Almost two years later…

His life fit very nicely into seven boxes. Three of those boxes contained books. Two held his music collection. One housed the sort of small appliances that made a single man’s life complete—alarm clock, coffee maker, wet/dry razor, portable CD player. And one box—the biggest one—held all the designer suits and pointy-toed Italian shoes a man could ever use in one lifetime. All in all, he had everything he needed to start a new life. New.city. New house. New job. New wardrobe.

He was a new man.

Restlessly, he scrubbed a hand over his nape, still not quite comfortable feeling the brush of frigid February air on a part of his body that hadn’t been exposed for almost half a decade. The heat and electricity were working fine in the house in Old Louisville on which he had closed three days before. But thanks to the ice and wind of his first Kentucky winter that currently pelted his new home, the radiators in the old brick Victorian were taking their time warming up the roomy three-story structure. And because he hadn’t yet bought any new furniture to furnish his new life, save a mattress and box springs to sleep on, there were no lamps for him to light to keep the darkness at bay.

A chill wound through him in spite of the leather jacket hugging his shoulders, so he puffed briefly on his bare hands and shoved them deep into the pockets of his blue jeans. Then, unable to tolerate the darkness any longer, he crossed the empty living room, continued without slowing through the dining room, and entered the kitchen, where he flipped on the overhead light. The sputter of the bare fluorescent bulb spilled a perfect bluish-white rectangle of illumination into the dining room, creating at least the illusion of warmth. In spite of all the misgivings eating him up inside, he sighed with much satisfaction.

Tomorrow he would start his new job as executive vice president in charge of finances at Hensley’s Distilleries, Inc., Kentucky’s premiere producer of fine Bourbon whiskey. Frankly, he’d never much planned on becoming a high-powered corporate suit again. But, at thirty-four, he needed a change. And he had something to prove. Hey, it wasn’t like his new position was something he couldn’t handle, right? He’d been in a far more demanding position before. Granted, it had been one that had nearly destroyed him as a human being, but still…

Things would be different this time. Holt McClellan, Sr., the CEO of Hensley’s, and the head of the family that had run the distillery for more than a century, was crazy about him. Although he had been a bit surprised to find himself seated across from the Big Guy himself when he interviewed for the position, he was fully confident he won the old man’s approval. And although he didn’t kid himself that someday he’d take over as CEO himself—Hensley’s was, after all, a family-run business, and McClellan had five kids, one of whom was a VP himself—he knew he could be happy there for some time. Or, at least, until he had proved his point.

His new home was the land of Bourbon, tobacco, and thoroughbred horses, the greatest trio to come along since wine, women, and song. What wasn’t there to like here?

Pushing away from the kitchen doorjamb, he sauntered slowly back toward his living room. His boot heels scuffed softly over the hardwood floors, and his nose filled with the combined fragrances of old dust and neglected fireplace. He absorbed the quiet, the solitude, the darkness. And he felt very, very good inside.

A new life in a new place for a new man. Nothing but blue skies and smooth sailing ahead, he promised himself. He decided to overlook the fact that the sky had been gray since his arrival and that he’d never sailed anywhere in his life. Because hey, what could possibly go wrong?

Something was very, very wrong.

As he folded himself into one of thirteen chairs that surrounded the long, mahogany table bisecting the boardroom of Hensley’s Distilleries, Inc., the hair on his nape leaped to attention. And it had nothing to do with the haircut on which he’d spent more than he normally paid for a good lube job. There was definitely something strange about the entire collection of Hensley’s executives, something that bothered him significantly. He just couldn’t quite say what it was.

He watched as Holt McClellan, Sr., CEO, seated himself at the head of the table beside his son, Holt McClellan, Jr. “Gentlemen,” the elder McClellan said, clearly unconcerned that his greeting excluded the solitary female who sat at the other end. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, sir,” the executives replied with all the precision of a Broadway chorus line.

McClellan, Sr. sifted through a small stack of papers before him as he announced, “I assume you’ve all heard by now that we’ve filled Riordan’s position. Pendleton is our new VP in charge of finances. I hope you’ll all make him feel welcome.”

Pendleton, he repeated to himself. Corporate America, he recalled now, had an Ellis Island-like habit of changing the names of its citizens. Simply put, no one had a first name in this particular country. Only a last name, a career label, a personnel number, and a tee time. Pendleton, he supposed, he would be from now on.

“Thank you, sir,” he said to his new employer. McClellan, Sr., who most closely resembled a white-haired Burt Lancaster playing his most eccentric role to the hilt, bowed his head in silent acknowledgment of Pendleton’s gratitude. Pendleton did his best to not throw up.

The other executives nodded and welcomed him quietly, but somehow their greetings seemed a bit strained. Pendleton shrugged off his odd feeling to new-kid nerves, greeted them quietly as a group, then turned his attention back to his employer.

“We have a lot to cover today,” McClellan, Sr. continued. “We’re launching our new ad campaign next month, and with this new FCC ruling, we may very well be returning to television. Carmichael is handling that and will give us her report shortly.”

He nodded toward his sole female executive, who nodded back in silence, each of their expressions somber and intent. Suddenly, Pendleton wondered if there was some kind of secret handshake or something that he should have learned in training.

