planted his seed. But his mind had gone blank. He became aware that his palms were sweating.
Bentley suddenly spread his jowls in a grin, and he chuckled once with pursed lips. Still not sure what the man could possibly be thinking, Kent chuckled once with him. It seemed natural enough.
“The savings bonus?” the president asked, and he was either very condescending or genuinely surprised. Kent begged for the latter, but now the heat was sending little tingles over his skull.
“Yes,” he answered, and cleared his throat.
Bentley chuckled again, and his jowls bounced over his collar with each chuckle. “You actually thought that you had a substantial bonus coming, didn’t you?”
The breath left Kent as if he’d been gut-punched.
“Those saving spiffs are hardly for non-management personnel, Kent. Surely you realized that. Management, yes. And this one will be substantial indeed. I can see why you might be slobbering over it. But you have to pay your dues. You can’t just expect to be handed a million dollars because you did most of the work.”
Kent might have lost his judgment there, on the spot—reached over and slapped Fat-Boy’s jowls. But waves of confusion fixed him rigid except for a blinking in his eyes. Niponbank had always boasted of its Savings Bonus Program, and everyone knew that it was aimed at the ordinary worker. A dozen documents clearly stated so. Last year a teller had come up with an idea that earned him a hundred thousand dollars.
“That’s not how the employment manual lays the program out,” Kent said, still too shocked to be angry. Surely the president didn’t think he could get away with
this
line of argument. They would fry his behind in court!
Bentley’s lips fell flat. “Now, you listen to me, Anthony. I don’t give a rat’s tushy what you think the employment manual says. In this branch, that bonus goes to the management. You work for Borst. Borst works for me.” The words came out like bullets from a silenced pistol.
The president took one hard breath. “What work you did for the bank, you did on our time, at our request, and for it we paid you well over a hundred thousand dollars a year. That’s it. You hear me? You even think about fighting this, and I promise you we will bury you.” The large man said it, shaking.
Kent felt his mouth drop during the diatribe. This was impossible! “You can’t do that!” he protested. “You can’t just rip my bonus off because . . .” And suddenly Kent knew precisely what he was up against. Bentley was in on it. He stood to receive huge sums of money from the bonus. He and Borst were in on this together. Which made it a conspiracy of sorts.
The man was glaring at him, daring him to say more. So he did.
“Listen!” He bit the word off with as much intensity as Bentley had used. “You know as well as I do that if I had been in Miami, I would have made that presentation, and I would be receiving most if not all of the bonus.” A lump of self-pity rose to join the bitterness, and he trembled. “But I wasn’t, was I? Because I had to rush home to tend to my wife, who was dying. So instead, you and Borst put your slimy heads together and decided to steal my bonus! What was it?” Kent wagged his head, mocking. ‘Oh, poor little Anthony. His wife is dying. But at least he’ll be distracted while we stab him in the back and strip him naked!’ Is that about it, Bentley?”
The bank president’s reaction was immediate. His eyes widened, and he drew an unsteady breath. “You speak like that to me in my own office? One more word out of you, and I’ll have you on the street by day’s end!”
But Kent had lost his political good sense entirely. “You have no right to do any of this, Bentley! That is my bonus you are stealing. People go to jail for theft in this country. Or is that news to you, as well?”
“Out! Get out!”
“I’ll take this to the top. You understand me? And if I go down, you’re going down with me. So don’t even think about trying to cut me out. Everyone knew that the programming was my code.”
“You might be surprised what everyone knew,” Bentley shot back. He had forsaken that professional sheen, and Kent felt a spike of satisfaction for it.
“Yes, of course. You will bribe them all, I suppose?” he sneered.
The room went quiet again. When Bentley spoke again, it was low and stern, but the tremor was unmistakable. “Get out of my office, Anthony. I have a meeting in a few minutes. If it’s all right with you, I need to prepare a few notes.”
Kent stared the man down for a moment. “Actually, nothing is okay with me just now, sir. But then, you already know that, don’t you?” He stood and walked behind the chair before turning back.
“And if you try to take my job from me I will personally sue you to the highest heaven. Your bonus may be an internal matter, but there are state laws that deal with employment. Don’t even think about stripping me of my income.”
He turned to the door and left Bentley sitting with big jowls and squinty eyes, like Jabba the Hut.
It was not until he heard the door close behind him that Kent fully realized how badly it had just gone for him. Then it crashed on him like a block of con- crete, and a sick droning obscured his thoughts. He struck for the public restrooms across the lobby.
What had he done? He had to call Dennis. All of his worst fears had just come to life. It was a prospect he could not stomach.
Would
not stomach. Walking across the lobby, he suddenly felt like he was pushing through a steam bath. More than anything he’d ever wanted, possibly even more than the money itself, Kent wanted out of this nightmare. Go back three weeks and check back into Miami’s Hyatt Regency. This time when they handed him the note it would have a different name on it.
I’m sorry, you have the wrong party,
he’d say.
I am not Ken Blatherly. My name’s Kent. Kent Anthony. And I’m here to become a millionaire.
Ignoring a young man he recognized as one of the tellers, Kent bent over the sink and threw water on his flushed face. He stood, watched the water drip down his face, and strode for the public phone in the corner, not bothering to wipe his face. Water spotted his starched shirt, but he couldn’t care less. Just let Dennis be in. Please let him be in.
The young teller walked out, his eyes wide.
Kent punched the number.
“Warren Law Offices,” the female voice came.
“Dennis in?” Silence. “Is Dennis in?”
“Who’s calling?”
“Kent.”
“May I tell him what it is regarding?”
“Just tell him it’s Kent. Kent Anthony.”
“Please hold.”
No new thoughts formed in the silence. His mind was dipping into numbness.
“Kent! How’s it going?”
Kent told him. He said it all in a long run-on sentence that ended with, “Then he threw me out.”
“What do you mean, threw you out?”
“Told me to get out.”
Silence again.
“Okay, buddy. Listen to me, okay?” Those were sweet words because they came from a friend. A friend who had something to say. That would be good, wouldn’t it?