The Job (14 page)

“Oh, Lizzie,” I said into the receiver, then covered it and mouthed to Kreplin, my wife. He rolled his eyes heavenward. I continued talking into the receiver.

“Yeah, yeah… I’m up at Klaus Kreplin’s suite at the Waldorf…. What? .. . Oh, Christ, no. When? .. . How bad does it look? .. . Okay, okay, I’ll be right there. The E.R. at Roosevelt? Give me ten minutes.”

I hung up and immediately grabbed my coat.

“There is a problem?” Kreplin asked.

“That was my wife, Lizzie. Her father, who’s staying with us for a couple of days, is having severe chest pains. They’ve rushed him to Roosevelt Hospital….”

I now had my overcoat on.

“Listen, Klaus… sorry to do this, but…”

He shrugged.

“You must do what you must do,” he said.

“Thanks for a great evening,” I said, pumping his hand.

“We’ll tulk tomorrow.” I waved a fast good-bye toward the two hookers. They didn’t wave back.

As I opened the door, Kreplin said, in a voice dripping with sarcasm: “My best wishes to your lovely wife.”

Thirty minutes later I was sliding into bed next to my lovely but very comatose wife. I leaned over for a kiss, to which she reacted with an incoherent groan before rolling away from me. I pulled a pillow toward me and shut my eyes in the futile hope that sleep would knock me out cold. I wanted to erase this day, to pull the plug on all that had transpired, and catch a five-hour vacation from assorted ethical dilemmas. Like, Could I look Chuck Zanussi in the eye tomorrow, knowing full well that he was, comp anywise a condemned man-and that I would step over his corpse to take his job? And should I really keep silent on this entire matter with Lizzie-especially after the little stunt that Kreplin pulled tonight? Then again, might Kreplin now reconsider my promotion after I wangled out of his little Christmas festivities with the two hookers? And, of course, if Phil Sirio’s strong-arm tactics with Ted Peterson ever became known, not only would I be permanently unemployable, but the Manhattan D.A. would probably be making my acquaintance….

My eyes jumped open again. And for the next hour, I lay rigid with dread; a severe case of the middle-of-the-night willies. Only unlike the usual free-floating, four-in-the-morning fears, these were tangible, substantive, genuinely dangerous.

Eventually I succumbed to the inevitable and quietly snuck out of bed. Collapsing onto the deep white sofa in the living room, I stared out at the dim flicker of the sleeping city. Make the call, Phil. Five hours from now I’d utter that phrase. And then … ? No doubt we’d probably get away with it. Peterson would be so scared of exposure, he’d capitulate and authorize the multipage insert. My ass would be saved. Come the second of January I’d be the new publisher of CompuWorld, and rolling in the dough. End of story.

Except, of course, there’d be plenty more nights like this one-when I’d wake at three and wonder, Do you ever really get away with anything? Can you be involved in a moral car crash and actually walk away unscathed? Or will some little voice creep up on you at vulnerable moments like this one, and whisper, There is no free lunch…. There is no zip less fuck….

My goddamn father Mr. F.thiral Someone who rammer! home again and again, his central credo of life: You always pay a price when you make a wrong call. But, sometimes, the wrong call is the only call, isn’t it? Especially in a situation where there is no way out-except, of course, to fall graciously on your sword … and, in the process, blow the defining promotion of your career.

Ted Major Asshole Peterson. Probably sound asleep right now at home in Connecticut, unaware of the fact that his flippant decision to cancel one lousy ad had put careers on the line. Typical amoral yuppie. Fucks around in business, fucks around on his wife. Faithful to no one but his own penny-ante ambition. I remember that sales event in Grand Cayman-how the day before Ted had attacked Joan, he was at the bar of the Hyatt, showing off pictures of his new house in Connecticut. Right on the water in a town called Old Greenwich. $1.4 million worth of house, he had insisted on informing me. Big deck overlooking the Sound. Five minutes by car to the train station. Forty-five minutes to Grand Central. Great schools. And the only nonwhite face you ever saw belonged to domestic help.

Old Greenwich, Connecticut. You probably had to be called Brad or Chip or Ames or Edward Arlington Peterson, Jr.” to live there.

Old Greenwich, Connecticut. Forty-five minutes by train. An hour by car. Probably less at this time of night.

I picked up the phone. I punched in the number for directory assistance for the Old Greenwich area code. The operator informed me that there were two listings under the name of E. Peterson in the area.

