The Job (12 page)

“Especially for their spouse.”

“Lizzie, don’t be angry. I didn’t mean …”

“I’m not angry. Just a little hurt. And naturally worried. For you.” Her voice softened.

“You okay?”

“Not really.”

“They showed you the door?”

“No-but by Friday morning, they most certainly will.”

I told her everything that had happened since I’d walked into that breakfast with Chuck Zanussi. Everything except Phil Sirio’s offer to blackmail Ted Peterson.

When I finished, she said, “Oh, sweetheart-that is one shitty day.”

I managed a laugh.

“The shittiest imaginable. And it ain’t over yet. I mean, I really don’t know how I’m going to fill those six pages-except with nude photos of Chuck Zanussi.”

“Tell you what-give me an hour, and I’ll take you out for a drunken dinner….”

“No can do. That creep Kreplin’s already snagged me for dinner.”

“Terrific.”

“Believe me, I’d cancel if I could. But there’s no way out of this. Especially as Kreplin is the new fuhrer around here.”

“Understood, understood.” But I could tell from her tone of voice that she was disappointed… and worried.

“You’re upset.”

“I’m just feeling a bit marginalized again. I mean, last night, you sort of knew a takeover was imminent-but you didn’t want to say anything.”

“Like I told you, why share the worry?”

“Because we’re married, that’s why. Because being married means we’re supposed to share stuff like that. And because I feel a little patronized when you don’t…”

“I would never, ever patronize you.”

“Maybe not intentionally. But, to me, this ‘don’t-want-to-worry-your-little-head-dear’ crap is definitely patronizing…”

“Lizzie, please…”

“… and if the shoe had been on the other foot-if our company had been suddenly bought out-you would have been the first person I called.”

I put my head in my hands. A little marital tension was just what I needed right now. Best to say nothing, except…

“Guilty as charged.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything. And I’m not trying to give you grief-especially after what you’ve been through today. It’s just… You don’t have to keep playing the salesman with me. Always acting as if you’re on a perpetual winning streak-” She was stopped by Lily’s voice on my speakerphone.

“Mr. Allen, really sorry to interrupt, but I’ve got Mr. Dolinsky on line two. He says it’s urgent.”

“Say I’ll be with him in a sec.”

“I’ll let you go,” Lizzie said.

“Sorry, but Ivan’s heading up my intensive care list right now.”

“Stop apologizing, Ned. I do appreciate what’s going on.”

“You’re a star.”

“Are you going to be late?”

“Very, I’m afraid. Kreplin’s hinted he wants to hit the town, big-time.”

“Then I won’t wait up. And look-if it all falls apart, we’ll still be just fine. Remember that.”

“I will.”

“Love you.”

“You, too,” I said, then punched line two. Over the static of his car phone, I heard the curiously buoyant voice of Ivan Dolinsky.

“Ned, have I got news for you…”

“You close NMI?”

“You bet I did. Not only that, they agreed to a full six-page multipage insert for their new Powerplan series.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” I said, punching the air with my fist. Crisis averted.

“.. . and I even drove over to their headquarters in Paterson to make certain they signed the contract. Just got out of the meeting, heading back to the city right now.”

“It’s great news.”

“There’s only one small problem…”

Oh, God… “They’re adamant that it goes into the May issue.”

I exhaled. Loudly.

“Ivan…”

“I know, I know-and, believe me, I was all but licking the guy’s shoes, begging him to move it forward to April. But May’s when they’re launching the new Powerplan models….”

Do you have any idea of the career-threatening shit you’ve dropped me in? I wanted to shout. But I knew such a temper tantrum was pointless. Phil was right: Having agreed to the multipage insert, then pulling out of the deal, Peterson had reamed Ivan. Okay, Ivan should’ve forced him to sign a contract there and then-but you expect a GBS executive to abide by his Scout’s-honor word. It wasn’t Ivan’s fault. And he had just closed a biggie. Not the biggie I needed right now-but a biggie nonetheless. I tried to sound up-beat.

“You did great, Ivan,” I said.

“What are we gonna do about April?”

“I think we might have sorted it out,” I lied.

“Go buy yourself a beer. You deserve it.”

I hung up before my Mr. Nice act cracked. Fucking Ivan. I felt for the guy, but simultaneously wanted to punch out his lights. His timing for disaster was impeccable.

