10
Building Base One is the downtown headquarters for Frank Benzino and Associates.
Lawyers.
Accountants.
City Planners.
The squat brick building has fierce-looking lions with wings as corner gargoyles. There are cameras on the building side.
Two huge satellite dishes on the rooftop.
All is fair, and it’s sunny on the sidewalks, and the birds are chirping. A church bell rings throughout the city square.
Walking from my monster truck to the back of Building Base One, I curse the bead of sweat that rolls down my cheek, down my neck.
I’m in full uniform when I enter the air-conditioned lobby.
After striking the gold elevator button with a finger, I decide not to wait for the elevator. Instead, I climb the stairs. There are cameras mounted on every level. When I finally get to the seventh floor, the topmost floor, I’m welcomed by a wave-like hallway carpet.
Taking a deep breath before knocking, I open the door to the office waiting room.
Almost at once, I see a fat secretary sitting behind her desk. She eats chocolate cake with a fork in one hand, typing with her other free hand. A chunk of black cake flies from her mouth when she says, “If you’re here for your paycheck, take a seat over there.”
I do as I’m told. I take a seat, but I don’t know whether I should pick up a magazine, slowly flip the pages to show some patience or not.
This is another one of my weekly office appointments to retrieve my paycheck.
If today is anything like the last time, then there is much to fear.
The tension I experience during even the shortest visit here is enough to cause me a nameless dread, an unspeakable apprehension.
I sit across from a large fish tank in the wall, and when I look through the water with a steady eye, I can see into some back room. I remember doing that exact thing last Friday.
On the opposite side of the wall, just beyond the fish, I had witnessed a man tied to a chair, blindfolded, under an interrogation lamp. Even through the blur of tank water, I had noticed the man was bloodied at the nose, like he’d been smacked around. Once the murky water had settled and the image of this man had registered with me as real, I had let out a little gasp.
The secretary had looked up last Friday, asking what my problem was.
“I just saw the bigger fish eat the smaller fish,” I had told her.
“Happens all the time,” she had simply replied.
But sitting here again, on the following Friday, there are only hungry fish. The chair beyond the tank is gone.
Still, now, there is a rumbling noise inside the nervous pit of my stomach.
I look around the office space. I notice there are several plaques on the wall that inscribe the name of Frank Benzino. Those wall awards all give special thanks to his bighearted money donations.
There, the Businessman of the Year Award.
And there, a photo of him wearing a suit with a shovel in hand at a digging ceremony for the groundbreaking of a new land project.
Next to that, the photo of him blessing a ship by smashing a champagne bottle on the hull.
Then, in horror, I observe the framed pictures of Painesville and Central Heights, the entire urban landscape. These pictures are shot from a bombardier’s point of view. Aerial shots. I can’t help but think of the planes that circle my home every day. The pictures expose every inch of the two adjoining cities. The way each road is open to examination, it makes the metropolis look like a frozen ant farm. This man, Benzino, has the most prominent role in the construction of both cities, and when he mulls over these pictures, at some late office hour, he must feel a power similar to an almighty God.
Just now, Frank Benzino walks out from the corner conference room.
He turns sideways, as if he might go back, but in a forceful change of pace, he continues forward, in my direction. He brushes a hand through his thick black hair, walking past his secretary, looking like he might be distracted by some new business proposal.
He speaks in his English accent, “Ellen, if Harvey calls, tell him I’m not in, I’m in a meeting, I’m buying horses, whatever.”
And his secretary perks up, saying, “I’ve got you covered, Sir.”
“And Ellen . . .?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t eat all the cake,” he says. “Save me some cake.”
“Will do,” the secretary says, sounding less of cheer, and more like a wounded animal.
At this time, Frank Benzino looks ready to leave the office. His fat secretary, Ellen, stands up from her desk and she turns around to unhook his long black cashmere coat from the rack. She holds the coat open so that her boss can slide his arms into it. As he belts himself tight, she brushes the invisible lint from his shoulders. Since it’s mid-summer, I wonder if he’s about to private jet somewhere cold.
On his way out, Frank Benzino flashes his fang tooth smile, winking at me, but not coming close to shaking my hand. Instead, slapping me hard on the back, shockingly hard, saying, “Good job, Mike, you’re doing a good job. Employee of the month.”
The blow knocks all speech out of me, so much so, I don’t even think to give Benzino the recent news of all the eco-terrorism that has menaced the Clear Lake Condo Estate.
And just like that, the big boss makes his exit of the office.
I sit back down with a newspaper, pretending to skim articles, trying to forget that brief, but painful encounter.
I don’t want to look at the aerial shots of my city either, because even the smallest glance sends shivering waves of paranoia into my neck.
The secretary, Ellen, switches from the file cabinet to the keyboard of her computer. Her eyes fix on the screen, scrolling up and down, working on what I guess is an online crossword puzzle, until finally she talks with a forthright air about her.
“Your name has been circulating the office, more so now, than ever.”
And I quickly counter, “How so? Am I up for promotion?
She asks me, “Is popular the same as infamous?”
I don’t know if she’s asking me a crossword puzzle question or referring to me. I tell her I think infamous is being popular for all the wrong reasons.
