Rafe
Ihum along with the elevator music as I ascend toward the top of a popular
business tower in Philadelphia’s downtown.
I like elevator music, or muzak, or whatever you want to call it. There’s something
comforting and bland about it, which is the point. The sound is mostly noise, or
atmospheric, and there’s a beauty in that. How do you make music that blends into
the ceiling? There’s got to be some artistry behind it.
The doors ding open and I’m disappointed I don’t get to listen for a few more
seconds.
Denning’s lobby is sparse and bland, a lot like the muzak. A youngish pretty girl
sits behind the rec eptionist’s desk and squints at me as I approach.
“Hello, sir, do you have an appointment today?”
“Based on the state of this place, I suspect there haven’t been any appointments in
a while.”
She glances down at something, cheeks pinkening. “I’m sorry, if you don’t have an
appointment—“
“Tell Doug that Rafe Corvino is here to see him.”
I could storm back to his office. I doubt there’s anyone in this place that would
stop me. Denning has been hanging on by a thread for years now, barely making a
profit each quarter, their stock price slowly dropping. That’s exactly why I want to
buy them, like a vulture circling a kill.
The rec eptionist dutifully buzzes the big boss. I gaze upon white walls and
uncomfortable chairs. This area was not built for comfort and it sure as hell isn’t
welcoming. It’s pure utilitarian.
I love it.
“Uh, Mr. Corvino? You can go right back. Do you need me to escort you?”
“I’ll find my way.” I stride past her and down a hall that skirts along the edge of a
cube farm.
Most desks are empty. Even a few of the offices look like they’ve been ransacked.
A light flickers and nobody seems bothered. It gives distinct end of the world vibes,
like the only reason people are still here is because the mutated zombies haven’t
gotten to them yet.
Doug Denning has an office in the back corner. He’s waiting for me at his door
with a big, confused smile. His face is baby-soft and freshly shaved, and I try not to
smirk at his baggy jeans and his sweatshirt. He’s in his early forties, but he looks like
he’s trying to hang on to his twenties still, and it’s a sad state of affairs.
“Mr. Corvino, I didn’t know you were coming today,” he says and blanches at the
sight of me. He glances at himself, and I know what he’s thinking.
I’m in a black designer suit that fits me like a glove.
He’s looking like a frat kid on spring break.
“No, you didn’t. It’s good to see you, Doug.” I offer him a hand. This conversation
will only go downhill from here, but it’s best if I put him at ease, at least to begin
with.
He shakes, still looking uncertain. “Please, come in. To what do I owe the
pleasure? You got sick of talking to my lawyers?”
The joke doesn’t land. I sit casually in front of his desk. The office is well appointed
and neat. I spot photographs of Doug with his family: four young kids, a pretty wife.
“You can guess why I’m here.”
Doug beams at me. It’s a good-old-boy smile. “Honestly? I haven’t the slightest
idea. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to see you. The deal has been on hold for too long.
Maybe if we discussed terms, we could loop in the lawyers—“
He reaches for his phone. I hold up a hand to stop him. “We’re not looping in
anyone else.”
His eyes dart to the closed door. “Me and you then. I don’t mind one bit, Rafe.”
“No. You will call me Mr. Corvino. I will continue to call you Doug.”
“Well, that doesn’t seem very fair, but—“
“What isn’t fair, Doug, is the way you’ve treated me and my associates for the past
few weeks. What isn’t fair is the way poor Theodora’s been running around the city
trying to figure out what’s going on with you.”
Doug Denning sits back and stares at me. He’s got spine though, I’ll give him that.
He doesn’t go running and screaming. He doesn’t start apologizing. But clearly
something’s wrong. His eyes ke ep cutting to the phone, to the window, to the door
behind me.
Like he’s afraid of something.
“There’s no disrespect meant, Mr. Corvino. When your organization came to me
with the merger deal, it felt like a godsend. You know the state of Denning right
now.”
“You’re breaking even. And barely at that.”
