Chapter 4
Kemper Cogswell admired his image in the mirror one more time. His hours on the tennis court kept him tanned and trim. A hair implant and a couple of discreet trips to the plastic surgeon had kept him looking youthful and mended a couple of nature’s oversights in the bargain.
Definitely the right package. Packaging was vital and Cogswell knew he had a package that would sell. Image was the closest thing Kemper Cogswell had to a religion, and he worked on his devoutly. He looked every inch the successful executive—or the up-and-coming politician.
With a final admiring glance, he turned from the mirror and strode to the one-way window looking down on his domain.
The mall management office was down on the first level in behind a row of stores next to Security. To Cogswell, that was all about on the level of a janitor’s broom closet. This was his personal, private office suite, perched at the very top of the mall looking down on South Court and the fountain. His “eagle’s nest”, he liked to call it.
The elaborately carved oak doors opened on to a balcony that overlooked the South Court. The office was designed to blend unobtrusively with the rest of the mall. Unless you looked carefully you wouldn’t notice the balcony or the doors. It was reachable only by private elevator. Lost shoppers and kids couldn’t wander up here by mistake or out of curiosity.
Watching the afternoon sun play through the stained-glass dome and the throngs of shoppers below, Cogswell felt a thrill of the same sort of pride he got from looking at himself. In a very real sense both were products of his imagination and will.
The difference was, it was time to polish his image for the next major challenge and let go of the mall.
Black Oak had been an enormous success. Starting with a site everyone called “undevelopable”, he had combined innovative design and even more innovative financing to make one of the hottest malls in the US.
Black Oak had done very well—for its time. But that time was the ’80s, the days of yuppies, real estate tax breaks and conspicuous consumption. A different world.
Now the mall was nearly ten years old and that meant it was coming up on a major remodeling. The changes in the tax laws and the aggressive use of accelerated depreciation meant the tax advantages had been skimmed off long ago.
Keeping Black Oak would mean either a major investment or a slow slide to third-rate status. Cogswell’s instincts told him it was time to get out. Even though the Southern California commercial market was glutted, Black Oak was still a desirable property.
Meanwhile, Cogswell had higher ambitions. Already he had two top political consultants advising him part-time and a full-time pollster sounding out the market. In eighteen months, the congressional seat would be up for grabs and he intended to grab it.
But to do that he needed money. Money to build the carefully managed groundswell of public support that would convince the local party that he was a viable candidate. Money to keep interest focused through a well-designed marketing campaign and, above all, money for the media blitz to ensure that he got the nomination.
His political consultants assured him the incumbent was vulnerable. The voters of the district were ripe for a new image. (“New ideas and new solutions to national problems” was the way the consultants quaintly put it.)
Cogswell stopped and considered. Should he present himself as a staunch fiscal conservative or a pro-education liberal concerned about America’s declining competitiveness? His record would play either way. Or could he combine the two? He’d have to ask his advisers.
Meanwhile, it all turned on the mall. If he could get enough to scrape off his remaining debts and turn a decent profit, he’d have over a year to get ready for the congressional race.
He turned away from the window and strode to the door leading from his office to the conference room.
There was Larry Sakimoto, his real estate guy and Japanese expert; Paul Lenoir, his accountant on the deal; Helen Harrison, Lenoir’s assistant; and Barry Goodman, the attorney and negotiator. All four were bright, alert and eager.
“Okay,” Cogswell said, “where do we stand?”
“I think we’ve got a deal,” Goodman told him.
Cogswell nodded. He would have preferred an American buyer, but the only people with money today were Japanese or Arabs. Fortunately, the Japanese had outbid the Arabs.
“We’ve been over the Hayashi Group’s last proposal,” Lenoir said. “Basically we’re together on this. The price is right and the terms are in line with what we wanted.”
“Where does that leave us?”
“About ninety-five percent home. There are still a lot of minor points to clear up, things like maintenance allowances and set-asides, but we’ve got all the big stuff covered.”
“And the contract to draw,” Goodman interposed. “We’ve still got to get all this nailed down.”
