The Job (11 page)

“Fugedaboudit, Ned. Sounds like it’s some kind of screwed-up day there.”

Good old Phil. Mr. Laconic. And a rock-solid good guy. Of all my sales team, Phil was, without question, the easiest to deal with. Early forties, unapologetically fleshy, Queens born and bred, still a resident of the ‘hood (Ozone Park, to be exact), a snappy dresser who liked mother-of-pearl-gray double-breasted suits, and had zero tolerance for bullshit. Ever since Ivan Dolinsky’s eclipse, Phil had been our number-one man. I’d never seen a smoother operator in my life. All the guy had to do was pick up a phone, and he closed. His client list was watertight-no sudden jumping ship to the opposition (I often wondered if it was Phil’s “Mr. Big” demeanor that kept his customers in line). And, unlike my other guys in the field, he never groaned, wept, or wailed about business. He got on with the job.

“So you heard the news?” I asked.

“Yeah. I heard. Germans. They gonna work with us?”

“That’s what they say.”

“Then that’s okay. I heard about the bonus biz as well. Not exactly my idea of a good time.”

“Nor mine.”

“They gonna deliver the goods?”

“They’ve given me assurances…”

“Then that’s okay, too.”

I loved this guy. No angst. No crap.

“Listen, Phil. I’ve got to ask you a favor.”

“Tell me.”

So I explained about the GBS crisis-and how we were now looking at six blank pages in the April issue.

“That pig fucker Peterson pulled this stunt?” Phil asked.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Guys like that, I wanna castrate ‘em with a chain saw. You want me to talk to him?”

“He’s not taking any phone calls. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“Yeah, but Peterson would take my call.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I know stuff.”

“What sort of stuff?”

“Stuff about Peterson.”

“Such as … ?”

“Remember last year’s winter sales event at Grand Cayman? Well, the final night we’re there, I’m leaving the hotel, thinking about taking a little stroll down the beach, when all of a sudden Joan Glaston comes tearing down the street, looking spooked as shit, totally shook up. You know Joan, don’t you?”

“Telesales Chicago?”

“Yeah, that’s her. Hell of a sharp operator, and great legs. Anyway, she runs right into me outside the hotel, hysterical. I lead her inside, bring her to a quiet table in the bar, feed her a whiskey, calm her down a little. Turns out she had been at this GBS reception down the beach at the Grand Hyatt, and she got talking to Peterson. When she decided to leave, Ted, being such a nice guy, offered to escort her back to her hotel. Halfway there, they stopped to look at the water. Next thing Joan knew, Peterson was all over her. But when she told Mr. Family Values to back off, instead of taking the hint, Peterson pulled her down onto the sand and tried to spread her legs.

“That’s when Joan caught him between his legs with her knee, and managed to hightail it outta there-which is when she ran into me.”

“Jesus Christ,” I said.

“Did she report him to the police?”

“I wanted to march her down to the nearest precinct-but she was scared about Peterson inventing some bullshit story for the cops. So I said, “Okay, to hell with the Cayman cops. Go directly to his superiors at GBS, tell them exactly what happened, and force them to sack the sick fuck.” But again, she got all frightened about how, even if GBS believed her, they would never deal with her again. And since she was dependent on GBS-related products for fifty percent of her monthly quota, she was terrified of blowing her relationship with the company.

“Anyway, I told her not to be intimidated by Peterson or by GBS. She said she’d sleep on it, give it all some thought. The next morning, I’m checking in at the airport, and who should I find standing behind me but Mr. Romantic himself. I say “How ya doin”, Ted?” and he starts imitating my accent. Preppy sonofabitch thinks he’s a comedian. Real hysterical stuff like Tm doin’ good, Philie. How’s the family-and I mean that with a capital F.”

“Now I’ve only met this clown maybe once or twice in my life-and I do not like being the object of fun. So I lean over and whisper into his ear, “At least I wasn’t trying to rape someone on the beach last night. The way I hear, the only way Joan could stop you was by kicking a field goal below your belt. Man, I’d love to see the look on your wife’s face when she checks out your bruised equipment.”

