Characters in The Ten O’Clock People

You’re in Collateral Loans, aren’t you?” “Oh yes—Brandon Pearson. Sorry.” “I’m in Computer Services, myself. And it’s okay. Seeing your first batman can do that to you.” Duke Rhinemann stuck out his hand and Pearson shook it, but most of his mind was one turn back.

Duke’s eyes shone with that look of total fascination—a look similar to the look Pearson’s childhood dog, Buddy, had worn when Pearson got its food-dish out of the cupboard under the sink.

“I gave Buzz Carstairs the Corporate Fours,” Pearson said. “I’m going to take the Individual Form Nines home with me, if that’s okay. I’ve got my backup discs there.” “Is this your coy way of saying you’re going AWOL, my dear?” Suzanne asked.

Pearson felt a small pang but no real surprise when he put an arm around Moira Richardson’s delectable little waist and a casual kiss on the corner of her delectable little mouth. Then he offered Brandon his hand. “Cameron Stevens.” “Brandon Pearson.” “I’m glad to see you here,” Stevens said.

And Carl Grosbeck.” “Carl. . . the Chairman of the Board? Jesus!” “I told you,” Rhinemann said. “High places are what these guys’re all about—Hey, taxi!” He dashed out from beneath the awning, flagging the maroon-and-white cab he had spotted cruising miraculously empty through the rainy afternoon.

He did this without being aware of it. “My boss is one of them,” he told Duke. “Unless, of course, Douglas Keefer is the sort of monster who likes to cross-dress.” Rhinemann grinned ferociously and said nothing. “You said there were three others. Who are the other two?” “Donald Fine.

“First thing: that was Douglas Keefer, CEO of The First Mercantile Bank of Boston, close friend of the Mayor, and, incidentally, honorary chairman of the current Boston Children’s Hospital fund-drive. Second thing: there are at least three more bats working in the bank, one of them on your floor.

The black man poked a fresh Winston between Pearson’s lips and snapped a light to it. “Dudley Rhinemann. You can call me Duke.” Pearson dragged deeply on the cigarette and looked toward the revolving doors which gave ingress upon all the gloomy depths and cloudy heights of The First Mercantile.

Janet Brightwood, Brandon Pearson.” Brandon shook her hand, thinking: You’re the one who kept sneezing. “It’s very nice to meet you, Brandon,” she said, and then went back to smiling at Duke, who looked a little embarrassed at the intensity of her gaze. “Want to go for coffee after?”

People’s faces stood out like the faces in his daughter Jenny’s beloved Pop-Up books. And his lips . . . he couldn’t feel his lips. They had gone numb, the way they sometimes did after a big shot of novocaine.

“You better believe it,” Pearson agreed. “Is Kate a Ten O’Clock Person?” “The owner? Nope. I only met her twice, but I have an idea she’s a total non-smoker. This place was Robbie’s idea. As far as Kate knows, we’re The Boston Society of Hardboiled Yeggs.” Pearson raised his eyebrows.

“Why, man?” Duke asked, and Pearson saw he was on the verge of tears. He held out his hands, palms up. “Why would you sell us out?” “Stop, Duke, I’m warning you,” Lester Olson said in a Scotch-mellowed voice. “The rest of you stay back, too!” Kendra snapped.

We all stood there like bumps on a log. Even Robbie. We couldn’t believe what we were seeing. . . or maybe it had us hypnotized. I’ve wondered about that a lot, you know, if that might not have been possible. Thank God for Lester Olson.

You know the gadget I’m talking about?” “You bet,” Pearson said. “The beeper. It makes you wait a little longer for each cigarette. Lisabeth—my wife—kept pointing them out to me while she was pregnant with Jenny.

Pearson murmured into Duke’s ear. Duke shook his head. He looked puzzled and suddenly a little uncomfortable . . . but maybe not as uncomfortable as Pearson felt. “Okay, Mac’s got a point,” Delray said. “I guess I got carried away, but it feels like a historic occasion to me.

“Moira! Hi!” Pearson was not exactly surprised to smell Giorgio. He looked around and saw Little Miss Red Skirt. “Moira Richardson, Brandon Pearson.” “Hello,” Pearson said, and took her outstretched hand. “Credit Assistance, isn’t it?” “That’s like calling a garbage collector a sanitation technician,” she said with a cheerful grin.

“This tall redheaded geek with about a trillion freckles on his face sat down in the seat beside me and grabbed my elbow just about the same way I grabbed yours this morning. His name is Robbie Delray. He’s a housepainter. You’ll meet him tonight at Kate’s.” “What’s Kate’s?”

The perfect power outfit . . . until you got to the head nodding over it like a mutated sunflower, that was. “Hullo, gents.” A sweet contralto voice spoke from somewhere behind the harelipped hole that was its mouth. It’s Suzanne Holding, Pearson thought. It can’t be, but it is.

• • • The day crawled, but everything was all right until he came back from lunch (and two cigarettes) with Tim Flanders.

“Wendy and I went to Hawaii for a week on our honeymoon, and the day we got back, she gave me a present.” Duke dragged deep and then feathered twin jets of blue-gray smoke from his nose.