Jack and Clara on a Dangerous Mission

The Parking Lot (Birth of a Hare-Brained Scheme)

The relentless Texas late-morning sun glared blindingly off the polished chrome of the open-top 1969 Cadillac. It was eleven o’clock sharp in greater Dallas, a pleasantly mild seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit by Texan standards, and Paul Rowland — Jack’s father — was the very picture of calm. In his mid-sixties he was still in damned good shape. His investment firm, Rowland Holding, purred like clockwork, and his wife Margaret, whom he loved above all else, had now been living happily and contentedly at his side for thirty years. He fully expected to be home at his suburban villa in a good hour, to enjoy a fabulous lunch with her, just like every day. It would taste wonderful to them both.

The arranged golf duel with two prospective major clients had worked out perfectly. The contracts had been sealed, as was only proper, with a traditional Texan handshake. Thoroughly satisfied, Paul heaved his expensive golf bag onto the back seat of the massive convertible. He slid onto the soft leather seat, turned the ignition key, and woke the roaring V8. A deep, rumbling burble filled the hot air.

At that same moment the automatic glass sliding door of the elite clubhouse opened, and a man stepped outside: Rajesh Sharma, Clara’s father.

Rajesh wasn’t wearing golf shoes but comfortable, practical footwear. He had just personally inspected his employees’ work. The restrooms of the elite country club gleamed and once again smelled sharply of lemon — exactly as the iron standard of his cleaning company, Sharma Cleaning Services, demanded. To mark the occasion, for once he was entirely satisfied with his staff. He had firmly resolved to spend the rest of the day at home. When was the last time that had happened? Three weeks ago? The company was running, sure, but Rajesh constantly had to stay on top of it. Nothing worked on its own; there was forever trouble with the clientele. But today was an absolute exception; things could honestly go on just like this.

As he walked toward his vehicle, he thought about the checkered history of his company. It had truly seen better days, even if the order books were slowly returning to normal. A brutal stock-market crash ten years earlier had dragged two of his biggest clients into insolvency and had very nearly pulled his then-flourishing company down into the abyss along with them. The years that followed had been a sheer gauntlet, a constant balancing act on the edge of ruin. What still hurt him most to this day was that he could no longer afford his beloved daughter’s expensive private school. Clara had had to break off her excellent education abruptly back then. It still ached in his heart whenever he saw his daughter having to pitch in at the office or on outside jobs instead of living her own life.

Content, Rajesh opened his company vehicle, a small white Mitsubishi van. He climbed in, started the modest engine, and put it in reverse.

A few yards away Paul sat in his Cadillac, his thoughts already with his wife Margaret — still impossibly pretty to him, and the same age as himself. Maybe she’ll surprise me again today with that tight black skirt and the white blouse, he thought. He closed his eyes for just a tiny instant. The image of his wife in that short skirt was simply too delicious to push away again right off.

But that single moment of inattention took its revenge at once. His foot pressed the gas pedal down just a shade too hard. The two-ton Cadillac gave a little lurch and hopped gently forward. Paul’s quick stab at the brake came a blink too late.

Tock.

It was barely more than a soft nudge. In the back of the Mitsubishi a mop bucket clanged against an aluminum pole.

Paul cursed under his breath, switched off the engine, and got out. Rajesh, too, yanked the handbrake at once and sprang from his van, ready to give the careless driver a proper piece of his mind.

The size difference between the two vehicles was almost comical — the huge Cadillac looked as if it would have loved to eat the little Mitsubishi for breakfast. Both men stepped to the rear of the van and bent down.

There it was. A tiny scratch, maybe an inch long, in the plastic of the bumper, no thicker than a hair.

“I do apologize,” Paul said at once, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “That was entirely my fault. My mind was somewhere else. Paul Rowland.” He politely held out his hand.

Rajesh looked up from the ridiculous scratch and studied the elegantly dressed Texan. He sighed inwardly. The day had actually begun so unexpectedly well. As so often, he’d braced for tedious complaints from this client, but no — surprisingly, everything had been in order. And now that this rich Texan was immediately admitting fault on top of it, Rajesh’s irritation vanished on the spot.

“Rajesh Sharma,” he said, and shook firmly. “But my American clients all call me Ratchi. Don’t give it another thought, Mr. Rowland. The scratch is hardly visible. My mop buckets have survived worse.”

Paul laughed, audibly relieved. “Call me Paul. Are you sure? I’ll cover any damage, of course. Like I said, I was distracted. Business is good, but the family…” He rolled his eyes theatrically. “Maybe I can talk you into a coffee or tea at the golf club, and we’ll settle this little blemish there?”

