Free Cash Burn by Michael Berrier Page A

in the background, had nearly driven him mad.
    Staring at the empty doorway now, he twisted his wedding band. It was loose enough that sometimes it nearly fell off when he washed his hands. He slid it to the tip of his ring finger and let it dangle there, tapping at it with his pinky. A smooth ring of skin was noticeable on his ring finger if he looked very carefully, like a ghost of a commitment. Five years.
    His eyes returned to the picture. The memory of that day and the night that had followed, so filled with tenderness and promise, were tainted now. She had shifted her affections to someone else. Had it all been a lie? In the picture, she embraced him with one arm, her other hand against him. Even the certainty of her touch now seemed false.
    He reached for the frame. On his left hand, the wedding band dangled from his fingertip. In his right hand was the picture. He took a breath.
    His phone rang, and he glanced at the readout. The loan-operations department was trying to reach him.
    Serena’s number was first on his speed dial. He could have her office on the phone in a few seconds.
    She hadn’t claimed she was innocent, hadn’t defended herself at all. It was as good as an admission of guilt. Just a scornful frown and a shake of her head. Before she pivoted to walk out the door, all she said was, “You want me, you call me.”
    He held the picture flat and tapped his ring finger on the glass. His wedding band rattled onto it and he regarded the gold circle it made on the image. The ring was now nothing more than a symbol of an unfaithful wife, of broken vows.
    The ring sliding on the glass, he shoved the picture in a desk drawer and slammed it shut.

15
    Jason spotted Ed Monroe across the room. The CEO of Northfield Industries filled his chair. He looked broad and so deep-bellied he might have dined like this every night. He held court from the corner, facing the room, the white tablecloth before him stretched over the broad circle of the table, a menu waiting closed before him, cutlery paired, saucers poised, glass goblets empty. In the center of the circle, salt and pepper shakers sentineled next to a flickering candle shaded in a rose-colored cylinder.
    As Jason approached, Ed’s quick eyes caught him, and his lips stopped moving for an instant, then began again, and all the faces turned toward Jason. Ed’s wife, Ona, sat to his left, and his CFO, Randy Sloan, sat to his right. Randy’s wife, Jeanne, completed the foursome.
    Jason went to Ed first. Their hands clasped.
    “You remember my wife, Ona?”
    “Of course.” Jason took her hand in both of his before turning to Randy and Jeanne.
    His chair was opposite Ed. The CEO’s head seemed to be all face, pale in the flickering candlelight, long chin, granite nose. He could be a former boxer with that nose and the sleepy droop of his eyes. Jason sensed that Ed Monroe was willing to box anything in front of him. Maybe that was what made him such a success at negotiating the acquisitions of his competitors.
    Jason apologized for Serena’s absence. Sudden emergency, out of town—the words came out automatically; he’d said them so many times in the past three months. A busboy cleared the setting Serena would have used. The chair wasn’t removed. It sat empty next to him as if she might surprise him and show. It gave him a sour sensation underneath his belt.
    The waiter appeared—young, tall, black hair combed back and curling behind his neck. The looks of a leading man in a soap opera. He waited for a pause in the small-talk before offering the wine bottle for Ed’s perusal of the label, and when Ed nodded, the waiter stood away and began the ritual. He placed the cork on the table before Ed, and without a pause in his diatribe, Ed took it in his clunky fingers and absently twisted it, regarding it as he spoke. The waiter poured a swallow in Ed’s glass. A sip, a reverential delay, and a nod gave authority to pour the rest of the glasses.
    The menus sat