Recessional: A Novel Read Free

Congress, where the line of luxury hotels began.
    By the time he reached the Sparkman Towers he was so exhausted that he did not enter like a normal guest through the main entrance but allowed the wind to push him through the small side door, the only one kept open during such storms. Safely indoors, he dropped momentarily into an upholstered chair to regain control of his heartbeat and breathing. Taking his pulse as he always did after heavy exertion, he noted with satisfaction: a hundred and ten dropping rapidly to good old eighty. After a few minutes, he felt ready for the crucial meeting he had come for, but before he could find the receptionist, he was accosted by the hotel doorman, who had been sensible enough to move his workstation inside and away from the blizzard.
    “Pretty bad out there?” He was a jovial fellow in his fifties, overweight but also overendowed with Irish charm and a winning smile, the kind of man who created the impression that he took pride in his work.
    “It’s a gangbuster. If they hadn’t strung the ropes, I’d never have made it.”
    “And who might you be coming to see on a morning like this?”
    “John Taggart. I believe he’s expecting me.”
    “On a Saturday morning like this?”
    “I suspect he’s as eager to see me as I am to see him, storm or no storm.”
    “And who can I say wants to see him?”
    “Andy Zorn. Dr. Andy Zorn.”
    “A medical doctor? Don’t tell me you make house calls.”
    “Only on nice days like this when I enjoy the walk.”
    The doorman led the way to the small, handsomely decorated table that served as the reception desk. “Dr. Andy Zorn to see Mr. Taggart. Says he has an appointment.”
    “He does indeed,” the young woman in the trim business suit said. “Mr. Taggart called a few minutes ago. Said he was expecting you but he doubted you could make it in this storm. Said to bring you right up, Dr. Zorn.” She accompanied him to the bank of eight elevators, choosing a reserved one for which she had a special key.
    John Taggart, a major Chicago investor in retirement centers across the country, maintained both his living quarters and his office, two different sets of rooms, on the twenty-third floor of the Towers. The door to his apartment contained only its number, 2300; his office carried no number at all, only a small brass plate affixed to the wall engraved with elegant letters so small they could scarcely be read from a distance: JOHN TAGGART ENTERPRISES .
    The receptionist did not knock on the office door but entered as if the place was familiar, leading Zorn to an inner sanctuary. Behind a large white-oak desk sat a fifty-year-old man in an elegant exercise suit: heavily ribbed gray turtleneck sweater and fitted trousers in a gray one shade darker. Surprisingly, he wore about his forehead a rough terry-cloth sweatband, which he did not take off as he rose and extended his hand to welcome Dr. Zorn.
    “When I looked out this morning and saw the blizzard I said: ‘He won’t make it today,’ and went down to the gym for my workout.” He pressed his hands proudly over his flat stomach.
    “But it was essential that I see you,” Zorn said as Mr. Taggart accompanied the receptionist to the door and said: “Thank you so much, Beth, for bringing him up.” Turning back to Zorn, he said: “Yes, it is important, isn’t it? For both of us.”
    For the next moments Taggart simply stared at his visitor. The vacancy in his huge organization was of supreme importance, and the new manager would have to be a youngish man of exceptional abilities. Tampa was the flagship of Taggart Enterprises, but it wasfoundering. What Taggart saw in his inspection of a man he had not previously met was a doctor of thirty-five, medium height, not overweight, in apparent good health and distinguished by two attractive qualities: he had a healthy crop of brick-red hair, which looked as if it ought to be accompanied by a face full of country-boy freckles, and a roguish