Rajesh nodded. Far more time had actually been set aside for today’s quick inspection, and his next appointment downtown wasn’t for another three hours. So why not?

Paul quickly backed his big boat of a car onto the parking lot again. How annoying, he thought. All that lovely anticipation of home! But I’ll be there soon enough.

With his “kitten” — that was his pet name for his wife — he did have to check in quickly, though. He dialed her number. “Hello, my darling. I’m going to be a little late, I’m afraid. I had an accident.” He said it quite deliberately, in the most theatrical way possible. He loved it when his wife got worked up.

A short, sharp gasp was the instant response from the other end of the line. But she knew her “tomcat” — as she in turn called him — only too well, and knew that he loved to lay it on far too thick.

“Is the car all right?” she asked drily.

“What do you mean?” Paul shot back, indignant. “The car? And what about me?”

Now she laughed brightly on the phone.

“No, really, I rolled into another car. Just a little scratch. Your tomcat will be home a bit later.”

“In the meantime I’ll get everything ready,” she purred softly. “And when you’re here, then…” And she hung up.

Okay, Paul, he told himself, get this wrapped up quick!

He grabbed Rajesh, and together they took a seat on the sunny terrace of the club. First a coffee was ordered for Paul and a tea for Rajesh. But since two hard-working businessmen of almost the same age were sitting across from each other, a short time later the question of a good cognac and a cask-aged whisky came up after all. The alcohol brought an agreeable looseness to both men at once. The fender bender was settled in two minutes: Paul laid a hundred dollars on the table, and the matter was done. It was utterly pointless to bother with paperwork or an insurance claim over this scratch.

They had barely leaned back when Paul’s phone buzzed. He glanced briefly at the display, raised an apologetic hand, and answered. The jovial, warm tone in which he’d just been joking about the scratch was gone in an instant.

“Yes. … No. The deadline expired at noon today.” A pause, while Paul plucked boredly at his cuff. “I don’t care how many lawyers he brings in. Buy up his debt quietly and call it due overnight. By Friday he decides: sell — or go under.” One last, brief silence. His voice dropped another notch. “And call our contact in Washington. He still owes the family. It’s time he paid up.”

Paul hung up, slid the phone back into his jacket pocket, and in the same instant the warm, easy smile was back on his face, as if nothing had happened.

Rajesh, who had involuntarily overheard, felt a small, cold shiver run down his spine. He swallowed and reached a little too hastily for his glass. The scatterbrained, friendly Texan who had just laid down a hundred dollars for a scratch was evidently playing in an entirely different, far harder league. But the cognac was good, the sun was shining, and Rajesh chased the thought away as quickly as it had come.

When a fine sherry was finally served to round things off, the last barriers of politeness fell. Paul lamented his one great sorrow: his son Jack.

“Back when he came home from the army, he was a completely different man,” Paul sighed, as the sweet sherry ran down his throat. “Suddenly he loved the wild life and the women. And the women most of all! Why can’t he be content with a single one? If there were just one… My son Jack will be the death of me yet. The boy is a brilliant fellow, twenty-eight years old, served in the military, but he wouldn’t dream of settling down or finding himself a sensible wife.”

At that, Rajesh struck the very same note. The cognac and the whisky had done their work on him too. “My daughter Clara was once the absolute star of her school. But after my company fell on hard times, I had to take her out. Now she sits with me in the office or helps out with the hard labor, and she’s all alone.” A wistful, understanding smile crossed his face. “Don’t talk to me about stubborn children, Paul. My daughter Clara is twenty-seven, beautiful, highly intelligent, and works tirelessly. But when it comes to men? An iceberg! She always just hides behind the company. I’m afraid she’ll end up an old maid, surrounded by my mop buckets.”

At the word “company,” Paul’s business hunting instinct was suddenly roused. Only now did he take a closer look, from the terrace, at the business card Rajesh had given him earlier. In Dallas, Paul’s own vast corporate empire didn’t yet have a branch for professional building maintenance. He took the card in hand. While Rajesh went on talking about his daughter, Paul was already three steps ahead in his mind. One could simply buy this company, he thought. No matter what shape its finances are in. It’s always better to start in a new city with something already up and running. At his age, after all, it was months that counted, not years.

“My daughter,” Rajesh was meanwhile explaining, “does nothing but sit around these days, never goes out, and hey, she’s twenty-seven years old.”