“Well, the blood drained so fast from Peterson’s face, it looked like he’d been bitten by Count Dracula.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“Bastard was too stunned to speak. Then, around two days later, I got a call from Joan. She was back in Chicago, and wanted to thank me for giving her a shoulder to cry on. But no, she wasn’t going to be pressing charges against Peterson. Because the day after she got home from Grand Cayman, she got a call from one of Peterson’s underlings, saving how his boss so liked meeting her in Grand Cayman he wanted to offer her a GBS full-pager for the next six months. Joan did her math, worked out the commission, and said yes … even though she knew she was taking the easy way out. But at least the sonofabitch knew that she now had something on him.”

“I don’t believe this,” I said.

“Hang on-it gets better. Around an hour after I finish talking with Joan, I get a call from some GBS sales rep out in Queens, saying the company wants me to have one of their new top-of-the-line laptops. The 804FE. Street price: Fifty-three hundred.”

I was speechless. GBS was such a conservative, play-it-by-the-book, now-wash-your-hands organization. If they knew one of their executives had tried to buy silence (after committing a sexual assault), they’d fire him in a heartbeat.

“You didn’t take it, did you?” I said.

“Ned, Ned-you think I was born stupid?

“Course I didn’t take it-though, I gotta tell ya, I was tempted for about a minute, ‘cause that is one sexy laptop. But what I did do is this: I told the rep guy to personally thank Mr. Peterson for his generous offer, and to inform him that he was in my thoughts … all the time.”

“Jesus,” I said.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Lord’s only son. So there you go. Ted Peterson now kind of owes me a favor. I pick up the phone. He does me the favor. You get your six-page multipage insert for April. Ivan gets to close this sucker. We all walk away happy.”

I shut my eyes. I could feel my hands turn clammy-that same old sticky dampness that always hit whenever I became nervous. And I was really nervous now. Because… Oh God, how easy this would be. All I had to do was tell Phil, “Make the call” and the problem would be solved.

But. But. But. Once you’ve sanctioned a call like that, what next? A fiddle here, a fiddle there, wink-wink, nudge-nudge, I’m lookin’ the other way, pal. And, of course, Phil would have something on me now. Not, of course, that Phil would ever dream of using that “something.” Unless he needed to. Information is power, after all.

“Ned, you still there?” Phil asked.

“I’m here.”

“So you want me to make the call?”

Another long silence. There is no thrill in doing the right thing, is there? Especially since there is something so enticing about the illicit, the deceitful. It’s there in all of us, the need to toy with danger. The problem is, doing the wrong thing rarely has an escape clause. And you have to live with the consequences.

“I really appreciate your offer, Phil,” I said.

“And though it would solve a hell of a lot of problems…”

“I hear ya, pal.”

“I just can’t work that way.”

“You sure you’re not a Catholic?”

I laughed.

“Just a guy from Maine.”

“So what are you gonna do about the six pages?”

“Any chance you could sweet-talk a client or two of yours into buying some additional space, pronto?”

“When’s the copy deadline?”

“First thing Friday morning.”

“How ‘bout I say a novena to Our Lady of Fatima while I’m at it?”

“You think it’s gonna be that impossible?”

“Unless I offer the space at bargain-basement rates.”

“Do it,” I said.

“We’ll deal with the bottom line later.”

“Okay, boss. I’ll see what I can cook up.”

After Phil hung up, I sat at my desk, drumming my fingers on the table, watching the dancing lights on my telephone. That was close. So close. Make that call. Three words. Say them and your hands are permanently dirty. Draw the line at saying them and you’re an ethical jerk, still facing a major business crisis. Moral dilemmas are never black and white. They’re always an ugly shade of gray.

I speed-dialed Dave Maduro’s number. He did not sound happy.

“I must have left you four messages,” he said.

“Thanks for making me feel like the lowest asshole on the totem pole.”

“Dave, sorry, all hell’s been breaking loose this morning. But look-” “No fancy bullshit, Ned. Just some straight talk: Do I still have a job?”

It was the question each of my outside sales guys asked first. And I spent most of the morning calming them down, stroking their egos, giving them the usual reassuring spiel, and begging them to somehow immediately cough up an extra page’s worth of advertising. As planned, I also put the word out to the Telesales team that I needed some major space filled by the day after tomorrow. This was a high-risk strategy, insofar as news was bound to start leaking around the company that Northeast sales had a little “empty space crisis” on their hands. But I had no other option. There was no doubt that Chuck would hear about Ivan’s disaster with GBS-but I was gambling on the fact that he was so preoccupied with the takeover that word of the emergency wouldn’t reach him for at least thirty-six hours, by which time, Allah willing, the pages would be filled. I just hoped to God that Ivan closed something with NMI. Otherwise, Chuck really was going to demand his head this time.

