Killer Instinct (13 page)

“How’s it going there, Trevor?” I said.

“Great,” he said in a flat voice. “Just great.”

Before I had a chance to express to him my deepest, most heartfelt condolences over his standing up the CEO of one of America’s largest movie-theater chains, he was gone, depriving me of the opportunity, and Joan was beckoning me into her office with a flick of her left hand.

I was immediately on alert. Trevor had looked like he’d been kicked in the family jewels. I suspected Joan had been the bearer of bad news and that I might be next in line.

“Sit down, Jason,” she said. “Congratulations on the Lockwood deal. I never thought you were going to close it, but I guess we should never underestimate you.”

I nodded, smiled modestly. “Sometimes you just have to say the right words, and it all falls into place,” I said. “I figure that ought to demonstrate my meat-eating credentials to Gordy.”

“Dick Hardy already put out the press release on the Lockwood deal,” she said. “I assume you saw it.”

“Not yet.”

Joan got up and closed her office door. She turned to face me. She heaved a long, loud sigh. Not a good sigh. The circles under her eyes were darker than I’d ever seen them before. She went back to her desk. “Gordy’s not going to move me into Crawford’s position,” she said wearily.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s something about me Gordy doesn’t like.”

“There’s something about
everyone
that Gordy doesn’t like. Plus there’s the fact that you’re a woman.”

“And not one whose pants he wants to get into.”

“Call me naïve, but isn’t that illegal?”

“Yeah, you’re naïve, Jason. Anyway, it’s an age-old tradition, using consolidation as an excuse to shed the employees you don’t like.”

“He can’t be that blatant.”

“Of course not. Gordy’s smart. There’s always a way to justify laying someone off. I didn’t make my number because you guys didn’t make yours last quarter. The merger team thinks I’m an unnecessary layer of management anyway. Fat to be trimmed. They’ve decided to get rid of the AM job entirely. So Gordy’s just going to fill Crawford’s DVP slot. You or Trevor or Brett. Meaning that whoever gets the nod is going to be under a lot of pressure. That’s an awfully big job now.”

“He wants to lay you off?” Now I felt really bad. Here I was, angling for a promotion, and she was losing her job. “I’m so sorry.” Then the unworthy thought came into my head: I’d just asked her to speak up for me, and she had corporate cooties. Would it rub off on me?

“It’s fine, really it is,” she said. “I’ve been in talks with FoodMark for a while.”

“That’s the company that runs food courts in shopping malls?” I tried to say it neutrally, but I guess I didn’t succeed at hiding what I thought.

Her smile was wan and a little embarrassed. “It’s not a bad place, and it’s a lot less pressure than this job. Plus, Sheila and I have been wanting to travel more. Enjoy life together. It’s just as well, as it turns out. Plasma displays or burritos, what’s the difference?”

I didn’t want to express my condolences, but congratulations didn’t seem in order either. What the hell do you say? “I guess it’s all good, then.”

“Well,” she said. “Did I ever tell you I’m a vegetarian?”

“Maybe that’s the real reason,” I said, a halfhearted attempt at black humor. I thought of Kate’s steaks a couple of nights ago, which were unappetizing charred slabs, enough to turn anyone into a strict vegan.

“Maybe,” she said with a rueful smile. “Whatever. But you might want to go easy on Trevor Allard today. He’s had a tough break.”

“What happened?”

“He just lost the biggest deal of his life.”

“You’re talking about Pavilion?”

She nodded, compressed her lips.

“All for missing one appointment because of a flat tire?”

“Once would have been acceptable. But not twice.”

“Twice?”

“This morning he was on his way to the rescheduled meeting with Watkins, the CEO of Pavilion. Well, guess what? His Porsche died on the road again.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish. Electrical system malfunctioned. A real freak coincidence, his car dying two days in a row. He hasn’t even had a chance to get his cell phone replaced, so he couldn’t call Watkins’s office in time. And that was it. They’ve signed with Toshiba.”

“Jesus!” I said. “Just like that?”

“The deal was already factored into next quarter’s numbers as committed business. Which is a disaster for all of us, especially with the integration team poking around in every corner. All of
you,
I should say, since I’m out of here. Though I’m sure you’re more focused on what this does for your chances at the promotion.”

“No, not at all,” I protested lamely.