“Let’s get the deal done first,” Cogswell said. “Okay, what’s next?”
“They’re referring more and more stuff back to Japan,” Sakimoto told him. “That means we’re really close. Don’t be surprised if the next step is for someone big to come out.”
“Which means?”
“Which means they’re ready to close the deal and we’re into the home stretch on negotiations.”
“I thought you said the guys we’ve been talking to had full authority.”
“They do,” Sakimoto assured him. “It’s just a cultural thing. To the Japanese, a deal like this means entering into a long-term relationship, and that’s something the top guy should do.”
In his mind’s eye, Kemper Cogswell saw the headlines: “Congressional Candidate Linked to Japanese Business Interests.”
He shuddered. “What long-term relationship?” he demanded. “I’m selling them a mall and that’s it.”
Sakimoto raised a soothing hand. “Of course. It’s just that that’s the way they see it. Besides,” he added shrewdly, “it would be an honor to you. Their top man coming all the way from Japan to deal with you personally.”
Cogswell’s mental camera flashed a picture of him shaking hands with a major Japanese financial leader. That could play well in his campaign literature.
“Fine. But only if it’s Kashihara himself.”
Sakimoto hesitated. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Cogswell nodded and looked at the rest of his team. “Okay, folks, the end’s in sight. All we’ve got to do now is keep plugging and make sure everything follows our game plan. We’ll have a deal in just a few weeks if nothing out of the ordinary happens.”
###
“Yo, dude.”
the Surfer nodded in acknowledgment without turning around. He’d seen the kids come up the escalator. The one in the lead, Ted, the one wearing the leather jacket, copied the Surfer’s pose, leaning his forearms on the rail, hands clasped.
“So, you got anything good?”
Surfer smiled but kept looking down the escalators. “What you want?”
“Got any speed?” The tubby one asked over his friend’s shoulder. Surfer remembered his name was Glenn.
“Pure clear crystal.”
“How much?”
“Dime.”
“Cool.” Ted reached into his pocket and flashed several grubby bills.
the Surfer’s head didn’t move. “Twenty minutes. Burger King across from the west entrance.”
“Cool.” Glenn and Ted sauntered off.
###
The Oak Tree was decorated like a traditional English pub—if English pubs had ever been full of neon beer signs and green plants and carpeted in burgundy nylon.
Still, it was in the mall so it was close. For Larry Sakimoto and Paul Lenoir, that was the important thing.
“Jesus Christ,” Larry said as he and Paul slid into the booth near the door, “he thinks I can just tell Kashihara Tomoi to come here. One of the richest men in Japan and all I gotta do is ask him.”
“Well, this is a lot of money,” Lenoir pointed out.
“Not to Kashihara,” Sakimoto told the accountant. “It’s practically pocket change.”
“Hi hon, what’ll it be?” Gwen said in one breath as she came bustling up. She was still on the easy side of forty and she still had her figure, but her motherly attitude was totally at variance with her skimpy cocktail waitress costume.
“My usual,” Larry told her.
“Just a beer,” Paul said.
“What a mess,” Larry said after Gwen left.
“Hey, we’re getting a near-record price. More than it’s worth, in fact.”
“If the deal holds together,” Sakimoto said sourly. “If just one little thing goes wrong it could all come down like a house of cards.”
“You think something might?”
Larry leaned across the table toward his friend. “Anything might go wrong. Another Japanese tourist gets killed in LA, the yen gets stronger, Kashihara gets up on the wrong side of the bed, Cogswell does something to piss Kashihara off. And the worst of it is, most of the stuff that could happen we can’t control.”
Gwen came back with their drinks. She expertly slapped down napkins and glasses. “Here you go, hon. That’ll be six fifty.”
Larry reached for his wallet, then he took a look at the glass. Sticking out of the amber liquid was a tiny paper umbrella.
“What the hell is this?”
“A Manhattan.” Gwen shrugged. “The bartender says, ‘sorry, we’re all out of cherries’.”
Larry gingerly fished the umbrella out of his drink. “He could at least have used a piece of pineapple.”