“Numbers only go down around here. I can be candid. You’ve seen all the
projections but you still want the place. I assume you’ve got big plans.”
“My plans are not your concern.”
“Good, that’s fine, but here’s the thing. This is still my shop. So until the
paperwork is signed, you don’t get a say on what goes on around here, do you hear
me?”
I almost laugh. This worm standing up to me has to be the most absurd thing to
happen in a while. I rise to my feet slowly. He stares, his face beet red, his hands
gripping the armrests of his chair.
I move around the desk and lift his phone.
His skull makes a soft wet thud when I bash him with the receiver.
“Fuck!” he grunts, cringing away.
I hit him again. And again. And again. I hit him so hard the cord snaps and I ke ep
going. He cries out, falling to the floor, covering himself with his arms as I kneel on
his thigh and hit him in the ribs, in the chest, in the hips and the stomach.
When I’m done, I stand and toss the phone aside.
He stays on the floor breathing hard, looking at me in pure terror.
“Let’s start this conversation over again.” I pull his chair back and sit. He remains
on the floor. “Why have you been stalling?”
“I don’t know what—“
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. He flinches away. “Don’t do that, Doug. Why
have you been stalling?”
“It’s not my fault.” He’s whispering now. His eyes dance around in his head, a
nervous, freakish jig. “They told me not to say anything. They told me you’d blame
me if I talked.”
“Blame you for what?”
“I don’t know! Everything!” He sits up cross-legged like a small child, head
hanging. “He showed up a month ago. I didn’t take him seriously. Not at first.”
My heart races. “What did he say?”
“He told me that the merger can’t go down. That if it did, bad things would
happen. I laughed at first, you know? Because it was so stupid, so crass and obvious,
but then—“
I curl my hands into fists. “What happened?”
“My dog. I came down one morning and found my dog with his throat cut lying in a
puddle of blood. God, if my kids had found him—“ Doug covers his face with both
hands. “Men were following me. I got letters in the mail with graphic threats. One
looked like it was stained with blood. A brick got thrown through our window. That
was hard to explain to my family. And then he visited.”
My mouth goes dry. I can see him now. Ignazio striding into this office like he
already owned it. The bastard. “What did he say?”
“There were no threats. He was calm and direct. He made it clear that I had to
delay the merger as long as possible, and if I didn’t, something bad would happen to
my kids. He didn’t say it in those words, but he made it clear. What was my choice?
What could I do? They were terrorizing us.”
“Why didn’t you come to me?”
“He told me not to. And for all I knew, you were a part of it. I had no clue what was
going on. God, you don’t understand. The pressure I felt. I wanted to run away but
my kids...” He sobs once, the pathetic bastard.
I almost feel sorry for him.
Exc ept I’m so close. I can feel it now. I kick him lightly in the knee to remind him
that I’m here. He gathers himself together, wiping his face on his sleeve. It’s snotty
and disgusting.
“When Ignazio made those threats, did he mention anyone else? Did you see
anyone he was working with?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t even know what his name was. He never told me.”
“He’s got accomplices. Or at least he’s got allies. I need to know who else there
was.”
“I only ever met one guy.”
“Older, right? Heavy-set? Big nose?”
Doug looks up sharply. “Uh, no, that’s not the guy.”
My stomach lurches with excitement. “Describe him then.”
“Younger. Thirties maybe? Really serious and intense. Strong and pretty big. Liked
to wear dark clothes.”
My mouth goes dry. “Dark hair? And a little mole here—“ I point near my right ear.
“That’s the guy, yeah.”
I might be sick. Panic builds and I have to fight it back. “How many times did you
meet with him?”
“He came here twice. I think it was him following me. I think he’s the one that
killed my dog. Woofie was a good boy.”
I push to my feet and stumble once in my eagerness to get away. “You’ve been a
big help.”
“Wait! Hold on!” He peers at me over the edge of his desk like a child still trying to
hide. “What’s going to happen to me now? Is he going to kill me?”
“You’ll be fine, Denning. Sign the fucking paperwork.” I shove his office door open.
And start running.