The Job (16 page)

“This isn’t some kind of hoax you dreamed up?” he asked.

“Thanks for the warm words of congratulations, Chuck,” I said.

“I’m just asking.”

“No, it’s totally legit. You don’t believe me, get on the horn and call Peterson.”

“How the hell did you pull it off?”

“I appealed to his basic Christian morality.”

“That guy’s got about as much Christian morality as Colonel Gadhafi.”

“At least he doesn’t tell his subordinates that if a deal isn’t closed in thirteen minutes, they’re history.”

“You know why I had to pressure you like that….”

“To save your own ass.” (And, I could have added, because Kreplin told you to.) “Ned-i really wouldn’t get into this if I were you. And lose the aggressive tone while you’re at it. You cut it fine, but you closed. Congrats. Okay?”

“So I still have a job here?”

“For Christ’s sake, of course you do. Forget a day of bad shit between us. You’re still my best guy.”

And I’m about to plunge a knife in your back.

“Listen,” I said, “since we pulled off the GBS deal, am I correct in assuming Ivan Dolinsky can keep his job?”

“What I said yesterday still stands: He’s out.”

“Chuck, that’s simply not fair.”

“Fair, shmair. You pulled this one out of the hat, not Ivan. You’ve been carrying him for a year. Face facts: He’s lost it, Ned. And, given our new circumstances, and the way Kiang-Sanderling is going to be monitoring us like we’re in the cardiac ward, we just can’t afford excess baggage….”

“Give him one more shot.”

“He almost cost us our jobs, Ned. The answer is no. And I’m not budging on this one. But look, I’ll be pretty generous when it comes to his severance package. Six months’ pay, and I’ll keep him on medical for twelve months. He can’t ask for more than that.”

“Tell you what,” I said.

“I know he’s going out to Michigan to see some family over Christmas. The guy’s still so fragile that if we sack him before the holidays, he’ll totally go under. So let’s do it when he gets back, on January fifth.”

“You’re back from vacation on the second. Do it then.”

“Not on my first day back, Chuck. I mean, I don’t exactly want to kick off the New Year by telling someone they’re toast. Monday, January fifth-Ivan goes. Okay?”

Chuck grumbled a lot about how this three-week reprieve was going to cost the company money. So I tried a different tactic, Pointing out that it would be lousy for staff morale if Ivan was terminated before Christmas.

“They see Ivan get the bullet, all they’re gonna be thinking is, Who’s next? And that’s going to distract them from their work. Which is exactly what we don’t want-given that we need everyone to exceed their targets for the next couple of issues and impress the shit out of Kiang-Sanderling….”

“All right, all right,” Chuck said wearily.

“He goes on January fifth. And meanwhile, I want you to start scouting around for someone to fill his shoes. On the quiet, natch.”

Natch, Chuck-but here’s a hot off-the-record tip: You yourself might be interested in applying for the job…. Of course, I didn’t mention to Chuck anything about Peterson’s war whoop-or my fears that we might have permanently lost GBS. And when I recounted for Lizzie my conversation with Chuck, I also conveniently failed to elaborate on why I really fought to keep Ivan on staff until January 5.

I was on the verge of telling her the news many times, but my mind kept jumping back to a conversation I’d had with Klaus Kreplin earlier that day.

He called just after lunch. No greeting, no small talk, he didn’t even say hello. Just:

“Your father-in-law died in 1991.”

I worked hard at stifling a laugh. I failed.

“You think this is funny?”

“Yes, Klaus. I actually do.”

“Funny, no. Mildly entertaining, yes. And very imaginative.”

“I just had to get on home, Klaus. I was dead tired.”

“No, you were in a situation you didn’t like. And you found a way of removing yourself from that situation which caused no offense to anyone. A clever stratagem. This kind of resourceful lateral thinking I like. Just as I admire your fidelity to your wife-though, during my abbreviated experience of marriage, I personally reached the conclusion that faithfulness is a useless and thankless concept. Still, one must respect such virtue….”

“I’m not that virtuous, Klaus.”

“This I know-otherwise you would never have found a solution to the GBS problem.”

“I certainly didn’t do anything unethical to pet the ad back….”

“Of course you didn’t. I imagine you were simply… resourceful. My sincere congratulations.”

Sincere? Try smarmy.

“So, now that we do not have to terminate you, you are ready to assume the role of publisher on January second?”

I took a deep breath.

“I’m ready.”

“May I remind you once again that the appointment is conditional on your secrecy. Not a word to anyone.”