Again the shrug. “He’s all out of that too. Says he opens a can and it’s gone overnight.”
Larry considered the paper umbrella dubiously. Unlike almost anyone else who came into the Oak Tree, he could read the Chinese characters that decorated the umbrella. If they meant the same thing in Chinese that they did in Japanese, serving someone a drink with one of those umbrellas was damn near an act of war.
“This whole damn place is going to hell,” Larry grumbled.
Gwen arched an eyebrow. “Honey, at least you don’t have to work here.”
###
Dawn Albright cast a practiced eye over the fitting and dressing rooms. The rooms were shared by several departments and keeping them neat wasn’t really her job, but Dawn had been in retail long enough to know that success was made up of a myriad of tiny details. Besides, she might find some more hangers.
Sales might be down and so was her personal life, but you still put the best possible face on things and kept trying.
A quick sweep showed that none of the rooms was occupied and all were clean. She was about to go when she heard a sound. There was a noise coming from one of the dressing rooms. A crunching sound, like plastic breaking.
Dawn hesitated. All sorts of strange things happened in the fitting rooms of a big department store. If you surprised a shoplifter in the act she could turn nasty. The prudent thing to do might be to call security.
On the other hand, it would take time to get one of the Loss Prevention people up here and if it was nothing, she’d look like a fool. She’d better check first.
The noise was definitely coming from the second-to-last dressing room. That was odd because there had been no one in there a second ago. Carefully, she approached the door and listened. Again the sound of breaking plastic.
Without knocking, she opened the door quickly. At first, Dawn thought the room was empty. Then she saw a shape under the chair and thought a cat had gotten into the store.
Crouched in the corner was a . . . well, something. It was about the size of a small cat, but it had big flapping ears, a long nose and green skin. It was rocked back on its haunches like a monkey with its long forepaws in front of its chest.
And clenched in those paws was half a plastic hanger.
The little thing took a big bite out of the hanger and chewed noisily. It grinned so broadly, crumbs of poorly masticated plastic dribbled from the corners of his enormous mouth. It closed its bulging eyes in pleasure as if it was savoring the taste of vintage plastic.
Dawn slammed the fitting room door, whirled and braced herself against it.
She took a deep, gasping breath to get her panic under control. Then she straightened her spine and smoothed her skirt with a neatly manicured hand that shook hardly at all.
Rats, she told herself firmly, rigorously ignoring the crunching sounds from behind the now-closed door. There is a rat in that fitting room and it’s eating my hangers. Never mind that it was green, never mind she’d never heard of such a thing and never mind what it looked like, that had to be a rat. Anything else was just her imagination!
With head high and stride firm, Dawn Albright left the fitting room area at a brisk, businesslike pace. Obviously, she had to report this to the store management. And then call the mall office and demand they do something about the rats.
It does explain things, Dawn Albright thought with the crystalline, detached calm of the near-hysterical. But I wonder what happens to the metal hangers?
###
“What happened to the chocolate sauce?” George Andropolous demanded.
Lance, the day “manager,” shrugged slowly. Lance did everything slowly. Andropolous didn’t know if it was drugs or too much sun.
Andropolous muttered something in Greek. “That’s the second damn can this week. You been handing out extras?”
“No, man, I wouldn’t do that.”
Andropolous regarded his employee sourly. The kid was probably telling the truth. He was honest and given a calculator he could add and subtract well enough to total the register. Those were the main reasons he had been made manager.
“I can’t have this. Chocolate sauce, cherries. Hell, that stuff’s ten bucks a can. How the hell can I stay in business if we keep losing money like this? And if I can’t stay in business what are you gonna do for a job, huh?”
Andropolous’ temper had no visible effect on Lance. He simply shrugged
“I’m gonna have to start coming in mornings to open too,” the burly Greek told him. “Check the stuff morning and night. I’ll find out where it’s going, don’t you worry.”
Lance obviously wasn’t worried about that or anything else. So he nodded.
“Ahh.” Andropolous made the noise in his throat and turned away to look out over the Food Court.
