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“This is pretty much what the lower floors will look like,” James said. “Open plan, unless there’s a need to divide the areas. Now come on up one floor and see what the executive offices are going to look like.” They got back onto the freight elevator and rode up, then exited into a coolly decorated reception room with the High Cotton Ideas logo painted large on one wall.
“We’re creating an elevator stop from the private lobby to the executive floor,” James said, as they walked through the main doors. The floor was plush, compared to the lower floors, but decorated in bright colors, almost like a series of children’s rooms. The office furniture was handsome but spare, of light wood, with small conference tables and sofas in the larger offices. At the rear of the floor was a more open area of low-walled cubicles. “This is programmer country,” James said. “They’ll be in here next week, as soon as the computer wiring installation is complete and tested.”
“Is there anything to see on the roof?” Herbie asked.
“Right now, it’s just a roof,” James said, “and it’s dangerous for us to be up there. Give me a month, and we’ll have something for you to look at.”
Mark Hayes entered the area and took them to his corner office, near the new elevator shaft. Men were carrying pieces of furniture through a set of double doors into the big room.
“The conference table will go there,” Mark said, pointing, “and each seat will have a workstation so that all the people in a meeting can view the same screen.”
As they left the room, Mark stopped them. “Herb, Mike, I’m very impressed with everything you’ve done to help us get this thing up and running, and I want to invite both of you to join the High Cotton Ideas board of directors. Marshall Brennan is joining, and he’ll be our financial guru.”
“I’d be delighted,” Herbie said.
“So would I, Mark,” Mike said.
Mark rode down to the street with them. “The next time you see this place, it’s going to look like an important place of work.” He shook their hands and went back upstairs.
Herbie and Mike thanked James for the tour and rode uptown together.
30
Herbie got back to his office and had a message to return a call to Parker Mosely, Dink Brennan’s roommate at Yale. He dialed the number.
“Hi, Mr. Fisher,” Parker said. “Thanks for returning my call.”
“How can I help you, Parker?”
“I just wanted to relay a message from Dink. He wants you to know how grateful he is to you for getting him into rehab. I saw him yesterday, and he’s doing really well.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Parker.”
“He asked me to tell you that if you’re anywhere near there, to please visit him. He’d like to see you and thank you personally.”
“If I get up that way I’ll stop in for a visit,” Herbie said. “Thanks for calling, Parker, and give Dink my best.” He hung up and tried to imagine Dink Brennan as a reformed character. He failed.
Parker put away his cell phone and turned to Carson Cullers, on whose parents’ living room sofa they were sitting, smoking a joint. “Okay,” he said, “that should prime the pump.” He handed Carson a small package wrapped in brown paper. “Now, here’s what Dink wants you to do,” he said. When he had finished he waved away a puff of her smoke. “Now, have you got that? He wants it done exactly that way.”
“Got it,” Carson said. “You know, this could be fun.”
“Okay, I gotta run,” Parker said. “There’s a car waiting, and I’ve got a shipment to get back to New Haven.” He said goodbye and left.
Carson went into her mother’s dressing room and pressed the button that started the moving closet, which resembled the sort of long, electric rack in dry-cleaning establishments. She let it run for a few seconds, then stopped it and removed a sheer, silk minidress. “Perfect,” she said. “He’ll never know what hit him.”
Herbie waited at the bar of the Park Avenue Cafe, since he knew Allison would be a little late; she was always a little late. She hurried in after a ten-minute wait, gave him a peck on the cheek, and they were seated in the dining room. He ordered her a drink, and they took a look at the menus.
“I’m not staying for dinner,” she said. “You order.”
Herbie closed the menu. “All right,” he said, “tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing is wrong,” she replied. “I just have to talk to you.”
She took a swig of her drink, as if she needed it.
“I’m listening,” Herbie said.
“I don’t think we should go on seeing each other,” she said.
