Kill and Tell Page 9

  “We realize,” Keely added, “that on the surface this might appear to be a dangerous, even a foolhardy gamble. But we assure you, sir, nothing could be further from the truth. This, sir, goes beyond the proverbial lead pipe cinch. If there were a risk of any sort whatsoever, sir, we certainly would point it out. But, frankly, there isn’t. This is just a golden opportunity for The Company to score an unprecedented public relations coup. And, if I may be so bold, sir, it would certainly be a feather in your cap. It’s no secret that you’re new to The Company. This will be, in effect, your first major meeting presentation. If I may be so bold as to suggest, sir, this could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for you as well as for The Company.”

  “And,” Kirkus gestured toward Zaleski, “the bottom line would fall to advertising. Once we are identified through the predictable media blitz as the consumers’ best friend, we will profit nicely in advertising correlation.”

  “First in world class quality!” Zaleski’s voice was almost a shout. “First in design and performance! And first in the hearts of the consumer market! We’re number one! We’re number one! We’re number one!”

  His cheers proved non-infectious.

  The three looked expectantly at Chase, who seemed to be pondering the proposal.

  Finally, he spoke. “We’ll see.” But a slight smile played about the corners of his mouth.

  The three knew that they had sold and that Chase, indeed, had bought.

  “Next on the agenda,” said Kirkus, inserting a stack of papers into his briefcase and shifting others to the top of the pile on the desk, “will be establishing and planning for our prime demographic target two years down the line. This is of critical importance, sir, because we will be committing the vast majority of The Company’s resources to whatever demographic target we establish.”

  “I understand all that.” And, indeed, Chase did understand the literally vital risk involved in this planning. A faulty projection could cost The Company that share of the market necessary for survival.

  “Of course, sir.” Al waxed appropriately apologetic. “And I know you’re well acquainted with the traditional categorization of the buying public, divided into urban men thirty-four to fifty-five; upscale working women eighteen to thirty-four; and housewives eighteen to fifty-four.”

  Chase nodded.

  “Well, sir,” Kirkus continued, “I’d just like Clem to update you on a more recent and more reliable curve of buyer statistics, grouped under the acronym VALS.”

  “VALS?”

  “VALS,” replied Keely, “stands for Values and Life-Styles. It divides the buying public into more revealing categories.

  “First, at 33 percent, are the Belongers—buyers who tend to be more stable, content, and traditional.”

  “Like your middle linebacker,” offered Zaleski.

  “Then, at 25 percent, you have your Achievers—middle-aged and materialistically oriented.”

  “Like your tight end.”

  “Then, at 10 percent, are the Emulators—generally ambitious young adults just breaking into the system.”

  “Like your halfback.”

  “At 9 percent”—Keely’s voice tightened; Zaleski’s clarifications were beginning to irk—“are the Societally Conscious. Those are attracted to causes; they’re mission oriented.”

  “Something like the wide receiver.”

  “At 7 percent are the Experiential. They’re people-oriented—directed toward inner growth.”

  “Like the center. The offensive center, naturally.”

  “Also at 7 percent are the Sustainers. They’re having a hard time making ends meet and they’re damn resentful about it.”

  “Like a second-string quarterback.”

  For the first time during this presentation, Chase glanced at Zaleski. Chase seemed ready to believe that Zaleski was not real.

  “The I-Am-Me group makes up only 5 percent of the buying public—the impulsive young adults. They’re narcissistic and unconventional.”

  “Just like some quarterbacks.” Zaleski rubbed his hands together.

  “The least of the buying groups at only 4 percent are the Survivors. They’re the poor, old people with little hope for the future.”

  “The over-the-hill lineman.” Zaleski’s voice held a touch of sadness.

  “Well, sir,” Kirkus had tried to speak quickly enough to cut Zaleski off at the pass, but had been unsuccessful, “that’s the way it is. VALS identifies today’s buyers. By the way, Clem, thanks for a concise presentation.” No mention of Zaleski’s antiphonal contributions.

  “So you see, sir,” Kirkus continued, “the interesting thing about this categorization is who we find at the top and who at the bottom of this scale. We might suppose that today’s youth-impulsive young adults, ambitious young adults, young men and women just making their mark in the business world—would be among the highest percentage of buyers. But VALS makes it clear they are not. Such young men and women make up a mere 15 percent of the buying market.

  “On the other hand, while we might not anticipate it, we And by far the majority of today’s buyers to be that old reliable group of middle-aged, stable, content, traditional men and women. A whopping 58 percent.”

  “I guess there’s no doubt which market we’re aiming at,” Keely broke in. “The guys and gals we’ll be aiming at are the middle-of-the-roaders—the ones who demand economy and value; straight, old-fashioned American virtues. They won’t want to throw their hard-earned money down a drain marked ‘Flashy and Sports.’ No, sir; they’re going to demand the kind of cars they’ve been buying over the past several years. The fuel-efficient compacts. The kind of car that vaulted the Cheetah into world class competition.”

  At mention of the Cheetah, Zaleski moved forward in his chair. “It’s like they always say: The best defense is a good offense. We pick up our market and we go with the flow. Remember: We’re giving 120 percent and we’ve come to play. But we’ve got to play in the right ballpark.”

