Dupree's Resolve, Page 2

  “How close to Ms. Pilmend is she?”

  “Nobody is close to her.” Melinda sneered.

  “I meant physically. If you call in, does Pilmend know?”

  “No, that’s a different office down the hall.”

  “Do me a favor. Call clerical and tell her you saw Tomi French throwing up and told her to go home. And Melinda, please keep it our little secret.”

  “No problem.” Melinda looked at Dupree with a combination of mystery and admiration.

  After Melinda returned to her desk. Dupree sat staring down at the yellow pad on his desk. His notes were a combination of doodles, underlined words and partial sentences, all of which screamed of his anger and frustration at the continued pattern of harassment and hostile work environment since the company changed hands.

  He looked at his watch, almost ten. Dupree took the folder from the top of the stack awaiting his attention. His focus was just sharpening on the documents in front of him when his phone rang.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Hidey Ho Dupree.”

  Dupree looked up to see Rick Weider standing at the door. Weider was probably the first and best friend he’d made since coming to White Owl. They didn’t socialize outside of work, but they often ate lunch together and visited each other’s offices.

  Weider was the same age as Dupree. They could pass for brothers or cousins; they shared a devotion to their work and a disdain for the young Turks that occupied the top floor since Ecomm sold to Kanaal.

  Weider was in charge of patents and acquisitions of intellectual properties. To Dupree, it was a foreign language but Weider’s sense of dark humor and caustic remarks appealed to Dupree’s overall dislike of people who thought they were funny. Weider was wicked funny, and nothing, or no one, was out of bounds. Often his observations bordered on the anti-social almost exposing some hidden personality disorder.

  “Stolen anything of immense value today?” Dupree smiled but was more serious than jesting. Weider was ruthless and his negotiating skills fell somewhere to the right of Atilla the Hun.

  Not really, but I did get a bundle of first-run movies from my buddy in Hollywood. I can burn you a copy later. MKV, AVI or MP4?

  To Dupree, those could be secret government agencies, viruses, or automatic weapons. “In English please.”

  “How do you watch movies?”

  “I don’t, but Dara has a bunch of DVDs. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her watch one though.”

  “You have that much sex?” Weider laughed merrily. “What do you two do for entertainment?”

  “Read. Dara loves doing puzzles. There is always one taking shape on the dining room table.”

  “Mighty quiet over there at the Dupree house.”

  “What do you and your wife do?”

  “Beside yell at our kids? Watch movies, play video games with the kids, listen to the music blasting from one of the bedrooms upstairs.” Weider laughed. “Never a dull moment.”

  “Tell me something.” Dupree shifted the conversation to something more serious. “Do you get the impression the guys upstairs take a lot of liberties with the female staff?”

  “Why?”

  “I keep getting complaints. Sexual harassment, unwanted physical contact. The complaints are always taken from me and I would bet my next month’s salary, they are buying the women off.”

  “Let’s see, too much money, power, they’re bored in this backwater town, they’re lacking discipline, personal and professional. It sounds like the makings of a disaster. But, what do you expect from a bunch of horn dog, LA frat boys?”

  “I find it disturbing that it doesn’t seem to leave the building. I doubt that anyone at headquarters has any idea the payouts they are making.”

  “I have been putting out feelers. It may be time for me to move on.” The look on Weider’s face told far more than his words.

  “That bad?” Dupree was surprised by the news.

  “A lot of things are starting to pile up. The kids aren’t happy, Char misses her family, and I feel like I’m stagnating.” Weider raised his eyebrows. “Zeit, Dodge zum Teufel zu machen.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Time to get the heck out of Dodge.”

  Dupree grinned. “Do it while your kids are young.”

  “Voice of experience?”

  “Voice of failure.”

  The phone on Dupree’s desk rang. “Mr. Dupree, Mr. Carlsson would like to see you as soon as possible.” The woman on the other end of the line was polite but there was no question, it wasn’t a request, but a summons.

  “I’ll be right up.” Dupree realized the woman hung up.

  Dupree stood. “To be continued.”

  “Wenn man vom Esel tratscht, kommt er gelatscht” Weider chuckled.

  “Planning a trip to the old country? What’s this one mean?”

  “It’s something my grandmother used to say. When you talk about the donkey, he comes strolling along!”

  “Perfect. Carlsson.”

  “I could hear. Good luck.” Weider turned and left the office.

  The administrative floor housed three vice-presidents, co-administrators really. The president of the company only made one appearance in White Owl, and that was the first official day of the takeover. He made a few remarks, got back in the limo was gone.

  Leif Carlsson’s office was on the corner of the building. It was the smallest of the three. Originally the floor housed two executive offices, a large meeting room, and a huge conference room, usually reserved to celebrate promotions, quotas met, holidays, birthdays, baby showers, engagements, weddings, or anything party-worthy. Now there were three offices and a meeting room. There was no interest in the people on the floors below. That was the difference between Ecomm and Kanaal, the humanity of it all.

  “Dupree. Come in,” Carlsson said from his desk.

  Leif Carlsson was fair-skinned, athletic, and about thirty-five. Dupree saw him in a different light than in their previous meetings. Dupree didn’t smile, he just crossed the large room and took a seat.