Six-forty. I stared at the phone, willing it to ring and to discover Ted Peterson on the line, with the news that-after a surprise late-afternoon visit by the Ghost of Christmas Future in the GBS executive washroom-he’d been wracked by conscience, and had not only decided to immediately green-light the April M.P.I.” but was also setting up a soup kitchen for the homeless….

Fat chance.

Six-forty-one. My gaze hadn’t moved from the phone. It had always been my conduit out of any difficult business situations. When verbally cruising along at full throttle, I felt I could talk anybody into just about everything. But, for the first time in my life, I couldn’t think of a single call that could save my ass. The phone was no longer my ally.

Six-forty-two. There was a sharp knock on my office door. Without waiting for me to shout “Come in,” Chuck Zanussi entered, glowering. I knew immediately that he’d heard about Ivan’s fiasco.

“Your first day here-what was it, four years ago?-and what did I say Rule Number One of working with me was?”

“Chuck, let me explain-” “Rule Number One. I’m sure you remember it..

..”

“I’m telling you, the situation’s under control-” “What was Rule Number-fucking-One, Ned?”

I swallowed hard and said, “If there’s a problem, you want to know immediately.”

“Very good. You have excellent powers of retention. Now, would you not agree that the loss of a GBS multipage insert-a mere two days before copy deadline-constitutes a problem?”

“There have been a lot of problems today, Chuck …”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“.. . and that’s why I didn’t call you.”

“Bullshit. The reason you didn’t call me was because you were covering Ivan’s ass. Trying to guarantee your canonization as the Patron Saint of Salesmen Who Fuck Up.”

“I simply figured you had enough crap on your plate without-” “You figured wrong.”

“The situation’s under control…”

“More bullshit. From what I hear, you might as well have issued an allpoints bulletin announcing the GBS debacle. So now-thanks to your brilliant strategy-not only is everyone in the industry speculating about whether Kiang-Sanderling is going to vaporize the entire CompuWorld staff; they’re also gossiping about how we’re desperate to fill a handful of pages in the April issue. And desperation-as I’ve told you over and over again-is the cardinal sin of salesmanship. But you temporarily forgot that, Ned, so our credibility rating right is now subzero. Congratulations.”

“I take full responsibility…”

“Damn right you do. Especially since those pages must be filled. Otherwise you’re out of here. Understand?”

Ever been kicked in the stomach? As you gasp for breath, the world suddenly turns watery in front of your eyes. Everything blurs.

“You hearing me, Ned?” Chuck asked.

“I hear you,” I muttered.

“You know, making this kind of threat-it gives me no pleasure. But it was your call to sit on this all day-so it’s your neck the ax is gonna fall on. Believe me, I want you to get out of this …”

“I will get out of it.”

“How? Through prayer?”

I shrugged.

“I’ll do it. Just watch.”

“I will. Closely. Another thing you’re gonna have to do …”

“Yeah?”

“Fire Dolinsky.”

“Hang on now, Chuck…”

“No arguments here, Ned. He is the root cause of this major screw up.”

“Ted Peterson is the real villain in this story….”

“That may be, but Dolinsky delayed the contractual niceties, allowing that thief Peterson a way out of the deal. Look, you know I have cut Ivan one helluva lot of slack since Nancy’s death. And, like you, I’ve covered his ass when he couldn’t get it together-because I really, truly pity the bastard. But, let’s face it, two years later and the guy still doesn’t have his eye on the ball anymore. And now, his incompetence is threatening both our asses….”

“Ivan is not incomnetent. He just closed a maior six-Dace insert with NMI this afternoon. The May issue. And he’s got signed contracts to prove it.”

“I’ll make sure he gets the commission from the sale tagged on to his severance pay.”

“Come on, Chuck. Be reasonable here.”

“The decision’s made. He’s history.”

The voice of Phil Sirio hummed in my head.

“It’s persuasion, nothing more…. All I’m gonna do is remind him that a verbal contract is worth the paper it’s written on.”

“Say I manage to get the multipage insert back from GBS….”

“You won’t. Dream on.”

“But just say I did convince Ted Peterson to come around….”

“I’d call you a miracle worker, and I’d still insist that Ivan goes.”

“That’s not fair….”