“Also,” the CEO went on, “as much as I hate to give in to the annoying little buggers, I honestly don’t think we can ignore the Louisville Temperance League any longer. Though what those people think they’re going to accomplish in this day and age, I can’t begin to imagine.”

Beside him, McClellan, Jr. grunted something that Pendleton assumed was an agreement. He himself couldn’t recall hearing the word temperance uttered by anyone anywhere in oh, say…his entire lifetime.

“For now, though, I’ve decided to let Holt, Jr. handle them,” McClellan, Sr. continued.

Much, evidently, to his son’s surprise. Because McClellan, Jr. turned to face his father as the other man was making the announcement, his face etched in obvious surprise and consternation. In profile, Pendleton noted, the two men looked almost exactly alike, save the evidence of the twenty-five or thirty years separating them that McClellan, Sr. clearly wore with honor. McClellan, Jr., even sitting, was as tall as his father, as good-looking, as blond as the senior had probably been in his youth. He also appeared to be every bit as capable, as self-assured, and as intimidating as his old man was.

“Hold on,” he said to his father without a trace of deference, something that went a long way toward putting him on Pendleton’s list of people to be admired, a list that was none too lengthy. “Just when were you planning on telling me about this?”

The elder McClellan eyed his son with much impatience. “I’m telling you now.”

“Oh, well, thank you so much for the warning,” the younger man said sarcastically.

“I had to tell you sooner or later, Holt,” his father retorted with equal sarcasm. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t know what the hell you’re doing.”

McClellan, Jr. ignored the jab. “And do you think it’s wise to put me in charge of something like that?”

McClellan, Sr. shot his gaze abruptly—anxiously—around the table before pinning it back on his son. “And why the hell wouldn't it be wise, son?”

McClellan, Jr. narrowed his eyes at his father, and a single muscle twitched in his jaw as he clenched his teeth. Hard. This, Pendleton thought, was getting interesting. He’d never worked in a family-run corporation before, though he’d heard tales from colleagues in like positions. He’d always wondered how true to life TV shows Dynasty and Dallas had been. Not very, evidently, he thought now. Because the weighted responses of the two McClellans were proving to be far more entertaining than the reruns of either of those TV shows were.

McClellan, Jr. was the one to break the standoff, though when he did, his words were in no way successful in cooling the antipathy burning up the air between the two men. “In light of the, uh..." He suddenly seemed to remember that the room was full of people—people who were focused very carefully on the byplay—because he quickly arced his gaze around the table, in much the same way his father had before. Then he glanced back at the elder McClellan and lowered his voice a bit. “In light of the…situation,” he said meaningfully. At least, Pendleton assumed it was meaningful to somebody. “Don’t you think it might be more appropriate for someone else to handle this?”

His father shook his head slowly. “I think the situation being what it is, you’re without question the perfect candidate for the job.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” his father interrupted him. “You handle the temperance people. Now let’s move on.” McClellan, Jr. obviously wanted to say more, but must have decided to do it elsewhere, because he only ground his teeth together and turned back toward the others without a further word.

McClellan, Sr. continued. “We also need to address the asinine new law the boys in Frankfort have enacted against the tobacco companies,” he said, “because I think we can safely assume that those joyless little bastards will be coming after the distillers next. We need to start planning our counter-attack now. I’ve asked Novak and Martin to prepare a presentation, and I understand they’re ready to proceed. Novak? Martin?”

Two men rose from the middle of the massive table, one making his way to a bank of light switches near the boardroom door, the other approaching a laptop at the end of the table on which there was sure to be a nice Powerpoint presentation. The assumption was confirmed when the lights dimmed and a massive viewing screen began to descend on the wall furthest from where Pendleton was sitting.

Oh, yeah, he recalled from some dusty, cobwebbed corner of his mind. The corporate presentation. He’d almost forgotten what those were like. Looked like his first day on the job was going to be a nice, long, boring one indeed. But then, was that really surprising?

The two men launched into an inflated dialogue about cost overrun and capital-intensive, punctuated with excessive use of the words parlay and utilize, and with frequent emphasis on impact as a verb. Pendleton took that as his cue to ignore the pie charts and bell curves and view graphs and study his coworkers instead, quizzing himself in an effort to remember their names. He’d been introduced to each of them during training, and although his memory was exceptional, it never hurt to practice.

Rutledge, he recalled, eyeing the man directly opposite him, was VP in charge of public relations. To Rutledge’s right was Hayes, VP in charge of research and development. Carmichael, the solitary woman at the table, headed up advertising. One by one, Pendleton took in his colleagues, trying to note distinguishing characteristics of each of them that would help him keep names linked to faces.

And that was when it hit him, what had initially bothered him when he first sat down at the table, what it was that seemed so wrong. Except for Carmichael, whose obvious lack of a Y chromosome, not to mention truly spectacular legs, would make her easy to remember, none of Hensley’s VPs had any distinguishing characteristics. Except for McClellan, Jr., who was blond, all the executives looked exactly alike. Like Pendleton, they were all dark-haired and appeared to have brown eyes. Seated as they were, the male contingent seemed to have heights, weights, and builds that were virtually identical. Even Chang, Bahadoori, Redhawk, Washington and Ramirez, whose clear ethnic backgrounds at least offered them some measure of individuality, all bore a marked resemblance in coloring and body type to every man present. Carmichael, too, was a brown-eyed brunette, tall and solidly built.