  “I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a while. Thanks for coming up on such short notice.”

  “No problem.” Dupree nodded. There was something forced and insincere about Carlsson’s words.

  “Here’s the thing. We’ve been up here about, what, nine months? The shuffling and restructuring are ongoing, as you know. We’ve been concentrating on streamlining the mess we inherited.”

  That’s awfully ungrateful, Dupree thought.

  “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. Nina Pilmend tells me we have no contract with you on file. What’s the deal there?”

  “I’ve never had one. My position is in-house counsel. In the beginning, I worked a few hours a week until it reached the point I needed to come in every day.”

  “See, that’s the thing I don’t get. I called your office yesterday around two and you weren’t there.”

  “I’m only here until twelve or one, depending on the caseload. Some days more, some less.”

  “What do you do the rest of the time?”

  “I still have my practice downtown.”

  “Really?”

  “So, you’re moonlighting on us?”

  “No, actually it’s the other way around. It seemed the most economical for the company to have a half time attorney than to pay for a full-time person with not enough to do. Like I said, as the company grew, so did the position.” Dupree didn’t like the way this talk was headed.

  “Well, that’s just it. It seems that your office has become a complaints department and the purpose of you being here is getting lost in the shuffle.”

  “I hardly think that is accurate. It seems that some of the new personnel have brought with them a lack of sensitivity toward the female members of our staff. What I have been attempting to do is fend off unnecessary lawsuits.” Dupree sat a little straighter in his chair. He welcomed a confrontation with the cocky, wannabe power player in front of him.

  “Al
right, I get that. But here’s the thing. We have a sizable law firm on retainer in California that should be dealing with that stuff. Thing is, I’ve decided to let them. That, I’m afraid, makes our relationship redundant.” Carlsson pulled out his top desk drawer and removed a white envelope. “I hope this will show that there are no hard feelings.”

  “Hard feelings? For what?” Dupree knew he was being let go, but he wanted to hear the words. This was no time for euphemisms.

  “Well, I mean, I guess, in having to let you go. I mean we don’t need your services any longer.” Carlsson stammered as Dupree glared at him unflinching.

  Dupree reached across the desk and took the envelope. “This is to appease my professional sensitivity?” He opened the envelope fully expecting a gift certificate for Papa Johns’ Pizza. Instead, there was a check for ten thousand dollars.

  “I hope that is satisfactory.” Carlsson leaned forward ever so slightly, not sure he wanted to hear the response.

  “Completely.” Dupree stood, turned and walked out the door.

  Few things in his office belonged to him. What there was only filled half a file box. There was no emotion, no regret, nothing, more relief than anything. The new operation was so different than Ecomm and its wonderful founders that Dupree was happy to see his tenure come to an end.

  “What are you doing?” Melinda stood in the doorway.

  “It appears I am redundant in my relationship with the new administration and their California attorneys.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I just got dismissed, let go, got the sack, fired. In short, I’m leaving.”

  “W.C. Fields?” Melinda smiled.

  “Was it good?”

  “No. Horrible.” Melinda laughed. “I’d say I’m sorry but I’m not. I’m happy for you. You were ready to get out of here anyway.”

  “Oprah?”

  “No, Melinda Thompson!”

  “A thousand pardons. Do me one last favor?”

  “Name it.”

  “Can you get me Tomi French’s phone number?”

  Melinda looked at Dupree through squinting eyes. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Don’t look at me like that. My intentions are honorable and protected by client-attorney privilege.” Dupree grinned.

  As he put his last few bits and bobs in the box, he knew Melinda was right. He was ready. It was time to go. If he wasn’t sure before he met with Tomi earlier, he was now. He hated the environment. It was too much like what he left behind three years ago. He was leaving with ten grand in his pocket and his head held high knowing he did an honest day’s work and provided the best legal advice and documentation Kanaal would get for a long while.

  Dupree picked up the box and started for the door.

  “What about the files on your desk?” Melinda handed Dupree a slip of paper with Tomi’s phone number.

  “I bill at a rate of two hundred dollars an hour if they should happen to not want to send it to California.”

  “Serious?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I should have been a lawyer!” Melinda teased.

  “I hope you land in a good spot. They’ll be lucky to have you.”

  “I intend to keep my head down and mouth shut. I should be able to make it a month before they figure out you’re gone and I have nothing to do.”

  “You’re right, you should have been a lawyer. See you around.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Jamilyn and Sara were already pulling together the morning’s baking trays and ingredients when Dara arrived at the Quarter Moon Cafe. To open by six with fresh hot biscuits, muffins, and breads, everything must be in the oven by five-thirty. As was always the case, Sara was bright-eyed, chatty, and full of life. Jamilyn, on the other hand, looked like she slept at the back door under a stack of old cardboard boxes.

  “Morning ladies!” Dara called out as she put on her apron.

  “Hey, Dara. We’ve got just about everything ready to go. I’ll pull the wet stuff.” Sara gave a short drum roll on the counter.

  “Jamilyn, you look bright and chipper.” Dara teased.

  “I’m fine.” Her puffy eyes said otherwise.

