The Job (15 page)

“Listen,” she said, “I’ve got an eight o’clock breakfast meeting, so I better run. Are we still on for dinner tonight?”

“Definitely. Only, with me being out of a job, you’re probably going to have to pick up the tab.”

“Done deal. How was the evening with this Kreplin guy?”

It wasn’t the moment to get into what had gone on last night. Because as much as I wanted to tell her, I kept hearing Kreplin’s voice in my head, promising me a fatal dose of bad karma if word of my promotion leaked out before the second of January. And as to saying anything about that stage-managed encounter with the two hookers … to quote Phil Sirio: Fugedaboudit.

“It was just a getting-to-know-you thing.”

“A kind of into-the-night getting-to-know-you thing.”

“Tell me about it. The guy likes to booze. Late.”

“As long as that’s all he likes to do late.”

Why do women always have this instinctual ability to sniff out the aroma of near or actual infidelity? Even when they’re just talking to you on the phone?

“Put it this way,” I said, “that’s all I like to do late.”

“filarl to hfar it “

“Unless you’re around, of course.”

“Y’know, sometimes I think you have a Ph.D. in romantic bullshit….”

“You’ve finally worked that one out.”

“Later, toots. Keep your nerve. And call me as soon as you have some news from GBS.”

“I promise,” I said.

Thanks to the maniacal rush-hour traffic, it took almost two hours to reach Manhattan. My cellphone was on the seat next to me. It didn’t ring once. At nine I called the office to say I’d be late, and to check my messages. No word from Ted Peterson. By the time I dropped the car off at Avis and grabbed a taxi downtown, it was close to ten. Just as the cab was pulling up to my office, the phone went off. My hands were trembling as I answered it. It was Phil Sirio.

“How ya doin’, boss?” he asked.

“I now know what those kamikaze pilots must have felt like when they were told it was their turn to fly a plane.”

“So you made the decision on Peterson?”

“Not yet.”

“Just say the word and I’ll pick up the phone.”

I glanced again at my watch.

“Give me two hours,” I said.

There was a slew of messages waiting for me on my desk. But none from GBS. I told Lily to interrupt any and all calls for Ted Peterson.

“Is Mr. Zanussi around this morning?” I asked.

“He’s at a meeting-and won’t be back till after lunch,” Lily said.

Thank God for that. It might give me an extra hour or two to play with. Think. Think. Think. I powered up my computer and once again reviewed our client list, in the vain hope that I had overlooked someone-anyone-who could cough up a major spread by tomorrow. No possibilities. Though I knew this was a total long shot, I tracked down CompuWorld’s regional sales managers in Seattle, Chicago, Houston, and Silicon Valley, wondering if they might have a spare multipage insert going. Coast to coast, they all gave me the answer I was expecting:

“Are you nuts?” Bob Brubaker-my counterpart in Palo Alto and probably the most competitive guy in our company-actually turned nasty.

“You pull a stunt like this the day after we’re taken over … and then you expect me to save your ass?”

“It’s not a ‘stunt,” Bob. We were badly burned by a client.”

“And this ‘letdown’ is going to impact all of us. To Kiang-Sanderling, six blank pages in the April issue will make the entire national sales force look like a bunch of born losers.”

“Look, I’m the fall guy here. Okay? It’s me they’ll be bumping off, not you.”

“I promise you, pal, if I go down with you…”

“Bob, please, I know this is a difficult time for everyone.”

“I’ve got two alimonies and two kids in college. So don’t give me this ‘calm down’ shit….”

“They’re not going to fire you because of my screw up.”

“Yeah? Well, if they do, you’re dead. Understand me, Allen? Dead.”

I hung up. Loudly. Just what I needed this morning. A death threat. Psychotic sonofabitch. But I was stupid to have called him. Brubaker was Mr. Hair Trigger-one of those guys who was always two seconds away from detonation. And he was simply articulating what we were all feeling: pure, undistilled fear.

At 11:30, Ivan Dolinsky called. I was feeling so frayed that I told Lily to inform him I was in a meeting. If I spoke to him, I might have lost all control.

At 11:47, Chuck Zanussi called. Again I told Lily to say I was busy, but she came back on the line, informing me that Mr. Zanussi had stepped out of his meeting to make this call and was insistent we speak. I punched line one.

