piece?”
Before he could answer she began to play. Growling like a monster, Fitzgerald chased Sarah from the room and down the hall where she ran past her mother, who stood outside the master bedroom and stepped into his path. “Hold it, Frankenstein.” She pointed to her lips. “Plant one.”
Fitzgerald did, and she followed him into a bedroom as big as a hotel suite.
“It’s after nine,” Erin said to Sarah, who had hidden beneath the bed covers. “You should be in your own bed with lights out.”
The covers muffled her response. “I heard the garage door.”
“I’ll call someone to get it fixed. I’m afraid it might disturb the neighbors,” Erin said.
Fitzgerald shook his head. “It’s a garage door. Garage doors make noise, just like kids make noise. Are they going to outlaw kids too?”
“Don’t start again.” She pulled down the covers on the bed, exposing Sarah. “To bed,” she said, leaving the room. Fitzgerald heard her issue the same orders to Adrienne. He carried Sarah to her room and tucked her in, then returned and pulled off his tie. He threw his shirt in the basket labeled DRY CLEANING , kicked off his shoes, and left them there, a tempered protest against the cubby in his walk-in closet labeled WORK SHOES .
Erin walked back in. “You get them riled up and I’m the one who has to settle them down again. Did you eat? I saved you a plate.”
“I grabbed something.”
“I heard about Galaxy on the six o’clock news. How bad is thefallout?”
He shrugged. “Tepid. There’s still some shareholders pushing for my head, but the board isn’t too concerned, with the stock climbing.”
“Anyone pushing to take the offer?”
Fitzgerald shook his head. “Nobody wants to be the next Larry Reiner.”
Everyone in the toy business knew the story of Larry Reiner, the twenty-nine-year-old inventor of G.I. Joe, who had rejected a one percent royalty payment on every sale of the toy and taken his agent’s recommendation to split a $100,000 one-time payment. Over the next forty years Reiner had lost an estimated $40 million in income.
Erin sat on the edge of the bed. “Do you really think Metamorphis could be like that?”
Fitzgerald shrugged. “It’s always a gamble, but yeah, I do.”
The tone of her voice changed. “Do you think it’s worth it?”
“What?”
“The gamble.”
Thirty-five-million dollars’ worth of worry lines creased her forehead, which was the amount Fitzgerald stood to make if he sold his stock when it was riding high. Fitzgerald couldn’t do that to Sebastian Kendall, or to himself. His ego wouldn’t allow him to concede defeat.
“Bolelli has a track record for purging the fat from companies she acquires. She’ll fire all of Kendall’s executives, consolidate manufacturing, and lay off a majority of Kendall’s workforce.”
And then what would he do, stare at the front of his house all day?
“I’m just saying nobody wants to be the next Edward John Smith either,” she said, referring to the captain of the Titanic .
HIGHLINE COMMUNITY HOSPITAL
BURIEN, WASHINGTON
CHARLES JENKINS HAD taken the first flight home after Sloane’s secretary, Carolyn, called to deliver the news. When his plane landed at Seattle-Tacoma Airport, Jenkins and Alex had driven straight to the hospital and he had maintained a vigil there ever since. For the first four days Sloane had lain in a drug-induced coma intended to limit his pain and prevent him from thrashing about in bed, possibly pulling out the myriad of tubes stuck in his body. Still, Jenkins had refused to leave. When visiting hours ended he took a blanket to the waiting room. The hospital staff gave him a hard time; hospital rules only allowed relatives to spend the night. Jenkins told them he and Sloane were brothers. Since he was black he didn’t expect to convince them, but he hoped to emphasize the strength of the bond between the two men, as well as his conviction to stay. The staff relented. Alex
Before he could answer she began to play. Growling like a monster, Fitzgerald chased Sarah from the room and down the hall where she ran past her mother, who stood outside the master bedroom and stepped into his path. “Hold it, Frankenstein.” She pointed to her lips. “Plant one.”
Fitzgerald did, and she followed him into a bedroom as big as a hotel suite.
“It’s after nine,” Erin said to Sarah, who had hidden beneath the bed covers. “You should be in your own bed with lights out.”
The covers muffled her response. “I heard the garage door.”
“I’ll call someone to get it fixed. I’m afraid it might disturb the neighbors,” Erin said.
Fitzgerald shook his head. “It’s a garage door. Garage doors make noise, just like kids make noise. Are they going to outlaw kids too?”
“Don’t start again.” She pulled down the covers on the bed, exposing Sarah. “To bed,” she said, leaving the room. Fitzgerald heard her issue the same orders to Adrienne. He carried Sarah to her room and tucked her in, then returned and pulled off his tie. He threw his shirt in the basket labeled DRY CLEANING , kicked off his shoes, and left them there, a tempered protest against the cubby in his walk-in closet labeled WORK SHOES .
Erin walked back in. “You get them riled up and I’m the one who has to settle them down again. Did you eat? I saved you a plate.”
“I grabbed something.”
“I heard about Galaxy on the six o’clock news. How bad is thefallout?”
He shrugged. “Tepid. There’s still some shareholders pushing for my head, but the board isn’t too concerned, with the stock climbing.”
“Anyone pushing to take the offer?”
Fitzgerald shook his head. “Nobody wants to be the next Larry Reiner.”
Everyone in the toy business knew the story of Larry Reiner, the twenty-nine-year-old inventor of G.I. Joe, who had rejected a one percent royalty payment on every sale of the toy and taken his agent’s recommendation to split a $100,000 one-time payment. Over the next forty years Reiner had lost an estimated $40 million in income.
Erin sat on the edge of the bed. “Do you really think Metamorphis could be like that?”
Fitzgerald shrugged. “It’s always a gamble, but yeah, I do.”
The tone of her voice changed. “Do you think it’s worth it?”
“What?”
“The gamble.”
Thirty-five-million dollars’ worth of worry lines creased her forehead, which was the amount Fitzgerald stood to make if he sold his stock when it was riding high. Fitzgerald couldn’t do that to Sebastian Kendall, or to himself. His ego wouldn’t allow him to concede defeat.
“Bolelli has a track record for purging the fat from companies she acquires. She’ll fire all of Kendall’s executives, consolidate manufacturing, and lay off a majority of Kendall’s workforce.”
And then what would he do, stare at the front of his house all day?
“I’m just saying nobody wants to be the next Edward John Smith either,” she said, referring to the captain of the Titanic .
HIGHLINE COMMUNITY HOSPITAL
BURIEN, WASHINGTON
CHARLES JENKINS HAD taken the first flight home after Sloane’s secretary, Carolyn, called to deliver the news. When his plane landed at Seattle-Tacoma Airport, Jenkins and Alex had driven straight to the hospital and he had maintained a vigil there ever since. For the first four days Sloane had lain in a drug-induced coma intended to limit his pain and prevent him from thrashing about in bed, possibly pulling out the myriad of tubes stuck in his body. Still, Jenkins had refused to leave. When visiting hours ended he took a blanket to the waiting room. The hospital staff gave him a hard time; hospital rules only allowed relatives to spend the night. Jenkins told them he and Sloane were brothers. Since he was black he didn’t expect to convince them, but he hoped to emphasize the strength of the bond between the two men, as well as his conviction to stay. The staff relented. Alex
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