“Fuck fair. The man’s all over the place. Okay, he scored a big one with NMI. The first big one in two years …”

“It’s a comeback.”

“It’s a lucky break. NMI are pushing their Powerplan series everywhere. Donald Duck could’ve closed that deal. And you know as well as I do that it’s only a matter of time before Ivan drops us in deep doo-doo again. Sorry, Ned. He’s out of here. And if you don’t fire him by noon tomorrow, then I will.”

“You mean, right before you fire me.”

“If you solve the problem, you still have a job. That’s the bottom line. Got it?”

I nodded. Chuck opened the door-and quietly said, “Don’t make me fire you, Ned. Please.”

I sat immobile in my desk chair for a very long time, staring out at the snow-filled night. There was only one solution to the problem, only one way of saving my skin.

“Boss, please let me call Ted Peterson.” Tomorrow morning, first thing, I’d instruct Phil Sirio to do just that. To hell with the consequences. This was now life or death.

Once again, the heavy snow meant that all New York City cabs had gone into hibernation. So I walked over to Grand Central and jumped the downtown six train. The subway car was empty and overheated. At Fourteenth Street I was joined by your typical urban $200 Nikes, plenty of attitude. He plopped himself down opposite me and locked me in a malevolent stare. I eyeballed him right back. Read my lips, jerkoff. I’m about to authorize a serious blackmailing. So who’s the real badass here?

“The fuck you looking at?” the punk said.

My stare hardened.

“The fuck you looking at?” I shot back.

“You trying to make trouble?”

“Only if you are,” I said, casually slipping my hand beneath my overcoat, as if I might be packing a gun. At that precise moment, he broke his stare.

“I ain’t interested in no trouble,” he said.

“That makes two of us,” I said.

We rode on in silence. The train pulled into Lafayette Street and I stood up to leave.

“Yo,” said the punk.

“What?” I said.

“Merry Christmas, man.”

“You, too,” I said and found myself smiling for the first time all day.

I trekked through now blizzard conditions down Lafayette Street to Pravda. Klaus Kreplin was already seated at a prominent table when I arrived. He greeted me with a snaky smile, motioned for me to sit down, then scooped a pack of Dunhill cigarettes up off the table and fired one up with an elegant silver lighter.

“Do you know why I chose this restaurant?” he asked.

“Caviar and cigarettes. It is one of the few places left in this health-neurotic city where one can smoke and not risk arrest.”

All the waitresses wore low-cut slinky black dresses. One of them was approaching our table, tray in hand. Kreplin watched her intently.

“And, of course, the ambiance is charming, would you not agree?”

The waitress lowered the tray, which held a block of ice and two small, exquisitely designed stainless steel racks. Each rack contained six small glasses, brimming with clear liquid. She placed one in front of each of us.

“I hope you do not mind,” Kreplin said, “but I took the liberty

“Six shots of vodka?” I said.

“It is their special Vodka sampler. Accompanied by caviar, of course,” he said as the waitress set the block of ice down between us. Embedded within was a hefty jar of Beluga. I dreaded to think of the cost.

Kreplin raised the first glass from the rack. I followed suit.

“Prost,” he said, clicking my glass, then throwing his back in one gulp. I downed mine, the frozen vodka anesthetizing the back of my throat. Immediately I felt its tranquilizing benefits.

“You were in need of vodka, I think,” Kreplin said.

“It has not been an easy day,” I said.

“But I think you know all about that, don’t you?”

“I have heard you have found yourself in a dangerous predicament. Will you solve this?”

“Absolutely,” I said.

“Then we must drink to this good news,” Kreplin said. We both hoisted the second glass of vodka. Click. Down the hatch.

“Do you know why I knew we would work well together?” Kreplin said, spooning a dollop of caviar onto a blini, then devouring it in one gulp.

“Because you were a bit cool to me when we first met. A bit confrontational. I like this style-a good company man, a good captain to his troops-sorry!-‘colleagues’-but someone who does not immediately agree with everything his superiors say. I respect a man who can balance corporate allegiance with an independent outlook. Unlike Chuck Zanussi.”

“Chuck’s a good guy.”

“Do you want my opinion on your boss? Chuck Zanussi is very fat. And scared to death of me. Which is one of the reasons I have no respect for him. That-and the fact that his physical grossness hints at a complete absence of discipline.”