“Ah, who gives a shit? . . . But I guess in your job you can’t imagine money like that, eh, Joe?” With his double-breasted, charcoal suit, white silk shirt, and silver-gray tie with garnet clip, Wilbur at least looked the part. From past conversations, Corrigan knew that he kept up with the fashions that boosted the executive image: golf in summer, skiing in winter, woman’s-magazine-cover home with gourmet kitchen, all the wines, European wardrobe, glitzmobile car. The only problem was, the bank owned all of it and he was perpetually one promotion away from being able to afford the repayments. If that was success, Corrigan preferred being a happy failure.
Sherri came back carrying a tray filled with more glasses from the tables. She was petite, blond, bouncy, looking trim in her bar outfit of blouse, maroon vest, and black skirt. “One Bud, one Red, vodka lime with lemon, margarita special, and a Greyhound,” she said to Corrigan. He nodded and began pouring.
Wilbur had opened a briefcase on his knee, revealing it to be a portable office complete with laptop and screen, phone, fax/copier, and music player—presumably for necessary relaxation. While Corrigan was busy with the drinks, he lifted out the handset and tapped in a code. “Hi, A.J.? Jon here. Look, about that meeting, can we make it tomorrow? I have to see a guy about an offer, and it might take a while, okay?” He kept his voice raised to make sure that it carried. Sherri caught Corrigan’s gaze, raised her eyes momentarily, and came around to pour the beers. “That’ll do fine. I’ll see you then. ‘Bye.” Wilbur closed the lid, glancing about quickly to see who was watching. Two girls at a table behind, whom he missed, seemed to be impressed.
“Actually it’s a job offer,” he confided in a low voice, in case Corrigan was itching to know.
“Is that so, now?” Corrigan said.
“Do you know Oliver, who comes in here sometimes?” Wilbur asked.
Corrigan did—and he wouldn’t have trusted him as far as he could fly. “Big fella. Hearty kind—likes a joke. Not a lot of hair on the top of him,” Corrigan said.
“That’s the one.”
“Ah, I do, sure. He was in yesterday for lunch.”
Wilbur leaned forward and propped an elbow on the bar, covering the side of his mouth with two fingers. “Well, the job’s with his operation, managing portfolios. And I’m telling you, it’s not nickel-and-dime stuff with those guys. I mean, we’re talking big-time here.”
“Well, good luck with it,” Corrigan said.
Wilbur scooped a handful of peanuts from a dish on the bar and studied Corrigan while he brought them up to his mouth. “You’d be about what, Joe, fortyish? A little less, maybe?” he asked.
“I’m forty-four.” Corrigan transferred the cocktails to Sherri’s tray. She picked it up and carried it away.
“Ever have any experience with big outfits, out of curiosity?” Wilbur went on. “Where the real wheels are, know what I mean?”
Corrigan could have said that he had once been the main instigator and joint director of a project whose backers could probably have bought Oliver’s operation with the petty cash. Instead, he answered, “Oh, I’ll leave that kind of thing to those who have a taste for it. I’m from a part of the world where people tend to take things a bit easier, you understand.”
“Irish, right?”
“That’s it.”
“Yeah. Never got there.” Wilbur’s voice fell again. “But this thing I was telling you about with Oliver. He’s gonna fix me up real good there, in exchange for”—Wilbur grinned slyly—”don’t say anything to anyone, but you know how it is—a little harmless information about the place I’m at now. But anything’s fair in love, war, and business, eh?” It was all straight out of a score of popular movie series. Corrigan found it hard not to smile.
“I wouldn’t know about that,” he said.
Oliver arrived a few minutes later, dressed showily in a suit of silver-dusted cobalt blue with a white leather topcoat thrown loosely across his shoulders. He stopped in the doorway to look around, saw Wilbur at the bar, and moved ponderously across to join him. With Oliver was a tall woman, mid-thirties to forty, with straight hair worn high, heavy on the makeup. She was wearing a long, low-cut dress, and glittered from throat to fingers with jewelry. Corrigan had seen her with Oliver a couple of times before. Delia, he thought her name was.