  “And the right ballpark for us, sir,” Kirkus slid in smoothly, “is the park we’ve been in for the past several years. We would be foolish to abandon what has contributed to our latest and most conspicuous success.”

  Again there was a moment of silence while the three men tried to gauge the effect of their presentation.

  “I’m going to have to check those VALS findings,” said Chase finally.

  He would find them to be precisely as Keely had presented them. “Then, I’ll want to work them out myself.”

  Kirkus and Keely quickly assembled a packet of graphs and documents. Kirkus offered the packet to Chase, who accepted it. “I’ll take these with me over the weekend, and give you my answer Monday. Now, if there’s nothing else—”

  “There is one thing more, sir, if you don’t mind.”

  Keely and Zaleski looked at Kirkus with genuine surprise. They were unaware of anything further on the agenda.

  Chase nodded at Kirkus and settled back in his swivel chair.

  “Actually, sir, it’s a rather delicate matter.”

  Keely and Zaleski leaned forward.

  “It has to do with our operation in Mexico. And the production of the Cheetah in Mexico.

  “Now, as you know, The Company has its own glass division. We and Ford are the only ones who make their own glass. And, as you know, our glass division is based entirely in this country. Well—and it is not that difficult to trace this—the Cheetahs manufactured in Mexico arrive in this country complete with glass.”

  He paused to let this fact have its effect.

  “You mean to say,” Chase inquired, “that our Mexican operation is buying the glass for the Cheetah from a competing Mexican glass company?”

  “That’s it, sir: We have no opportunity to provide our own glass for our own cars because those same cars are being outfitted with glass while they are still in Mexico. Before they’re shipped back to the States!”

  Chase reacted with authentic indignation. “But what�
��s the meaning of this? What’s behind it?”

  Kirkus shrugged. “The usual, I suppose, sir: Kickbacks, money on the side, bribes—la mordida. It’s been going on for years—known only to middle to lower levels of management. But high time the board knows of it, sir. In a way, I’m taking a chance even bringing it up now, sir. But I thought you ought to know. I thought I ought to tell you—”

  “You did well to do so.” Chase’s indignation remained pronounced. “Document this as fully as you can and get it to me first thing Monday. The Company clearly is being bled. You’re absolutely correct: The board must know of this.”

  “Imagine!” said Zaleski, sharing a bit of the indignation, “those spiks red-dogging us! Shooting the gap! We’ve got to pick up their stunts or it’s the old ballgame!”

  “First thing Monday!” Chase emphasized to Kirkus.

  And so the meeting was concluded.

  “God bless you, sir!” Kirkus’ concern was evident. “Shouldn’t you be in bed? That sounds like a dreadful cold. Maybe the flu!”

  “It’s OK, Al,” said Frank Hoffman. “Don’t worry. Just run that by me again!”

  “Certainly, sir.

  “As I was saying, things were going so well that I threw the Mexican import-export business into the pot. And he bought it, sir. Mr. Chase was absolutely indignant that The Company was being bled by some of its own people.”

  “That was nervy of you, Al. We hadn’t planned on that, you know.” Hoffman’s tone held a hint of disapproval.

  “I took the liberty, sir,” Kirkus explained. “Things were going so well I was really sure of him, and, of course there was no immediate opportunity to consult with you. But there was almost no chance that an outsider—and Mr. Chase certainly, qualifies as an outsider—there was no chance that an outsider would understand our Mexican operation.”

  “And he bought the demographic projection and Lemon Laws stance?”

  “He didn’t say so in so many words, sir. But he gave every indication he did. I’d stake my life on it, sir.”

  Though he didn’t say so, Hoffman thought that at the very least Kirkus was staking his job on the way he had carried off that meeting.

  “OK, Al. So far so good. Make sure you give him the documentation he needs for the Mexican scam. If that comes off the way it should, it will be the final nail in Chase’s coffin.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, and Al: Did my girl get those Lions tickets to you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Enjoy the game.” Hoffman was coughing as he hung up.

  “Yes, sir.” Al would not take in the football game. He would be working to make the documentation perfect and perfectly enticing. A football game was a small enough sacrifice for the advancement of his career.

  11.

  It was as if a gigantic invisible hand were writing the words over and over across the top of the side of the building. One after another, the script letters lit up: C-A-N-A-D-I-A-N pause C-L-U-B. Then a repeat performance of the scriptwriting, followed by the two words simultaneously flashing on in their entirety: CANADIAN CLUB. Over and over.

  A girl could get mesmerized.

  She stood at the window wall, gazing somewhat absently at the familiar scene.

  This was one of the very few buildings in Detroit known only by its address: 1300 Lafayette. A posh high-rise condo at the eastern edge of downtown, almost in the shadow of the Ren Cen. Within easy walking distance of Bricktown, Greektown, theaters, restaurants, hospitals, a shopping center, the Collegiate Club, a surprising number of churches—most of them Catholic-police headquarters, and, by no means least, the morgue.