“Well?” said Chuck.

“We’re nearly there,” I said.

“Horseshit.”

“I’m expecting a call from Peterson any moment….”

“You’ve got thirteen minutes.”

“It might be after lunch….”

“Thirteen minutes, Ned.”

“For Christ’s sake, Chuckle-don’t turn this into some death row scene. Will the governor call with a reprieve before they give him the juice

.. .”

“For the next thirteen minutes, I’m still your boss. So I’ll do whatever I like.”

“Please, Chuckie, I’m begging here, just a little more time …”

“Request denied,” he said. And the line went dead.

Now I knew what free fall was all about.

“Mr. Sirio on line three …”

I looked at my watch. 11:53.1 grabbed the receiver.

“So, what gives?” Phil asked.

“Still no word from Peterson.”

“Nearly high noon, boss.”

“I am very aware of this.”

“So what’s it gonna be?”

My eyes were closed tight, my pulse sprinting. I replayed the scene in Peterson’s driveway. On the verge of blackmail, I’d slammed on the brakes. Could I really go through with it now? Choose, dammit. Choose.

“Sorry, Phil. No sale.”

He let out a sigh.

“Your funeral.”

“In about six minutes’ time.”

“Can I say something here?”

“Shoot.”

“You never get anywhere in life being honorable with an asshole.”

“Sounds like a good epitaph for me. Thanks anyway, Phil.”

“Good luck, boss.”

Eleven-fifty-five. So that was that. Game. Set. Match. I leaned back in my office chair. Numb. I had just thrown it all away. Four long years scaling the corporate ladder. All the persuading, the schmoozing, the need to close. You expect it to lead somewhere. You actually get in sight of that place. Ten feet from the summit. And then your footing slips, the ground gives way, and… bye-bye.

You play the game. You think you know the rules. But then, one day, you wake up and discover it’s the game that plays you.

There was a frantic knock on my door. It flew open and Debbie 3uarez came storming in.

“Mr. Allen. I cot-”

108 DODGLAS KENNEDY

“Debbie,” I said, holding up my hand, “not now, huh?”

“But I’ve got to show you-” “No offense, but I’ve just lost my job and-” “Will you puh-leeze lemme tell you-” “I’m not your boss anymore. Go bother Chuck Zanussi with-” She slammed her fist down on my desk-an action so startling that I was momentarily speechless.

“Got your attention now?” she asked. I nodded.

“Then read this.”

She tossed a piece of paper in front of me.

“It just came in by fax. Lily asked me to give it to you.”

I stared down at the paper. I saw the letterhead. It contained three letters: GBS. And below this:

Mr. Edward Allen Regional Manager, Northeast Sales CompuWorld Inc.

Getz-Braun Publications via facsimile Dear Mr. Allen:

I am pleased to inform you that GBS will be proceeding with the multipage insert for their Minerva computer in the April issue of your magazine.

Please have your production department contact our art department to arrange immediate copy transfer.

Sincerely yours, Ted Peterson I read it once. It didn’t sink in. I read it twice. I still wasn’t entirely convinced. I was reading it a third time when Debbie Suarez said, “Whadja do, Mr. Allen? Make him an offer he couldn’t refuse?”

As I looked up at her, my eyes were brimming. She noticed, and saueezed my arm.

“You closed, Mr. Allen,” she said.

“You closed.”

The phone suddenly detonated again.

“Mr. Zanussi on line one …”

“Lily,” I said, “ask him to give you a fax number for wherever he is right now.”

“He’s adamant that he talk-” “Tell him I want to talk to him, too. But only after he looks at a document you’re going to fax him. Debbie’s bringing it to reception right now.”

I hung up and turned to Debbie.

“Chuck’s going to fire me in two minutes if he doesn’t see that fax-so

.. .”

“I’m not walking, I’m running.”

I dialed Ted Peterson’s office. His secretary recognized my voice immediately.

“Mr. Allen,” she said, sounding as glacial as ever, “Mr. Peterson is in a meeting.”

“Sure he is. And I’m the ghost of Elvis. Look-put me through. I just want to say a fast thanks…”

She put me on hold. After a moment, he came on the line.

“Peterson here.”

“Ted, I can’t thank you enough. And I just wanted to say how grateful I was, and hope there are no hard feelings….”

