Los Angeles Noir - Denise Hamilton [99]
At the office he reconciled the inconsistency with the Carlson financials after one phone call and a subsequent fax from his buddy at the County. In deference to his friend Wayne Wardlow, he’d also stolen money from his foundation. If he hadn’t, then Wayne would have come under suspicion and scrutiny. And that might disclose his friend’s continuing relationship with his paramour, and that would surely weigh on Roger’s conscience.
“Happy birthday, Rog.”
“Thanks, Gabe.” The son had stepped into Roger’s office.
“Just want you to know, it’s all downhill from here.” Gabriel Nathanson was twice divorced and fifty-four.
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Nathanson clapped him on her shoulder. “I’ll see you over at the Bounty, I’ll buy a round.”
“That’s great, Gabe.”
“I tried to get that drip Marty to come along, but you know how he is.”
Roger dredged up a camaraderie chuckle it had taken him years to perfect. “Yes, I do.” Martin Nathanson’s idea of cutting loose was putting ketchup on his scrambled eggs.
“And next week, let’s you, me, and sourpuss sit down, okay, partner?”
“Sure, Gabe. I look forward to it.”
The son left, whistling.
There it was. Roger was going to betray a firm with a reputation for spotless honesty and forthrightness of, well, of more than sixty years. Would they recover from the taint his theft would smear them with, or sink under a sea of accusations and blame? That and the avalanche of lawsuits sure to come. And though Roger was not much of a standard-bearer for the race, there was that too. A black man, albeit middle class and middle-aged, married for over twenty years to a white woman, but a black man nonetheless, who had gained the trust of his Jewish bosses and in effect stolen from them. What would be the fallout from that? Strenuous finger-pointing at the next CPA convention, for sure.
And what of the betrayal of his wife and daughter? Wasn’t that the biggest crime of all? Running off with a younger black woman, fine as she may be? His stomach gurgled as he admonished himself. This was a time to keep his mind focused, not a time for butterflies and second-guessing. He wanted to call Nanette, wanted so desperately to hear her say how much she loved him, how she’d never felt this way about a man before.
He suppressed the urge and went about his tasks, forcing himself not to watch the clock, not to mentally count down the hours till he started anew. Never again the same old 9-to-5, mortgage-paying, block-club-going Roger. The hours eked by and finally he was sitting in the back room of the Bounty on Wilshire in what was becoming part of the growing Koreatown.
The HMS Bounty was a time warp steak-and-booze emporium left over from the days of pounding down a couple of Scotches over lunch, when cholesterol sounded like the name of a new hair color line. It was where you could find a booth named for L.A. native Jack Webb, and across the street from the ghost of the Ambassador Hotel where presidential candidate Robert Kennedy had been assassinated in 1968. The hotel was no more, and a high school and shops were being built on the grounds.
“Here’s to my ace, Roger. May the next fifty be yours for the taking,” Wayne Wardlow toasted after they’d sung an off-key but effusive “Happy Birthday.”
The waitress brought out a chocolate cake, his favorite.
“Of course, we only used five candles for symbolism’s sake, since we didn’t want to torch the joint,” Wardlow joked, getting a round of guffaws.
“Here’s to you, Roger,” Gabe Nathanson echoed.
“Thanks, gents.” Roger clinked his glass against the others’ and drank. This was his second gin and tonic and it was going to be his limit. It was seventeen past 6:00 and it was getting harder for him to laugh and seem at ease. He had to go home and find out about his daughter, a last intimacy with Claudia, he owed her that, and then Nanette. One foot right before the other, Roger. Just like walking across the street. Though you could get run over.
“What’s up, champ?” Wardlow sidled up next to him. “Looks like you got something on your mind.”
“Being