  Only a few short blocks separated 1300 Lafayette from the Detroit River. And across the river was Windsor, Ontario, Canada. By a geographical oddity, Detroit is the only city in the United States from which one reaches Canada by going south.

  Shortly she would not be able to discern even this gigantic bright sign. An ever more dense fog was building. It was not uncommon for Detroit at this time of year. In late October, early November, the weather within this hub of the Great Lakes traditionally vacillated between fall, winter, and spring, frequently resulting in a late-evening to early-morning fog. Already the street lights immediately below were a dull blur.

  Life seemed to be closing in in more ways than one.

  It was almost contradictory. Her apartment was more than ample. It was bright and luxuriously appointed and furnished. It was situated in one of Detroit’s more lively and vibrant areas—convenient to nearly everything she could want or need. At thirty, she was still young and in good health.

  Even if her tastes and lifestyle were not quite modest—which they were—she could easily afford to live on an even grander scale. Yet, withal, she felt trapped. And the thickening fog that seemed to slowly obliterate the outside world and seal her into her apartment merely intensified this feeling. Almost as if she were slowly being buried alive.

  It was not alone the fog nor her isolation that contributed to this trapped feeling.

  Jacqueline LeBlanc was a kept woman.

  By no means was she alone in this profession. Nor was she by any means the only mistress in Detroit. But, as far as she was concerned, she must have been among the least likely women to have become a mistress. Yet she was. And the fact that she had come to exist for and at the good pleasure of a man now made her feel trapped, enslaved.

  Jacqueline was born in Fall River, Massachusetts, where her family had lived determinedly within the city’s French Catholic community. Which is the same as saying that they did not live within the Irish Catholic community. Jackie grew up in Fall River during a time of transition. While she was a child, Fall River Catholics were still recovering from their notion that a mixed marriage was one between a French Catholic and an Irish Catholic.

  Jacqueline had attended the local Catholic school. That was during the late 1950s. She had learned from the traditional Baltimore Catechism, under one form or another, the basic tenets of the Catholic faith, over and over. She had memorized the Commandments, the sacraments, the six Church laws that most commonly affected Catholics.

  She had learned moral laws that had taken centuries to formulate. Mostly about how much better it was to be over than underdressed. And about what boys had in mind (girls). And, concomitantly, what girls had to keep in mind (how to avoid the glances and advances of boys).

  Jacqueline had learned how to go to confession. That all mortal sins were to be confessed according to their kind and number. And that a mortal sin was a deliberate violation of a serious command. Venial sins were to be confessed, again, according to nature and number. On Saturday afternoon, at least once a month, young Jacqueline would examine her conscience and come up with a list of sins she had committed, memorize the list and the numbers, wait her turn, then whisper them to the priest from within a musty dark box of a room. Usually, month after month, year after year, her sins would be the same sins, differing only in the number of times committed.

  Young Jacqueline had been a good student. She was proud of getting good grades consistently. She would have preferred to be known as a good student. But she was far more famous as the prettiest little girl in Ste. Jeanne d’Arc Elementary School.

  Young Jacqueline attended Immaculate Heart of Mary High School at about the same time that the Catholic Church was celebrating—or agonizing over, depending on one’s liberal or traditional bent—the Second Vatican Council. Jacqueline found herself re-learning most of the eternal truths she had mastered in elementary school days. But she re-learned them well. She yearned to be known as the student with one of the sharpest minds in school. Instead, most of the girls envied her mature body while most of the boys lusted after it. And not just quietly in their hearts.

  Ms. Jacqueline LeBlanc attended Boston College. She watched, sympathized with, but seldom participated in protest rallies and marches against the war in Vietnam. The Church now was sharply divided between conservatives and liberals. The faculty of Bost
on College was largely liberal. And largely due to that, Jacqueline began to slip in her fidelity to Mass attendance. She selected a well-rounded liberal arts curriculum and majored in theater and dance.

  In her senior year, she portrayed Adelaide in B.C.’s production of Frank Loesser’s Guys and Dolls. She was a major hit. She desired to have her mental powers and talents recognized. But the consensus was solid that she was the most beautiful girl in school. Maybe the most beautiful girl in any school. She was no longer a virgin.

  After graduation, and after many bitter arguments with her parents, Jacqueline took what little money she’d saved, put together her amateur theater portfolio, and went off alone and unattended to make it big in the Big Apple.

  There she learned that agents were not desperate for clients; that lots of very pretty girls were looking for work; that there were comparatively few jobs in the entertainment field; that a small savings account was soon exhausted, especially in New York City, and that the casting couch frequently was the sole gate to even a minimal paying job in a nightclub chorus.

  It was while singing and dancing in just such a chorus that she had caught the eye of Frank Hoffman, and he hers.

  Hoffman was in Manhattan on one of his frequent business trips. Alone that night, he had gone to the Pink Erotica, a sleazy club that ordinarily he would have avoided. But a New York rep had urged him to check it out with the promise that the Erotica featured a few exotics whose acts were worth catching.

  He hadn’t thought all that much of the strippers. Very ordinary, untalented broads whose only virtue was an ability to remove their clothing while writhing.