“Cut to the chase, Allen. Where’s this going? Or should I say, what are your terms?”

“My terms? You’ve met my terms. You honored the deal with Ivan..

..”

“Let’s drop the coy crap, okay? You want to play, let’s play. I’m sure we can figure out a way to work together on this, and keep everyone happy.” I was suddenly lost.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ted.”

“Yeah, right. Well, I guess it was only a matter of time….”

“A matter of time before what? You really have me baffled here, Ted.”

There was a long silence. When Peterson spoke again, his voice had lost its acrimony.

“Allen, what exactly is it you know?”

“Only what I heard.”

“Which is what?”

I chose my words with care.

“Just that you got into some rough stuff with Joan Glaston.”

There was another long silence.

“That’s it?” he asked.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Jesus Christ,” he suddenly shouted.

“You cheap, sneaky little shit. That cock tease was more than happy to make a deal-so don’t even think you can milk me for more, you bush league motherfucker.”

Then the line went dead.

I frantically redialed Peterson’s number. His secretary cut me off before I could finish saying my name.

“I’m glad you called, Mr. Allen. Mr. Peterson asked me to convey a message if you did call back.”

“Which is?”

“He wanted to inform you that, though he has authorized the current insert, he will never do business with you again. Nor will he entertain any approaches from your associates. GBS’s association with CompuWorld is finished.”

“Hang on, now…”

“There is nothing else to say, Mr. Allen. Except good-bye.”

She hung up. And I thought, Phil was right. You never get anywhere in life being honorable with an asshole. Especially a dangerous asshole-with something to hide.

“He was probably bluffing,” Lizzie said.

“The guy is no bluffer,” I said.

“He’s into power, right?”

“Thrives on it. Needs it-like a junkie needs crack.”

“Well, this is just Ted Peterson’s way of letting you know who, in his mind, has the bigger dick.”

“If the magazine loses the entire GBS account, and I’m held responsible

.. .”

“You’re not going to lose GBS. You’re an essential outlet for their product. They need you as much as-” “He’s a vindictive sonofabitch, Lizzie.”

“I promise you, after Christmas, once he’s cooled down a bit, he’s going to have no choice but to do business with you again. I mean, if he does boycott CompuWorld, his superiors at GBS will eventually begin to notice that they’re not advertising in your magazine. And when they bring it up, what’s he going to say?

“Oh, I reneged on a contract with CompuWorld, so that nasty Ned Allen showed up on my doorstep and embarrassed me into doing the deal. But I got him back by deciding that we should stop advertising in his magazine.” Even Peterson knows that if he gives them a story like that, GBS will ship him back to kindergarten.”

She took my hand in hers.

“So stop worrying about the schmuck.”

Had Lizzie known about the Joan Glaston business-and the positively peculiar way Peterson behaved during our last phone call-she might have been very worried. But I chose not to tell her that part of the story, because I knew she would have been appalled to learn that I had even considered blackmail. But that still didn’t lessen my own spiraling anxiety-not just about losing GBS, but about the way Peterson hung up on me. He was definitely hiding something. I mean, the guy actually seemed relieved to confirm that I knew about the Joan Glaston incident. So there had to be something else going on here. Something a lot dirtier. And I sensed that the bastard wasn’t going to let the whole thing drop. He had regained the advantage, and would now make me pay a ferocious price for tangling with him.

“You forced him to do the right thing,” Lizzie said, raising her glass to me.

“You won. Be happy. Drink another martini.”

“Good idea,” I said, raising my hand for the waiter. We were sitting in Circo’s, an absurdly extravagant nouveau Italian restaurant on West Fifty-fifth. It was a real expense account place-and we never walked out of there for less than a hundred and fifty bucks. But the food was terrific and the drinks were served in the cocktail-bar equivalent of a fire bucket. Which was fine by me. Especially tonight. Because, after the events of the last sleepless thirty-six hours, all I wanted to do was get drunk. Very drunk.

“At least Chuck Zanussi must have been pleased with the news,” Lizzie said.

“Chuck Zanussi showed his true colors today… .”

“Always happens when people are under pressure. He was scared, so you became his convenient fall guy.”

“He was out for blood.”

Not just my blood, but Ivan Dolinsky’s. Immediately after he had received the letter from GBS, he called my office.