It wasn’t a bad business, he told himself as he surveyed the other shops. Some Guatemalan had the gyros concession, so George Andropolous had settled for ice cream. Not as much profit per transaction but it was more of an impulse buy.
If I could just keep the damn employees from eating up all the profits! he thought. Well, he’d find out who was doing it soon enough.
###
The late afternoon sun snuck up on Cyril Heathercoate through his rearview mirror and smacked him full in the face when he pulled his rented car into the parking lot.
The glare made his hangover headache even worse, and he scowled fiercely. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. Then he checked his coat and tie in the mirror, squinting against the sun.
Cyril Heathercoate—or Arthur Mudge, as he’d been known when he was growing up by Merseyside—was a potato-shaped man with a balding head, a broken nose and an accent that was pure Liverpool. Not that the bloody Yanks noticed. Speak like any kind of a Brit and they think you’re a bleeding Royal.
Cyril Heathercoate hated California. The sun was too bright, the air was too thick and everyone talked and moved at half-speed. Worse, they were so bloody cheerful and positive thinking it was enough to give a bloke a headache, even without the ruddy hangover.
Heathercoate sat for a moment, squinting up at the edifice thrusting up into the smoggy air. Like the bleeding Crystal Palace, he thought. Not that he’d ever seen the Crystal Palace. The enormous greenhouse-cum-exhibition hall had been dismantled years before he’d been born. Besides, as he had to explain repeatedly to all these damn ignorant Yanks, Liverpool is a long way from London.
Bleeding blockheads, every one of them, and the Californians were the worst of the lot. Purgatory, he decided as he slid across the rapidly warming vinyl of the seat. That’s what California was: purgatory.
In a sense, he was here as punishment. The bit about the rock star’s dead baby had been a trifle much for the American public. What the hell? The editor had approved the piece, hadn’t she? But the trash telly got hold of it, the Establishment screamed and there had to be a sacrificial goat. So Cyril found himself demoted from following Royals and rock stars to chasing around the country after monsters.
Well, life was full of ups and downs, wasn’t it? That had been a year ago and he’d be on top again soon. All he needed was one or two more strong pieces and if he didn’t blot his copybook he could stay away from places like California and stick to civilized parts of the country, like New York.
Now this one, this read like a ticket back to New York. A haunted shopping mall.
The lead had come in the usual way. One of the paper’s carefully cultivated network of informants told them about a security guard taken to a psychiatric hospital raving about monsters at the mall where he worked. A couple of quick phone calls and a little work in the paper’s library showed the mall was well known in Southern California where the paper had a strong circulation. With that, Cyril was on his way.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to get in to see the guard. They knew him at the clinic from last time and they wouldn’t let him on the grounds.
Well he was used to that, wasn’t he? He’d gotten a couple of attendants to talk, and he’d reconstructed an interview from that. Promising, but it wasn’t really enough. He needed something more to flesh it out.
Heathercoate was a consummate professional who prided himself on producing the kind of material that the Planet’s readers lapped up. That wouldn’t be hard here. Just spend a couple of days at the mall and he could come up with gossip and rumors to fill the chinks.
Typically, it never occurred to him to wonder if any of the story taking shape in his mind was true.
###
Andy Westlin leaned on the rail of the top level and stared down unseeing into the mall. the Surfer was gone from his usual place at the top of the escalators.
Paradise, Andy thought. Complete with a few snakes. Just the occasional garter snakes, not like the rattlers’ den he had worked in as a cop.
Well, that was fine with him. He’d been through so much in the last couple of years that he wanted a place where he could just get away from all the pain and dirt and cruelty and savagery of the real world.
The pay was lousy, worse than a rookie patrolman’s. But that didn’t matter. He still had most of the money from selling his mother’s house, he wasn’t in debt, and his tastes were simple. He could get along for quite a while by dipping into his savings a little every month.
A place to hide away and heal. Where better than a fantasy land where everything is neat and scrubbed and nice?
Welcome to Oz, Andy thought as he looked down into the artificial canyon. No, he decided, this wasn’t a bad deal at all.