“The tables seem to have turned. Now it looks like you drive a bigger piece of the number than either one of them.”

“Temporarily, yeah.”

“Gordy’s all about momentum, and right now it’s on your side. Let me just say one thing, though. I know how much you want this job. But be careful what you ask for. You never know what you might be stepping into.”

Ten minutes later I was checking my e-mail, still feeling dazed, when I noticed Brett Gleason standing in my office doorway.

Whatever he wanted, it wasn’t good. “Hey, Brett,” I said. “I thought you had a presentation at Bank of America.”

“I lost the directions,” he said.

“To Bank of America? They’re on Federal Street, you know that.”

“Lot of floors. Lot of offices.”

“Can’t you just call your contact?”

“Guy’s new and he’s not listed on their website, and besides, I don’t remember his last name.”

“You don’t have the guy’s number?” Why, I wondered, was he in my office? Gleason talked to me as little as possible, and he sure never asked my help on anything.

“That’s gone too.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

“You think it’s funny?”

“I’m not laughing, Brett. What are you talking about?”

“The Blue Screen of Death.”

“You had a disk crash or something?”

“Permanent and fatal error. Someone screwed with my computer.” He gave me a sidelong look. “Which also wiped out my Palm Pilot when I hot-synced it this morning. All my contacts, all my records—they’re all gone. The IT dweebs say it’s totally unrecoverable. Some prank, huh?” He turned to leave.

I thought, but didn’t say, that if Brett had printed out his schedule, he wouldn’t have had this problem, but I kept my mouth shut. “You don’t seriously think someone did this to you, Brett, do you?” I said to Gleason’s back.

But he kept going.

An instant message popped up on my computer screen. It was Gordy, and he wanted to see me immediately.

15

Gordy was wearing a crisp white button-down shirt with a big blue KG monogram on the pocket. He didn’t shake my hand as I entered. He stayed seated behind his desk.

“You locked in Lockwood,” he said.

“That’s right.”

“Booya.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t know how you finally got ’em to sign on the dotted line, but I’m impressed. We needed the deal. Bad. Especially the way Allard and Gleason’ve been dropping balls lately.”

“Have they? I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Please,” Gordy said. “Christ. Practice your bullshit on someone who doesn’t know better. Gleason blew off a presentation at Bank of America. Gave them some lame excuse about his computer getting wiped out or something. He’s roadkill, far as I’m concerned. And now Trevor.” He shook his head. “Fact is, I like golf as much as the next guy”—he gestured toward his putter—“but you don’t blow off a seventy-million-dollar client for nine holes at the Myopia Hunt Club.”

“You’re kidding,” I said, truly surprised. That didn’t sound like Trevor at all.

“I wish,” said Gordy. “He doesn’t know I know it, but I got the lowdown from Watkins at the Pavilion Group. I tried to turn it around, but Watkins wasn’t having any of it.”

“Trevor was playing
golf
?”

“He figured he’d get away with it. Stood up Watkins two days in a row claiming car trouble. One day he says he’s got a flat, the next day the alternator goes or something, and both days he says his cell phone isn’t working.”

“Yeah, but all that really happened,” I said.

“Uh-uh. And you know where the idiot calls Watkins’s office from? Right from the links. Number came up on the secretary’s caller ID.” He shook his head, disgusted. “I just can’t defend that. Of course he denies it, but…Well, anyway, I’m inclined to give Allard another chance. He’s a true meat-eater. But I got something for you.”

“Tell me.”

“Who’s that guy from NEC that everyone likes?”

“You mean Jim Letasky? The guy who owns the SignNetwork account?”

“Yeah, him. I want to land SignNetwork. Sounds like the only way is to get Letasky on our team. Think you’re high-test enough to recruit him? Steal him away?”

“From NEC? He lives in Chicago, got a wife and kids, plus he probably already makes good money.”

“Sounds like you’re giving up before you even start,” Gordy said. “I thought you wanted Crawford’s job.”

“No, it’s just—that won’t be easy. But I’ll try.”

“Try? How about, ‘Done, Gordy’?”

“Done, Gordy,” I said.

I wasted no time trying to reach James Letasky. I found his office phone number on the NEC website, but I wanted to call him at home—the more discreet approach, I figured. Letasky’s home number was unlisted, unfortunately. So I waited until Gordy had gone out for a meeting, and I stopped by his secretary’s cubicle. She kept his massive database of names and contacts, and I thought she might know how to get hold of Letasky’s home phone.

