Pound Foolish (Windy City Neighbors Book 4) (8 page)

     Greg frowned. “What do you mean? How?”

     Hastings threw up his hands. “I’ll be talking to our creditors, but I’ve got nearly half a million in debt hanging out there. I might be able to negotiate some of it down, but I’m personally gonna be eating most of it.”

     Unbelievable! “And the rest of us?”

     “Huh, if gettin’ laid off isn’t bad enough . . . like I said, I can’t afford to give anyone severance pay.”

     Greg sucked in a long breath, then blew it out. June 7 . . . not even three weeks away. How could the boss do this? He leaned forward, his mind scrambling. “Look, Chuck, if you’re gonna cut that last show, the one after Burnham Harbor, there won’t be that much for us to do. Why don’t we all focus on recruiting new investors? If the old money’s dried up, let’s find new money!”

     Hastings again shook his head. “I appreciate the sentiment, Greg. I really do. But it’s a bird without wings. We don’t have anything to sell right now! So who’s gonna invest? I’ve been in business a long time, and I know what it takes to attract investors. Everybody’s hangin’ onto their money right now. All we have to offer is wishful thinking.”

     The man hefted himself out of his chair and stood in front of his office windows, hands jammed into his pants pockets, his back to Greg. “I’ve made my decision, and it includes stopping the bleeding, as soon as possible. All of it—the offices, the utilities, the phones, travel—everything. Monday the seventh is the last day, except for Ethel. Now . . .” He sighed deeply and turned back. “As you can imagine, I’ve gotta have some very unpleasant conversations with my other people. Could call a staff meeting, but I’d rather do it one-on-one. All I ask is that you not mention this news, and I mean not to
anyone
. Let me do it myself.” Hastings came around his desk and headed for the door, indicating Greg’s meeting was over.

     Greg wanted to protest. There was no way Hastings would be able to call everyone in one-by-one without the others sensing something terrible was happening. He felt like yelling himself, and there was a good chance someone would. At least, there’d be tears. The others would figure it out pretty quickly. But—he shrugged—it was Hastings’ call.
How
he told everyone was a minor detail, compared to
what
he had to tell them.

     He stood up and met his boss at the door. Hastings’ hand was extended, and for a moment, Greg was tempted not to take it.

     “I’m really sorry, Greg. You’re a good man, and you don’t deserve this. Believe me, if and when I get back on my feet, I’ll look you up.”

     Greg shook Chuck’s hand briefly and then disengaged. “So what am I supposed to do with my exhibitors between now and the end of the Burnham Harbor show?”

     “Good question. I want to tell the gold-star exhibitors myself, as a courtesy. But I could use your help notifying some of the smaller exhibitors and vendors. I’ll let you know when to start. Just don’t leak any of this to our major players, okay?”

     “Right.” Most of them were Greg’s contacts anyway. Hastings hadn’t ever spoken to some of them. But Greg knew why he wanted to do so now: It would put him in the best position should he decide to revive the business in the future. Made sense, but it galled Greg. Nevertheless, he said, “I’ll be glad to help in whatever way you want.” He nodded and went out the door.

     A couple of people waved a good-morning greeting as he walked to his office. Poor suckers. None of them had any idea what the day would bring.

     His office—half the size of Hastings’—for the first time felt cramped. What had he been doing here for the last seven years? Where had it gotten him? He sat down at his desk, head in his hands, and tried to review what had happened in the last thirty minutes.

     His whole world had turned upside down, that’s what.

     His degree from Florida State had been in public relations with a specialty in meetings and event planning. Landing a position with Powersports Expos had been his dream job, combining his career training with his love for outdoor sports. He’d loved it so much he’d never given thought to a job in any other field. Hastings had been a good boss. And while he’d occasionally thought about starting his own business doing much the same thing, it would’ve meant a move to some other part of the country so he wouldn’t go toe-to-toe with Chuck Hastings.

     But now he was adrift—no job, no plan, no solid foundation from which to jump. However, he did have contacts, lots of contacts, prime contacts.

