THAT MORNING, VICTOR MATRICK’S desk was covered with handbags.
“Look, Nico,” he exclaimed proudly, as she walked in. “I bought all these purses, on the street, for less than three hundred bucks. Now that’s a great deal.”
Nico smiled and sat on a chintz-covered armchair in front of his desk. Victor, apparently, had been walking the streets again. Normally, he was driven around town in a woody station wagon with a crystal hood ornament in the shape of a griffin’s head, but every now and then he would get out and walk, returning with some “new” bargain he’d discovered was being sold on the streets. “Maureen”—that was his secretary—“says they’re counterfeit,” he said. “But who can tell the difference? Can you?” he asked.
Nico hesitated. This was either a genuine question, or some kind of mysterious test. Victor loved to come across as the doddering, genial old man,
but if he actually were doddering or genial, he wouldn’t have survived into his early eighties as the CEO of Splatch-Verner. One’s instinct, of course, was to pander to Victor, to agree with his sometimes ridiculous assertions, and to feign interest in his favorite topics, the biggest one being “the common man.” Which was disturbingly ironic, considering the fact that Victor owned two private planes and several houses, including a $30 million spread in Greenwich, Connecticut. For years, Victor had been obsessed with the Jerry Springer show until it went off the air; he was now consumed with Dr. Phil and reality shows. It wasn’t unusual for executives to have a meeting with Victor, in which they never got around to discussing the issue at hand, because Victor would spend an entire hour talking about an episode of “Blind Date—Uncensored.” They would walk out of the meeting proclaiming that the Old Man was on the edge of insanity, but Nico knew better than to underestimate him. He always knew what was going on, and used these bizarre discussions as a way to both stifle his executives and keep them off-balance. Nico had hoped that this meeting wasn’t going to be one of those meetings, but given the handbags on Victor’s desk, there was a good chance he was going to steer it off the rails.
Honesty, she decided, would be the best route. “Yes, Victor, I would know the difference.”
“You would?” Victor asked, picking up an imitation Louis Vuitton bag. “I was thinking about giving them as Christmas presents.” Nico raised her eyebrows. “To some of the boys’ wives,” he added.
“I wouldn’t,” Nico said. “They’ll know you bought them on the street. And then everyone will talk about it. They’ll say you’re cheap.” She closed her mouth. I could get fired for that, she thought, but I won’t.
“Ho, ho, ho,” Victor said. He had a shock of yellowish white hair, the color of very light urine, Nico thought, that rose up from the top of his forehead like a worn mane. At the annual office Christmas party, which was always held in a huge venue like the Roxy Ballroom and included nearly two thousand employees, Victor dressed up like Santa Claus. “So you don’t think they’re a good idea?” he asked again.
“No, I don’t,” Nico said.
Victor leaned over his desk and pressed the intercom button on his phone. “Maureen,” he said into the speaker, as if he didn’t quite trust it to work, “Nico O’Neilly says the purses are crap. Would you mind coming in here and removing them?”
Nico swung her leg impatiently. She wondered if Victor did any actual work during the day, a question his executives had been asking for years. “Mike is going to be sued,” she said suddenly.
“Is that so?” Victor said. “What do you think I should do with the purses?”
“Give them to charity. To the Salvation Army.”
Maureen, a woman of indeterminate age, came into the room. She’d been Victor’s secretary forever; people speculated that they’d once had an affair. “You decided you didn’t want them after all,” she said, almost scoldingly.
“Nico decided. Nico’s deciding everything today,” Victor said. Nico smiled politely. Would Victor have gone through this whole handbag rigamarole if she were a man? She doubted it.
“Does Mike know he’s going to be sued?” Victor asked, after Maureen had gathered up the handbags and exited the room.
“Not yet.”
“Hmmm,” Victor said, rubbing his chin. “Why don’t I know about this?”
“The papers haven’t been filed yet.”
“Will they be?”
“Oh yes,” Nico said grimly.
“By whom?”
“Glynnis Rourke,” Nico said. “She’s planning on suing Mike and Splatch-Verner. For breach of contract.”
“Ah yes,” Victor said, nodding. “Glynnis Rourke. America loves her, don’t they?”
“Yes, they do,” Nico said. “She’ll probably win the Oscar for Best Supporting Actress in Wendy Healy’s movie The Spotted Pig.”
“Wendy Healy,” Victor said musingly. “I hear she’s getting divorced.”
Nico stiffened slightly. This was one of the problems with Victor—you never knew where he would go. “I’ve heard that too,” she said, not wanting to give anything away.
“Heard?” Victor asked, becoming slightly aggressive. “I would think you would know.”
“It’s not exactly public information,” Nico said cautiously.