The day evaporated around me. As soon as I finished soothing my sales guys, I had to deal with the eighteen or so calls from all our major advertisers. I treated them all to the same song and dance:

We’re now even bigger and better thanks to our new owners, Kiang-Sanderling. And, let’s face it, those Germans aren’t in the habit of backing losers. Just watch how we increase our market share in the next quarter. Computer America now knows its days as number two are numbered. Because it’s Kiang-Sanderling s avowed battle plan to blow them out of the water. And to inaugurate their new ownership, they want me to offer you a six-page multipage insert in our April issue at twenty-five percent off the usual rate. Now demand is so heavy for this space that we’ve set a deadline of five P.M. today..

..

Of course, there were no takers. Not that I expected anyone to bite. The big guns in the computer business always have their advertising strategy mapped out months beforehand-so the odds of someone agreeing to a last-minute multipage insert (and supplying us with the copy in less than thirty-six hours) were up there with my chances of flying on the NASA space shuttle next month.

Still, it was worth a shot. Anything right now was worth a shot.

By five I’d finished with the last name on my call list, and made my eighth (and, I decided, final) call to Ted Peterson’s office. I hadn’t eaten all day, hadn’t moved from my desk, and was borderline brain-dead. Then Debbie popped her head in my office and said that the combined Telesales force had struck out on the last-minute advertising front.

“Everyone I call, they keep asking, “Ya still in business?” So, like, it was kinda hard convincing them to do a last-minute eighth-of-a-pager. And, I’ve gotta tell ya this, Hildy and the others are worried that we’re comin’ across kinda desperate, scrambling for all this last-minute ad space. I mean, we’re already working on May ..

.”

“I hear ya, Debbie.”

“Don’t get me wrong, we’re bustin’ ass here. Especially ‘cause we all know Mr. Dolinsky’s job is on the line.”

Unbelievable. My office must be bugged.

“So whatcha want us to do, Mr. Allen?”

I sighed. Loudly.

“Concentrate on the May issue. I’m sure one of the outside sales guys will come through.”

But that didn’t happen. Ten minutes later, as I was returning with my twelfth cup of coffee of the afternoon, the lights on my desk phone began to blaze again. First Dave Maduro, then Doug Bluehorn, followed by Phil Sirio. And they all had the same answer for me: None of their clients was in a position to commit to more space on such short notice.

“I don’t have to tell you the name of the problem here,” Phil Sirio said.

“It’s called Christmas. Everyone’s budget is shot to shit and nobody’s interested in complicating their life right now. Believe me, I pulled every hustle I could think of. No dice.”

“Thanks anyway for trying, Phil.”

“So how you gonna solve this?”

“Don’t know what I can do-except ritually disembowel myself in front of the Germans.”

“Boss, let me call Ted Peterson.”

“It’s blackmail.”

“Get outta here. It’s persuasion, nothing more. Like, the guy told Ivan he was gonna close the deal. All I’m gonna do is remind him that a verbal contract is worth the paper it’s written on.”

I leaned my head against my hand. Finally I said:

“I’ll sleep on it.”

Six-ten. I glanced at my fingernails. For the first time in about ten years, they were bitten to the quick. Just like Ivan’s. Another day like this one and I’d start considering the medicinal benefits of cigarettes.

Another phone light was blinking. What next? I reluctantly punched it.

“Where the hell have you been?”

It was Lizzie. A very agitated Lizzie-and for good reason, as I hadn’t returned one of the half dozen messages she’d left today.

“Lizzie, hon, sorry, sorry, I can’t tell you what it’s been like-” “What were you thinking? You had me so worried. I mean, I walk into the office this morning, and everyone’s running up to me, saying that Kiang-Sanderling just bought Getz-Braun. And then, when I didn’t hear from you …”

“Look, it’s been crisis a-go-go around here. I didn’t have a minute..

.”

“Everyone has a minute,” she said, echoing my sarcastic exchange with Ted Peterson’s secretary hours earlier.