     Lifting his head, Greg dug through the desk drawer until he found a box of blank CDs. Suddenly focused, he spent the next half hour downloading his email list, business contacts, and all the important correspondence from the last couple of years. If Hastings was right, sport shows might be cold right now, but shows weren’t the only way manufacturers sold boats, snowmobiles, and ATVs. Greg knew the industry. He knew the market. He had contacts. All of those contacts and all of his experience in the industry had to be worth
something
that could land him a new job.

     Greg leaned back in his desk chair, brow furrowed. Hastings said he wanted to call the major clients himself. But that hardly seemed fair. If he waited until after Hastings told them about the demise of Powersports Expos, Greg would have to approach them from a position of weakness, calling for help from a sinking ship. He’d be a lot better off talking to them
before
they heard from Chuck Hastings.

     He gritted his teeth. This was a rotten deal. Why didn’t the boss fight harder and let the staff help him salvage his business? It wasn’t fair, because the staff was going to pay. On the other hand, if the boss was determined to close Powersports, Greg couldn’t stop him, and he needed to look out for himself. He wouldn’t spill the beans—doing so would be to his disadvantage—but he had to get to those clients before Hastings did.

     Why not start calling now?

Chapter 8

Nicole turned sideways in front of the full-length mirror in their bedroom. She finally fit into her favorite white jeans she hadn’t been able to wear for the last couple of years. And the little rolls at her waistline weren’t so obvious either. Three weeks, only three weeks, but already her dieting efforts were beginning to pay off—smaller helpings at mealtimes with no seconds and no soft drinks during the day, and she’d been able to maintain a simple exercise routine each morning while the kids did their forty minutes of silent reading. Well, Nathan often needed help, which interrupted her, but still, she’d worked up a sweat on most days.

     Would Greg notice? Just last Saturday at Mattie Krakowski’s welcome home gathering, Lincoln Paddock had noticed. She smiled as she recalled him chiding Greg:
“I don’t know, Singer. If I were you, I’d take this pretty lady dancing somewhere tonight
.
”

     But he hadn’t.

     She stepped into the bathroom and freshened her makeup, not enough to be obvious but maybe enough to catch Greg’s eye when he got home from work in a half hour or so.

     Somehow things had to change.

* * * *

As Greg walked the mile from the Metra stop to Beecham Street that evening, his mind jumped back and forth between strategies for presenting himself to prospective employers and how he was going to tell Nicole that Powersports was going under. Overcast skies had kept the day cool, but beads of sweat dotted Greg’s forehead and pasted his shirt to his back. He slipped off his sport jacket and flipped it over his shoulder, two fingers hooked in the collar.

     Just that morning, he’d felt so settled, but now . . . now they might have to move to some other city. He liked Chicago, and Nicole wouldn’t want to leave her mother. He sighed deeply, glad that he’d suggested taking Mom Lillquist out to dinner the other night. At least that demonstrated he cared about her. And she adored the kids so much. She’d be lost if they moved away. Necessity could be such a cruel master. If they had to move, he and Nicole would have to be sure to plan frequent visits.

     So far, he’d only called contacts at two companies that afternoon to feel out job opportunities. “Greg,” said Tony Barns at the Sea-Doo plant in Brenton, Illinois, “I don’t think you wanna be lookin’ down in this neck of the woods right now.”

     “Whaddaya mean?”

     “Well, rumors come and go like the seasons, you know, but this time I think Bombardier Recreational Products is getting serious about closing our plant. Might not be right away, but I’m pretty sure it’s gonna happen. I just hope I can retire first, or I’ll be calling you for job openings up there in Chicago. Ha, ha, ha.”

     “You serious?”

     “Oh yeah. I’m serious.” Tony’s voice dropped to a whisper. “But don’t tell anyone I said so, or I might have to track you down and gag you. Get my drift?” His voice returned to normal. “Seriously, I’m only tellin’ you as a friend.
Comprende, amigo
?”

     “Gotcha.”

     “Good. So, why are you lookin’ around? Thought you liked it at Powersports.”

     “Oh, I do, it’s just that . . . well, you know, for career growth a guy’s gotta consider greener pastures sometimes. Know what I’m sayin’?”