  The three women set about to bake the morning goods. Each knew their area of experience and even with her half-asleep demeanor, Jamilyn was the queen of the buttermilk biscuit. Dara was sure she could make them in her sleep, and wouldn’t be surprised if half the time she wasn’t.

  Like clockwork, six trays of various kinds of muffins, eight trays of biscuits, and twenty loaves of bread were lined up and ready for the oven at five-thirty on the dot. At a quarter to six, Dara turned on the lights and started the first of several dozen pots of coffee that would wash down the orders of the morning crowd. TJ, Dara’s faithful sidekick and the head waitress, would arrive shortly thereafter. The two other morning waitresses and the busboy would magically appear between five and ten minutes to six. There was always a panicked stomach full of butterflies until Dara saw the three in the building, for fear someone would not show. But they always did.

  The front lot was full of pickup trucks and old beat-up cars full of men smoking, sleeping, and reading the morning paper; the regulars, most on their way to work at eight. It was a ritual that made Dara feel guilty keeping the door locked until six, especially in bad weather. There were things to be done and the regulars didn’t seem to mind.

  It was a frantically busy morning. The breakfast crowd seemed to be growing larger by the week. The turnover of tables was slow as the regulars took their time to drink their second or third refill. They tipped well so the waitress made no effort to move them along. The Quarter Moon Café was their home away from home and had been since its early days. Some of the newcomers and employees of Kanaal Communications were a little testy at times, and would just order their coffee, muffins or nut bread to go. Others would stand, sit on one of the three chairs by the door, or stand outside and talk on their phone until someone left.

  Dara had her own ritual. Every morning at seven-thirty, she would look out the window and say, “Have a good day, sweetie,” knowing that Dupree would be arriving at his office. Today, though, she missed it.

  A few minutes before eight, the sound of screaming tires, crunching steel, and breaking glass interrupted the sounds of breakfast conversation. Every eye in the Quarter Moon turned to the collision just outside the windows.

  Dara ran to the door and into the parking lot, followed by a couple of dozen customers. In front of the café two cars collided at the intersection. In all the years of running the Quarter Moon, Dara never saw an accident or even a close call. White Owl was a little town. The traffic was rarely more than a couple of cars idling at the stop sign. Every now and again there was a tooting horn at the intersection, but it was almost always followed by a friendly wave of greeting.

  A fire engine red sports car, low and sleek, was turned at an odd angle across the intersection. The full length of the passenger side bore the nasty, jagged crease of the collision. A dark blue Camry sat steaming, its driver’s side front end crushed, and lights broken.

  The driver was out of the sports car screaming and cursing at the driver of the blue Toyota. A middle-aged man in a sport coat and tie sat in the car with both feet out the door. He seemed shaken and dazed by the crash. The driver of the sports car, as expected, was a young man in expensive clothes about thirty years old. His profanity cut through the morning air like a blow torch.

  Two customers from the café approached the scene to check the man in the blue car.

  “That’s a teacher at the high school. One of my kids had him for English. I can’t remember his name,” someone behind Dara offered.

  “Sure jacked up that foreign job.” Another pointed at the damage.

  “What is that anyway? Sure is purdy.”

  “Ferrari or Lamborghini.”

  “Or Salami.” One of the Quarter Moon wits chimed in.

  “That guy is sure pissed.”

  “Who wouldn’t be?”
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  Dara turned back to the group. “He hasn’t even looked at the other driver.”

  “Or his car.”

  “Is he OK?” A regular called out to the two men standing with the driver of the Camry.

  One of the men gave her the OK sign.

  “Anybody call the sheriff?” The lone woman in the group asked.

  “Tow truck would be quicker. The little blue car ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  As the group watched the teacher approach the other driver, he was still yelling.

  “Look what you did!” the man screamed.

  “I did? You ran the stop sign!” The fog cleared from the teacher’s head and he was now showing his anger. “You have ruined my car!”

  Reaching into his trouser pocket, the driver of the sports car began peeling off bills from a money clip and throwing them at the other driver. “There, that should pay for that turd hearse, you, and this whole town!”

  The teacher stood tall, and without looking at the money on the pavement, the wind blew his hair into his eyes. Then he demanded insurance information from the other man.

  “I’ll give you nothing! Look at the damage to my car! This car is worth more than you and your house and all its possessions. I’ll see you in court!”

  There are times in life when the face of providence shines brightly, in the worst of situations. This morning was one of those times when a Sheriff’s deputy rolled up on the scene.

  The deputy got out of his car to the screams and obscenities of the sports car driver. Without looking at him, the deputy walked to where the teacher stood.

  “You OK, Mr. Weston?”

  “Yes, but I’m afraid my car is probably totaled.”

  “Can you tell me what happened here?” The deputy took out his notebook.

  “I was on my way to school, and this fellow ran the stop sign. I wasn’t going very fast but I didn’t even have more than a second to brake. He was going so fast I didn’t even see him coming.”

  “But you’re OK.”

  “Yes, I’m fine, thank you.” Weston still seemed a bit shaken.

  “What about me? What about my car?” Was squeezed between the non-stop spewing of four-letter words.