She says, “Your name has come up, quite frequently. There has been much discussion about you.”
“All good things,” I say. “I hope you’re hearing all good things.”
But the fat secretary is bold and defiant and she refuses to answer me right away. She slices into her cake, takes a bite, then, with a napkin, she wipes the frosting from her lip.
With her mouth full, she says, “Good or bad, we just don’t know.”
Some silence passes between us. The hazy dialogue seems to be over. I begin to rack my brains over the possible meanings of her last comment. Ellen, that stubborn beast of a large woman, withholds whatever she knows or has heard.
Then she says, “Fourteen across. Looking for a 5-letter word that means—Terminated—Made Obsolete.”
“Fired?”
She ponders for a moment. Then she says, “Yes—exactly. That word fits.”
“Do you think I could have my check now? I’m in a rush.”
“Sure, sure, one moment. Just waiting on Phil to come up from accounting. Help me out, thirty-three down, looking for a 9-letter word for—Tattletale—Squealer.”
I few words come to my mind. I count them on my fingers. I get the impression this crossword puzzle had a secret meaning, somehow in relation to me.
“Informant?” I try.
She said, “Good guess, wow, you’re good at these.”
And then, as if she’s toying with me, she says, “Did you have a little fun, oh, say, a couple weekends ago?”
I roll my eyes to show that I’m thinking hard, searching through the memories of my illegal escapades. I’m reminded of the bar brawl and the night I was arrested for punching a police officer. I try to mask any visible sign of panic. I cling to the desperate hope that she hasn’t read my name in the police log in the local newspaper.
“Fun,” I say. “Yes—I think I had some fun. Why do you ask?”
“Oh,” she says, in a high positive pitch. “No reason.”
Leaving the conversation open to all kinds of interpretation, she just lets me sit there and stew and wonder. I try hard to decode and decipher just how much information they have about my criminal background, a real worry.
“Here we go. Twenty-two across. To rub out is slang for what?”
By now I’m too impatient to care about her stupid crossword puzzle, so I shrug my shoulders, telling her, “I don’t know.”
She says, “It could be choked, killed, stabbed, shot. Not enough letters. Too many letters. It could be anything. Boy, this one’s hard to figure out.”
Then the secretary raises a white envelope, saying, “Well, will you look at this? Right here. Mike Miller. Your paycheck. On my desk. This whole time.”
I want thank her for wasting my time, but I stand up without a word of appreciation.
She says, “Now. Let’s see. Those papers you brought with you, are those security sheets for the past week?’
“Yes, they are,” I say, handing them over. “Hope you don’t mind my messy handwriting.”
“No, that’s fine,” she says. “I’ll make sure Officer Swain takes a good hard look at these. But I need to ask you, are you still willing to work this Sunday?”
“I work every night. Why would this Sunday be any different?”
“Because the big airplane show, at the airport. Everyone in the twin city is going. Almost everyone. Thought you might not want to miss out, since Kingman Corp is sponsoring the event. Many of our employees are invited to attend. Free admission.”
“No, I must work. The condos around the Clear Lake need me.”
“Very good,” she remarks. “But before you go, on your way out, grab the character cake or the personality pie that has your name on it.”
She points to a pastry filled table at the opposite end of the office.
“What?” Confused, I ask her, “Personality pies?”
“Mr. Benzino treats every day like a holiday. At random, he buys a gift for workers who work for him. You know, to show his gratitude for their long standing loyalty. Last year he bought everyone calculator watches. This year he happened to match each employee with a cake or a pie, depending on their character or personality. Quite a creative idea, if you ask me.”
Suddenly, the phone on her desk rings. Before she even answers it, she says, “Excuse me, I need to take this privately. I need you out. Away from the office. Go.”
I walk over to the table where boxes of these cakes and pies are stacked. I quickly find my name on a box. Then, much to my relief, I exit that awful office.
The idea of returning to Building Base One, at the end of every work week, is enough to scare me senseless.
Once outside, I cross the parking lot. I climb up into the seat of my monster truck. Putting the key in the ignition, I stop short of turning the engine on. I’m just too curious, I have to open the box. Inside, a freshly baked apple pie has a note of poetry that reads, “To Mike Miller. Here is an apple pie, because you strike me as an all-American kind of guy. You seem to be a true patriot, normal and nice, just like an apple pie slice.” Then it was signed by Frank Benzino.
Coming from a man whom I suspected of foul play, this seems like an innocent act of goodwill. For a moment, I convince myself that I must’ve judged him unfairly.
Maybe his construction company wasn’t a front for anything sinister at all. Maybe he just likes providing shelter.
I start to blame myself for having any urge of exposing him, for wanting to ruin his reputation. My eyes almost get wet with tears. His kindness has moved me in such a touching way. I have the approval of my boss.
But just now I hear the grinding roar of an airplane engine as it sails right over the top of Building Base One. Pressing my face closer to the windshield, I look up to see the plane as it makes a wild dip across the parking lot. Then it soars again, upwards into the sky.
Attached to the back of the plane, trailing behind it, flapping, is the kind of banner used in aerial advertising. My eyes become dry the moment I read the words that stream by. The red banner says, “SHUT YOUR PIE HOLE!”