Good God, Pendleton thought, he was a Stepford Executive.

Certainly dark coloring was dominant over light, he tried to reassure himself, but still… Eleven people of nearly identical appearance kind of skewed the odds a bit. Surely there should be one or two blonds at least in the group. A Knutson or Wilhelm or Johannes or something. Of course, Pendleton was no expert on genetics—hey, who was?—but even he doubted that the odds of this kind of thing occurring were very—

“Pendleton!”

He flinched at the sound of his name thundering from McClellan, Sr.’s end of the table. “Sir?” he responded.

“I asked what you thought about Novak’s suggestion.”

Pendleton bit the inside of his jaw and pretended to give the matter great thought. “I think, sir, that utilizing such a parlay might potentially impact productivity with a dynamic we can’t possibly leverage at this time.”

Oh, now that had been truly inspired, he congratulated himself. Man, it was amazing how this corporate stuff just never left you. One quick flick of a mental switch, and it was all coming back to him.

McClellan, Sr.’s snowy eyebrows shot up at his statement. “Do you?”

Pendleton nodded sagely, steepled his fingers on the table before him, and strove for a grim expression. “Yes, sir, I’m afraid I do. Not only that,” he added, hoping he wasn’t taking the training wheels off too soon, “but channeling such a core strategy that way could decentralize market-driven revenues.” He paused for a meaningful moment before adding, “And if I may speak frankly, sir?”

“By all means, Pendleton. You seem to be on a roll.”

“Thank you, sir. But I wonder if Novak and Martin have fully considered the fact that the implementation of such a trend might rouse the concern of the AFL-CIO, the NLRB and the TUC, not to mention the FCC and ATF. Furthermore, in my opinion, a discussion of P and L, PPI, GNP, and AGI wouldn’t be out of place here.”

Now McClellan, Sr. nodded as he gave lengthy consideration to the weight of Pendleton’s argument. Finally, he said, “Yes, I think I see what you mean. And you may be on to something.”

Pendleton leaned back in his chair. “Of course, sir, ultimately the decision is yours to make.”

“Yes, it is.” He turned to the two men at the front of the room. “Novak, Martin, I think you need to go back and expand your presentation to include all the concerns that Pendleton just raised.”

The two men glared venomously at Pendleton.

“And you can pitch it again on Thursday. That’s three full days. Surely you can implement the data by then.”

A sudden tic assaulted Novak’s eye as he said, “Yes, sir.”

McClellan, Sr. turned back to Pendleton. “I think you’re going to be a fine asset to Hensley’s, Pendleton. A fine asset indeed. Come around to the house tonight, will you?”

This time Pendleton was the one to arch his eyebrows. “Sir?”

“Cherrywood. It’s where I live. In Glenview. See Margie for my address. I’ll expect you for drinks at six. Dinner will be at seven.” Then, without missing a beat, he directed his words once more to the others present. “I don’t think we’re going to have time for Carmichael’s input today, so we’ll postpone that until Thursday, along with anything else anyone wanted to discuss. It’s getting late, and you all have work to do. Now get out.”

The first to follow his own instructions, McClellan, Sr. rose from his chair, turned his back on his executives, and disappeared through a door behind him. Then, with a brief nod toward the other VPs, McClellan, Jr. followed immediately behind, closing the door with a soft click.

“Oh, way to go, Pendleton.”

He looked up to find Novak smiling at him now, with what appeared to be heartfelt delight. As was Martin. Before he could comment, however, a chuckle greeted him from the other side of the table. When he turned, he saw that every other VP present was smiling the same sort of smile.

“What?” he asked.

In response, the others only chuckled some more. Finally Rutledge stood, casually buttoning his double-breasted blazer as he did so. “You, uh, you might want to make sure you’re armed when you go to the old man’s house tonight, Pendleton. An Uzi ought to cover you just fine, though you might want to hide a little something extra in your sock, too.”

Redhawk nodded. “Yeah, like a bazooka.”

Chang concurred. “And Kevlar under your Brioni pin-stripe wouldn’t be out of place.”

“The boys are relatively harmless,” Carmichael said with an odd smirk.

“But watch out for the girl,” Bahadoori added.

Dizzy from his confusion, all Pendleton could ask was, “The girl?”

“She bites,” Washington clarified, gnashing his teeth for illustration.

Pendleton, too, finally stood, gathering up his portfolio in the process. “I have no idea what you guys are talking about.”

They all chuckled even harder at that.

“Yeah, we know,” Ramirez said gleefully, obviously speaking for everyone present.

“But you will,” Carmichael told him, winking. She was halfway to the door before she turned around, a thoughtful expression on her face. As she scanned Pendleton quickly from head to toe, she nodded with what he could only assume was approval. Then she added, “Just between you and me, Pendleton, you might be exactly the man for the job.”