“Jim Letasky?” Melanie said. “Sure. Easy.”

“You sound like you know the guy.”

She shook her head. She jutted out her lower lip as she tapped at her keyboard, lightning fast. “Here you go.”

“How’d you do that?”

“Magic.”

“You have all the NEC salesmen’s home phone numbers?”

“Naw. Kent’s been trying to recruit Letasky for years. I’m always sending his wife flowers.” She looked innocent. She had no idea that her boss was pretending he barely knew who Letasky was. “But Letasky’s unmovable. You want the name of her favorite florist? I have it here, too.”

“No thanks, Mel,” I said. “I’m not going to be sending flowers.”

16

After work, I drove to Willkie Auto Body to pick up my Acura. On the way, I listened some more to Old Blood and Guts. He was growling something about how “The only way to survive an ambush is to return fire immediately and run right through the enemy shooters, forcing your enemy to take cover.”

I left the Geo Metro at the body shop, to be picked up by Enterprise Rent-A-Car. Luckily I checked the trunk, where I’d almost left the bag of corporate self-help books.

There’s one upside to getting into a car accident: When you get your car back from the shop it looks brand-new. The Acura looked like I’d just driven it off the lot. When I popped the General into the CD player, he sounded even more commanding on my Acura’s surround-sound system.

Then I called Kurt Semko on the cell phone and told him I was maybe five miles from his house—he’d told me he rented a house in Holliston—and I had a present for him. He said, sure, come on, stop by.

I found it easily. He lived in a suburban development, in a small raised ranch, red brick, white clapboard, black shutters, like you’d see in every single suburb in America. It was very small, and it was well cared for, recently painted. What was I expecting, an old Quonset hut, maybe?

I parked in the driveway, which was jet-black and obviously recently sealed. I took the stack of books from the trunk and rang Kurt’s doorbell. I’d finished reading them, and besides, I thought Kurt needed them more than me.

He came to the door in a white T-shirt.

“Welcome to the Fortress of Solitude.” He opened the screen door for me. “I’m upgrading the electrical service.”

“You’re doing it yourself?”

He nodded. “It’s a rental, but I got tired of the circuit breakers tripping all the time. Hundred amps just doesn’t cut it. Plus the wiring’s old. So I’m putting in a four-hundred-amp service panel. Figured I’d get rid of the old aluminum branch circuit wiring while I’m at it.”

He noticed the stack of books in my arms. “Those for me?”

“Well, yeah,” I said.

He scanned the stack.
“Dog Eat Dog: Surviving the Business World,”
he read. “
The Take No Prisoners Guide to the Corporation.
What’s all this?”

“Some books I thought you might find useful,” I said, setting them down on the hall table. “Now that you’re working in the corporate world.”

“Team Secrets of the Navy SEALs: The Elite Military Force’s Leadership Principles for Business,”
he said. He seemed amused. “
Corporate Warrior.
This is all military, chief. I don’t need to read about it. Seen enough.”

I felt like an idiot. Here was a guy who knew all this stuff from real-world experience, and I was giving him a bunch of books for corporate armchair warriors. Plus, what if he was one of those guys who never read books? “Yeah, but, see, they’re all about how to apply what you already know to a world you don’t.”

He nodded and said, “I see. Got it.”

“Check ’em out,” I said. “See what you think.”

“I will, chief. I will. I’m all about self-improvement.”

“Cool. Hey, so, listen. I need a favor.”

“Name it. Come on in. I’ll get you a drink. Show you some of my war trophies.”

His house was just as neat inside as it was outside. Clean and orderly and plain. Almost a temporary look to it. His refrigerator had nothing in it except bottles of Poland Spring water, Gatorade, and protein shakes. I wouldn’t be getting a Budweiser.

“Gatorade?”

“Water’s fine,” I said.

He tossed me a little bottle of water, took one for himself, and we went to his bare living room—a couch, a recliner, an old TV—and sat down.

I told him a little about the race for the divisional vice president job, how Gleason had blown off an important presentation at Bank of America and Trevor had lost the Pavilion deal. But Trevor was doing a demo at Fidelity on Monday, I said. That would seal the deal. He’d be back in Gordy’s good graces.