     “Maybe, but they’re not greener down here, and with this recession, you better stay put. A job’s a job, ya know. Hey, wait a minute. Is that what’s goin’ on up there? Is Powersports in trouble?”

     “Oh, Tony, now you know if that were true, I couldn’t tell ya.” Greg laughed expansively to make a joke of the whole idea.

     “You just did.”

     “No, no, no. I didn’t say a thing.”

     His friend laughed with him, and in a few minutes the call was over, but it shook Greg. If BRP was thinking of closing the Brenton plant, maybe the whole industry was on harder times than he’d realized. Maybe Hastings was right.

     The second person he talked to was Carl Montgomery, a major distributor of several ATV brands. Greg didn’t know Carl nearly so well, and the conversation was much shorter. But business didn’t sound any brighter for personal off-road vehicles.

     Greg was so deep in thought reviewing these phone calls that he stepped off the curb at Touhy and Ridge against the light, and a driver laid on his horn like Gabriel trying to wake the dead.

     He jumped back, heart pounding as he muttered, “Thank You, God. Whew!” God must be looking out for him, but did that mean He had his back in this job situation too? Sunday he’d been so confident God had given him a vision of coming prosperity, but now he was losing his job, and a replacement wasn’t materializing.

    
Wait a minute. Wait a minute, Singer,
he told himself as the light turned green and he crossed the street safely.
I made two phone calls, only two, and I’m already starting to panic.
A couple of weeks back Pastor Hanson had pointed out that the Chinese word for “crisis” was composed of two characters meaning
danger
and
opportunity
, so we shouldn’t panic when we face a crisis. A situation might be dangerous, but it also provided a chance to develop something better. Maybe . . .

     Greg’s pace picked up. Could this situation coincide with the vision God had given him? He’d thought it involved Nicole beginning some kind of home industry with the kids to make a little more money, but perhaps God was shaking things up in a far bigger way, moving him out of Powersports to give him a more prosperous job.

     As he turned up Beecham Street, Greg decided he wasn’t ready to tell Nicole about Powersports yet. Why worry her? He still had two and a half weeks in the office and lots of contacts to follow up on. The conversation with Nicole was bound to go much easier if he could point to some attractive alternatives. Even the possibility of moving out of the city would go down easier if it involved a major upgrade in their lifestyle. Maybe a new car for Nicole, family trips built around educational experience for the kids, a bigger house. Who could know the great things God had in store for them?

     Greg took a deep breath as he crossed Chase and headed up his block. Everything was going to be okay. He should relax. On the other side of the street from his modest bungalow he noticed his Jewish neighbor—Isaac Horowitz, if he remembered correctly—on his front porch weaving lush green boughs through the railings. Out of curiosity, Greg crossed the street to ask him what holy day it was. The Jewish family always seemed to be celebrating something.

     “Shavuot,” the man said as he stood up and adjusted his large black hat, sitting atop the small ringlet curls hanging down on either side of his face just in front of his ears. “The Festival of Weeks, sometimes called Festival of First Fruits.” He waved his hand at the greenery. “Tomorrow the children will add flowers.”

     Still standing out on the sidewalk, Greg nodded. “So, it’s like thanking God for the beginning of harvest?”

     “Suppose you could say that, but it’s more . . . how do I say it? You know anything about the Torah?”

     Greg nodded. “Yeah, the Old Testament. Right?”

     Horowitz raised both hands in a helpless gesture. “If you say so . . . part of it, anyway.” He leaned back down and picked up another green bough as though he’d finished explaining.

     “And . . .?” Greg prompted.

     His neighbor straightened and gazed at him a long moment. “Well, maybe you remember Passover, when God freed the people of Israel from enslavement to Pharaoh.”

     Greg nodded vigorously, wanting to make sure his neighbor didn’t think him entirely ignorant.

     “Well, seven weeks later, Shavuot commemorates God giving us the Torah, the Books of the Law, so we could become a nation committed to serving Him.” The man turned his attention back to the bough he was weaving into the railing.

     Greg took the cue that Mr. Horowitz felt he’d revealed enough to this curious
goyim
. “Interesting. Thanks for telling me about it.”

     “Don’t mention it,” Horowitz said without even looking up over the banister.