The Birthday Party

The old orange pickup with the knobby tires bought from a sale at the state highway department held its ground as it trudged along the snowy expressway toward downtown. This truck had dueled with worse weather and won. Wearing a tux and driving this rattletrap might have drawn attention but not on a night like this.

Sliding through the last traffic light, the truck turned into the parking structure, careened out of the ramp and into the first handicapped spot. The driver grabbed a spiral tablet from the seat and a black marker from the ashtray, wrote “Pregnant Lady Needed Bathroom” and left it on the dashboard. As he walked away adjusted his tie and buttoned his tux. It was unlocked, who’d steal it?

The birthday party had commandeered all the ballrooms of the Renaissance Hotel on the waterfront. While the bitter January wind chills and relentless snowstorm may have kept some people home, it appeared that most of the five hundred invited guests were determined not to miss this fortieth birthday gala.

Breezing by, the guest of honor said, “Great party dear,” cupping her husband's cheeks with her hands and giving him a full-on-the-mouth kiss with just a hint of her tongue. Kevin Conacher met Lauren DiMio, ten years his junior, then a model for one of the car companies, at the auto show and began wooing her while still married to his first wife.

The first time he saw her, she was draped over a new Lincoln on a revolving turntable, wearing a black dress that started low and ended high with fringe on the bottom like the outfit Renee Zellweger wore in Chicago. At the time, Lauren was married to a salesman for a local software company, no match for the Kevin Conacher cash machine.

Soon after they began seeing each other, he bought a condo at Wabeek Manor in downtown Birmingham with company funds so they’d have a trysting place. Kevin carried on with DiMio for three years until his first wife consented to a divorce. During that time, Lauren had sanded down many rough edges on him. He once tried to eat the potpourri from a dish on the grand piano at a Detroit Symphony fundraiser.

The Marriott staff, under his supervision, had created themes in each of the hotel’s four ballrooms for the guests to enjoy, each representing one of Kevin or Lauren’s interests. The main floor ballroom featured a Motown Revue with a sprinkling of the famed studio’s stars.

In another ballroom, the country-western bar scene featured ‘Bravo’ the mechanical bull, tamed to the ferocity of a grocery store kiddie horse. Bravo was surrounded by a split rail fence and bales of hay with a photographer at one end taking pictures of any and all who wanted to ‘Take a shot on the bull,’ as the sign read.

The next venue was a gambling casino modeled after Caesar’s Palace, dominated by plaster statues of famous Romans. Martial music droned quietly in the background as if warning of an approaching phalanx of returning Roman soldiers. ‘Slaves’ wearing short togas with deep-plunging necklines traversed the ballroom with trays of hor d’oeuvres graciously dipping their proffered trays to each male guest affording a better view of the tray and the slave’s cleavage.

The final ballroom had been transformed into a jazz bar with dueling pianos on a raised center stage. All the decorations were in a stark black-and-white motif from the wild print shirts of the piano players to the life-sized wall hangings of pianos of various styles.

Conacher felt his belt vibrate. Pulling out his cell phone, he looked at the screen. “Hello Mom, what’s up?”

She told him that the Red Wings were up three to nothing halfway through the first period.

“Already?” What she wanted was someone to talk with, Kevin always obliged.

“You know Ruth Hanratty from the old neighborhood died,” she continued as if the second topic was a natural extension of the first.

“That’s too bad, was she sick?”

“Cancer, read it in the death notices today. They all sound alike. Same person must write ‘em all. They’re so long, even if the person wasn’t famous. Where are you, it’s noisy?”

“I’m at Lauren’s birthday party. I have to go now but call me in the morning, but not early, you can tell me how the rest of the game went.”

The tab for Mary Helen Conacher’s stay at the Georgian Manor senior center in Bloomfield Hills was north of twelve thousand a month. She was the best-cared-for former assembly line worker in the Detroit area. Kevin didn’t mind, it was the least he could do.

Phone belted, Conacher turned his attention to the party. Hearing the dueling pianos he headed for the black-and-white themed room. As he walked by, waiters were refilling a ten-foot long ice filled glass boat that was mounted on a platform that brought it to table height. As soon as the staff backed away, the guests deployed five across on either side of the boat, renewing their attack on the jumbo shrimp.

He had been there for only a few minutes enjoying the music when he felt a tug at his left arm causing him to spill some of his champagne. Conacher looked to his left and saw a face he recognized. Randy Hardaway was a tall thin man with eyes that darted around the immediate area looking to ensure no one else was within earshot. His mouth formed a thin horizontal line with a slight droop downward. “I can get the door handles on the new Starfire sole-sourced to you.”

“How?”

“Make my hundred grand balance at Greektown go away.”

Greektown, one of the city's foremost casinos, was a few blocks away, within walking distance of the office where this auto executive worked.

Conacher took a sip. “Hmm,” not wanting to sound too interested.

“I’ll call you Monday.”

Kevin shook his head as the man walked off, never a night off from business. Leaving the piano scene and walking to the country-western bar he ran into Gabe Farragut, his CFO. “Better allocate a little more to the food budget, I saw them refilling the shrimp boat.”

