Chapter 2
Stu Watson had made the call to Carla Jones from his executive offices on the main floor of the plush Shangri-La Inn, just moments after he' had averted a minor catastrophe for one of his regular guests, a widow from Maryland, by having his entire staff on the night shift turned out to find Taffy, a scruffy poodle that had somehow managed to get down onto the darkened beach and was running around madly, like a rabid animal. He escorted the elderly widow personally back to her suite, dog in bosom, and returned to his office to call the Jones woman. He had been thinking about this very call for days, pondering the exact words to use, the right tone of voice that would be menacing enough to scare the living hell out of this cute little number without frightening her so bad that she spilled everything to her husband. Or worse yet, to the cops.
No, that would be one hell of an ending for this masterpiece of a plan. It'd be a shame to go to jail without having yet enjoyed the sheer thrill of seeing this scheme in motion. That was half the game to Stu Watson. After all, with a club like this almost completely his and more money than he really could practically spend, what else was there but playing the game? And this was the game to end all. It was perfect. Foolproof.
And not only would it be rewarding, emotionally and financially, but it would be a helluva lot of fun as well. Watson shook his head and laughed to himself as he closed the door to his offices and headed for the private elevator that would take him ten flights up to his penthouse suite, where June was waiting with a dinner that the catering manager had prepared especially for the two of them. Yes sir, Stu Watson, you've outdone yourself this time! This idea beats 'em all ... and now it's starting to roll. All the pieces falling into place, all the unaware actors and actresses playing their parts like so many marionettes in a kiddies' theater.
He could feel that old quiver of exhilaration he always got when he was onto something big. Like when he fell into that pit boss job in Nevada, hardly more than a wet-nosed kid, but sharp enough to spot an opening and run with the ball. Or when he managed to take over this place, then a fast-decaying dive with all its better years behind it, for hardly a song. Plus the right money from the people with the strings and look, a seaside palace that was making money hand over fist. And now this ... it can't lose, it just can't he kept telling himself all the way up the long empty elevator shaft until he had reached the top.
Clark Jones carefully locked the door to the small, cluttered office he shared with Jack Fenton on the third floor of Data National's computer headquarters only a few miles from his apartment in Coral Gables. The sign on the door read, Clark Jones ... J. Fenton ... Systems Analysis!. That was an off-hand way of saying that he and Jack were classified somewhere between brand-new programmers and better paid analysts, with some of the characteristics of both, but unfortunately, hardly more salary than the former.
Clark had gone with Data National right out of college, into a junior programming job that paid less money than he could have made as a hustling service station attendant, but at least now he was beginning to move up the ladder. It was not an easy task, as Data National promoted their operations employees solely on a merit basis, judged on their departmental supervisor's reports and their scores on twice-yearly competence examinations. He knew it wasn't easy on Carla, either, being left home a lot of nights when he had to stay here late to work on some priority project. And there was something else that seemed to loom largely in his worries lately ... one of those things that no normal man in his late twenties wanted to think about.
Perhaps it was only the tension of fast-paced pressure work, he liked to tell himself. Maybe it would go away when next month's exams were out of the way and he could relax a bit more once again.
At least that was what he hoped would happen. It wasn't very pleasant to have to think of something like this at so young an age. Yet he wasn't becoming impotent or anything so dramatic and final. It was just that somehow all this pressure and office fatigue seemed to deaden his sex drive more than a little, like some sort of an anesthetic had been injected into that crucial part of his anatomy. And he knew it was hard on Carla. After all, his wife was still in her mid-twenties and very much a woman just like she had been back in college when he'd first met her after a basketball game when she was working as a volunteer hostess for the athletic department. All dolled-up in tights and a skin-hugging sweater; yes, she was sure a good-looking girl then, and if anything, she was even more attractive now. That was the worst part of all, not being able to keep a woman like Carla ... well, satisfied, the way she should be. God knows there were plenty of eligible bachelors around to take her away if she ever had the notion to stray.
Clark punched the button for the one elevator still working and heard it start up down in the lobby. Can't think about all that now, he told himself over and over. There's too much work yet to be done this week and besides, what difference does one more week make? That problem will keep.
And as he entered the elevator car, his well-trained mathematician's mind was back where it belonged, pinned to the mat in a bout with a systems problem that had been dogging him for days. By the time he reached the lobby, he had forgotten completely what it was that had worried him so as he left his office.
And if Clark Jones could have possibly known just what a problem he really did have ... well, he couldn't have known. Couldn't have known that his whole marriage was racing downhill at this very minute like a car out of control, doomed to crash at the bottom into a million shattered fragments.
Or could he have known?