“It’s the E. Peterson with the waterfront-sounding address,” I said.

“You mean, Shore Road?”

“The very one. Number forty-four, isn’t it?”

“Ninety-six Shore Road. Please wait for your number….”

Having finagled Peterson’s address, I now turned on my computer, went on-line, connected myself to the Yahoo search engine, and asked them to find a map of Old Greenwich, Connecticut. Within ten seconds, a prompt appeared on the screen, asking for the exact address in Old Greenwich. I tvoed 96 Shore Road, hit

“Search,” and … bingo: I downloaded a fully detailed map of Peterson’s section of Old Greenwich.

As I printed out the map, I reached for the phone again and called Avis Rent-A-Car. Was there a twenty-four-hour agency in Manhattan? Forty-third between Second and Third? Perfect. And did they have a car they could rent me tonight? A Chevy Cutlass? That’ll work. I glanced at my watch. 3:43. I told them I’d be there to pick it up at

4:30.

I showered, I shaved. I put on a suit and tie. I made myself a fast mug of instant coffee, popped five Raw Energy vitamins, and left Lizzie a note:

Sweetheart:

Couldn’t sleep. And I need to make an early morning business trip to Connecticut. Call me when you get up, and I’ll explain all.

You’re the best… I grabbed the map of Old Greenwich. I tossed my overcoat over my arm. I let myself out of the apartment as quietly as possible. I hailed a cab on the street and was at the Avis office within ten minutes. By 5:00 A.M.” I was cruising north on the FDR Drive, veering right onto the Triboro Bridge, then following the signs for 1-95 North to Connecticut.

I had decided to brave Peterson. Face-to-face, on his doorstep. It was the only way to force his hand. I was going to appeal to his decency-and sell him on the idea of doing the right thing. But if he refused, if he told me to drop dead, then I’d bring out the tactical nuclear weapons. I’d let Phil make that call.

I reached Old Greenwich by 5:50. Using the map, I easily found my way to Shore Road. It was still dark and I had to drive slowly down the narrow two-lane road, squinting at house numbers on mailboxes. Chez Peterson was located at the end of a long driveway. It was even more impressive than the photos Ted had shown me-a rambling Cape Codder on about a quarter acre of land Peterson wasn’t lying when he said it fronted the Sound; the house was equipped with a wraparound deck that jutted out over the water

TIE JOB lOt and even had its own boat dock. I now knew why it came with a $ 1.4 million price tag.

I cut my headlights and pulled into the driveway, parking right behind Ted’s BMW and a Ford Explorer earmarked for the wife and kids. It was cold outside-around ten degrees Fahrenheit, according to the temperature gauge in the Chevy-so I kept the engine running. I wished to hell I had grabbed a newspaper and a cup of coffee en route. Now all I could do was play WINS 1010 and hope to hell that Ted wasn’t a late riser. I tilted back the driver’s seat, cranked up the heat (my toes were beginning to go numb), and tried to fight off a surge of fatigue by concentrating on the news.

“WINS ten-ten. All news, all the time. You give us twenty minutes, we’ll give you the world.”

I settled back into my seat and felt another ripple of exhaustion drift across my brain.

“WINS news time…”

Suddenly there was a sharp rapping sound-metal hitting glass. I blinked and found myself squinting into bright winter sunlight. is now seven-ten A.M.

Damn. Damn. Damn. Jolted awake, I found myself staring at a pert-nosed woman in her early thirties, dressed in a black down parka and white turtleneck, a black hair band holding her shiny blonde hair in place. Behind her stood two well-groomed children. They were both carrying school bags and looking bewildered as their mommy used her wedding ring to tap against the window of a car they’d never seen before-containing a sleeping man they’d also never seen before-which was now blocking their driveway.

“Sir, sir, SIR,” shouted the woman. I jumped out of the car, the blast of cold air snapping me into instant alertness.

“Sorry. Really sorry,” I said, rubbing my eyes.

“Fell asleep…”

She took a step back from me in alarm.

“You’ve been asleep in our driveway all night?”

“No, just over an hour. Does Ted Peterson live here?”

“I’m his wife, Meg.”

“Good to meet you, Meg. I’m-” “Ned Allen?” said a shocked voice.

I looked up. There was Ted at the front door-in his best charcoal gray Brooks Brothers overcoat and his shined wins-tins and his

102 DOOGUS IEIREDT

black Coach briefcase and his unlined patrician face now taut with unease. He came walking slowly toward me.