Both men laughed, Farragut saying, “Not to worry.”

Most of the attendees and all the Detroit papers’ society writers thought Conacher extremely generous for hosting such an extravagant party. Only Farragut and a few others knew that Shamrock Industries was footing the bill, another example of treating this publicly held company, like his personal fiefdom.

Conacher shrugged at Farragut who returned the same gesture and walked off. He looked ahead a few yards and spotted Donna Dennison flashing him a come-hither smile. She veered slightly to ensure their paths would intersect. Conacher spotted her, wishing now for an invisible cloak.

She was wearing a Kelly-green floor length gown whose twinned spaghetti straps were trying valiantly to hold her ample breasts in check. The bodice plunged so low Conacher calculated that it would need to go down only another twelve inches and it would meet with the slit up the center of her skirt.

“My you look dashing,” she gave him a hug that included a good feel of her specialized resources.

“Thank you,” he said stiffly, in more ways than one, and glanced over her shoulder hoping to engage another passer-by in conversation. “You look ravishing yourself.”

“I have an urgent matter I’d like to discuss with you in a quiet place. Do you have a minute?”

He knew better than to take the bait. “I’d love to, but I need to find Lauren.”

Donna pouted, “Maybe later, I wore this dress especially for you.”

Moving along the corridor, Conacher was approached by a guest he didn’t know, maybe someone’s date? He was a little over six feet, mid-to late-thirties, handsome, dark skinned, athletic with deep-set brown eyes that fronted a searching stare. His neck wasn’t at all indented from his head, and had the solidity of a tree trunk.

“Nice party, Mr. Conacher.”

“Thank You.”

“May I have a moment of your time?” As Conacher opened his mouth to speak, the man clamped onto his elbow and steered him out of the traffic lanes and into a conversation pod, an area with soft chairs and attached armchair tables.

Standing by the table he introduced himself, “Guillermo Guerrero.” Without a trace of an accent but pronouncing the surname with perfectly trilled ‘r’s. “Have a seat.”

Conacher was cornered, “What can I do for you?”

“Something very important actually.”

Conacher let out a nasal exhale, someone with his hand out.

“I have been studying you and your corporation for some time now.”

Smiling now, thinking maybe an article in the Journal was in his future.

“Well prior to your indictment."

The smile vanished. “An indictment isn’t a conviction you know.”

“It’s true no court has convicted you yet, but we both know you’ve been pillaging this public company you work for as CEO as if it were your private domain.”

Conacher’s mouth momentarily hung open. Recovering he said, “Mister, uh?”

“Call me Guerrero.”

“This isn’t the time or the place.”

“Cut the posturing. I’ll be brief. I can and will expose your misdeeds, releasing data proving you’ve done considerable damage to your investors and your employees.”

“You can’t...”

“For the good of your company’s employees and the investing public, you need to come clean about your shady financial practices and accept the legal consequences on your own initiative.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Who are you?”

“Someone who will expose you and leave you hemorrhaging on the altar of public opinion, that’s before the justice system gets to you.”

“I doubt that.”

“I already have the goods. You and your CFO have been dipping into the employee health insurance fund and using those funds to shore up your corporate general ledger when the company is squeezed for cash. You two have also shorted stocks with that money as a way to spruce up your bottom line, sometimes double dipping to cover your losses. And there's more...”

“How did you...?”

“By paying attention to the details.”

“What they don’t know won’t hurt them. Besides, that actually kept us solvent.”

“The public wouldn't believe that’s what your employees had in mind when they bargained for worker participation in management, using their hard earned contributions as play money.”

“Well,”

“The way it's supposed to work is that a higher rank means higher responsibility and a greater level of service to those below you. Rank is not an excuse to abuse the trust of the employees...or their funds.”

“That’s not…”

“Stop.” He extended his hand, palm out. “I have the data, and I’ll go to the newspapers here, if you don’t start to make public amends in sixty days. It would be far better for you to fall on your sword than to stonewall as I dole out more evidence of your abuse of your responsibilities.”

“I don’t believe you, you're bluffing.”

“That's a less than even money bet on your part. By the way, I overheard that guy offer you single sourcing on the new door handle in exchange for making his gambling debt disappear. I’ll include that tidbit as well.”

“How could you have heard that?”

“I was standing with my back to you near the shrimp boat.”

“Who doesn’t want an unfair advantage?”

“That’ll be a nice quote for the News or the Free Press.”

Conacher reached for his belt, “I’m calling security.”

“Do that, I’m finished for now. Remember, I’ll return in sixty days. When I do, I’ll expect to see evidence of your plan to take your bad medicine.”

“You can’t threaten me.”

The hand shot out again demanding silence. “I’m not, I’m warning you. Do you know the difference? A warning is intended to help someone avoid the unpleasant consequences of their present and future actions.”

Conacher was halfway through the dialing sequence when Guerrero leaned in toward the cell phone. “Use your time wisely.”

When he finished punching the number pad and looked up, the stranger was gone.