“Well, this is a surprise,” he said carefully as he shook my hand. Though he was understandably astounded to find me in his driveway at 7:10 A.M.” he was also shrewdly maintaining a polite front until he knew why I was there. The guy was a consummate actor.

“Morning, Ted,” I said, trying to remain very steady, very calm.

“Sorry to drop in like this, but-” “I know, I know,” he said, now all friendly.

“You’re on a tight deadline, and you couldn’t get through to me at the office yesterday about that multipage insert, right?”

“Absolutely right,” I said, amazed by his affable tone.

“And I really hate landing on your doorstep like this, but we do have a small crisis on our hands.”

“I totally understand,” he said, giving my shoulder a reassuring tap.

“Hey, sorry, I haven’t introduced you to my wife. Meg, this is Ned Allen from CompuWorld…”

“We’ve already met,” Meg Peterson said.

“And my kids, Will and Sarah.”

“Hi, guys,” I said, but they both continued to regard me with suspicion.

“Meg, darling,” Peterson said, “if you wouldn’t mind … I just need to do three minutes of fast business with Ned….”

“You know Sarah’s got to be at school by seven forty-five this morning.” Then, turning to me, she said, “It’s her class field trip to Mystic Seaport today.”

“Three minutes, tops,” Ted assured her.

“No longer, please,” Meg said, then herded the children back into the house. Ted motioned for me to follow him to the end of the driveway. Once we were safely away from the house, he turned toward me. His smile had vanished.

“You low-life piece of shit… ,” he hissed.

“Ted, hear me out… ,” I whispered back.

“How dare you pull a stunt like this…”

“I am only here because Ivan Dolinsky is going to be fired at noon today.”

“That’s not my problem. Now fuck off.”

“That’s your problem Ted because you agreed to that ad….”

“I agreed to shit. The deal was never finalized, and then we decided to switch marketing strategy for April. End of story.”

“Ivan assures me you gave him your word….”

“Ivan’s a flake, a loser. He’d say anything to save his sorry ass.”

“I’ve worked with the guy for four years. He’s totally straight when it comes to business.”

“The fact remains: There’s no signed contract, so there’s no deal. Case closed. Now you have one minute to clear out of my driveway.”

“He’ll lose his job because of this.”

“Shit happens.”

“You know what the guy has been through. And he really will go under if he’s fired. So be a good guy. Approve the deal. It won’t break the bank. It’s Christmas, for God’s sake.”

“This conversation’s finished,” he said, and started walking back toward his house.

That’s when I decided it was time to play my ace. Glancing up at his home, I shouted after him, “You know, it really is quite a piece of property, Ted. Even nicer than those photos you showed me and Phil Sirio at Grand Cayman last year.”

He froze. After a moment, he turned back toward me. His eyes were filled with apprehension.

“Just get out of here,” he said quietly.

As he marched toward his front door, I was about to shout Joan Glaston sends her regards. But I stopped myself and instead said:

“Noon today, Peterson.”

Jumping into the Chevy, I slammed it into reverse and got the hell out of there.

Five minutes down the road my hands were shaking so hard I had to pull off. Had I just committed blackmail? Peterson certainly got a shock when I dropped that Phil Sirio/Grand Cayman mention. -. but still, I hadn’t made that blatant reference to the Joan Glaston business. So, though I did feel a little sleazy, I really couldn’t be accused of coercion, could I?

But, given his shithead reaction to my appeal, I really didn’t know if Peterson would budge on the Ivan issue. Which meant that, if I wanted to save my ass, I might still have to resort to blackmail before noon that day.

I got back on the road and pointed myself in the direction of 1-95 South. When I was safely on the highway, my cellphone rang and I jumped. I hit the answer button.

“This had better be good,” Lizzie said, “or I might not talk to you for a while.”

I gave her a blow-by-blow account of the scene in Peterson’s driveway, but didn’t mention the Grand Cayman business. When I finished, she whistled.

“You are insane,” she said.

“This is true. And probably out of a job.”

“You don’t know that.”

“He’s a ruthless operator. And I’m worried I might have overplayed my hand.”

“Sounds like all you did was ask him to do the honorable-” “The asshole has no honor.”

“But the fact is, you do. And that’s what counts.”

If only you knew about your honorable husband’s blackmail plans, Lizzie.