Jawohl, mein commandant. As the second round of martinis arrived, I decided I simply had to follow Kreplin’s orders. Telling Lizzie now, I convinced myself, wasn’t crucial. The situation at work was too delicate. Hell, it wasn’t as if I was keeping a life-or-death situation from her (bar the fact that I was betraying Chuck Zanussi). It was good news, after all. And there was nothing intrinsically wrong about putting good news on hold. Especially as it was only for a few weeks.

“Do you really think you’ll have to get rid of Ivan as soon as we’re back from vacation?” Lizzie asked.

I thought back to the call I made to Ivan sometime after lunch-how he started to sob when I told him that Peterson had capitulated. But as he rattled on, promising to be the company’s biggest earner next year, I found myself thinking, You better start delivering the goods, pal. Because if you pull another stunt like this one, I won’t be able to save you again.

“I’m hoping that the delay might work to Ivan’s advantage,” I told Lizzie.

“If he can score another couple of big deals between now and early January, I might just be able to win him a reprieve. But I really don’t want to think about that until January second….”

After the last thirty-six hours, I frankly didn’t want to think about anything to do with business, let alone the fact that I was trying to tap-dance my way through a moral minefield. I kept telling myself, As long as no confidences are blown, life will become considerably less complicated after the second of January. Chuck will go. You will pretend-to both him and Lizzie-that you knew nothing in advance about his demise and your sudden promotion. Ivan will keep his job. After some ass-kissing diplomacy (over a lunch at Le Cirque, perhavs) Peterson will come to his senses and resume advertising in the magazine. Kreplin will forget about the near loss of our biggest account.

And nobody will ever know the elaborate network of fibs, obfuscations, and near illegal behavior I had woven in order to save my butt.

As it turned out, life at CompuWorld did return to its normal semi-manic state rather quickly. And though we now had to put up with a steady stream of corporate visitors from our new head office in Hamburg (anal-retentive manager types who were dispatched across the Atlantic to teach us the Kiang-Sanderling way of “organizing efficient interoffice communications”), we all adapted quickly to the demands of our new owners. And they, in turn, never became heavy-handed in their dealings with us. Kreplin kept his word about the staff remaining intact. There was no blood on the floor, no heavy-handed flexing of Teutonic muscles, no sudden terminations. Kreplin and his cronies were perfect models of corporate efficiency and diplomacy. And on the Friday before Christmas-the day that the first installment of the bonus checks was handed out-they even threw an after-work cocktail party for the entire staff.

It was held in a large function room on the twenty-ninth floor of the Regal U.N. Plaza Hotel-and, in true Kreplin style, it was extravagantly catered. An endless supply of Moe’t et Chandon. Elaborate finger food (raw sirloin on pumpernickel, mini-sushi, quail egg tart lets and-this was quite a stylish touch-a gift of a Mont Blanc ballpoint pen for each of the eighty guests. Kreplin made a little speech, in which he actually sounded warm and human, welcoming us into the Kiang-Sanderling “family” and assuring us of his certainty that the Mont Blancs would be put to good use in the coming year, making the deals that would transform CompuWorld into the second biggest periodical in the American computer market.

Extended drunken cheering greeted that last comment, because it reinforced something we all wanted to believe: Kiang-Sanderling was behind us all the way.

“I don’t need a fancy pen,” Debbie Suarez complained when I ran into her at the bar after Kreplin’s speech.

“I just need all my bonus money.”

“So do we all, Debbie,” I said, reflecting that my $25,000 bridge loan would now not be paid off until the beginning of February. At least I had been able to solve one of Debbie’s money problems a few days earlier, when, as promised, I had a little conversation with the bursar at Faber Academy. After much wheeling and dealing, and playing of the liberal compassion card, I finally got this fine, upstanding Quaker to reluctantly agree to defer half of Raul’s tuition until the end of January.

“I am, of course, sympathetic to Ms. Suarez’s situation,” the bursar said, “and to the fact that she is a single parent who is also looking after her elderly mother. But we still must have some assurance ..

.”

I said, “Look, our new owners, Kiang-Sanderling, are the fourth-biggest publishing conglomerate on the planet….”

“All I’m asking for, Mr. Allen, is a letter on company stationery, signed by you as Ms. Suarez’s superior, guaranteeing that the forty-five-hundred-dollar tuition balance owed to Faber Academy will be paid by the first of February.”

“You’ve got it,” I said, though-as I was faxing the letter over to the school-I did momentarily reflect on the fact that, until the second of January, I was in no position to guarantee anything. But hell… who was going to know about this letter anyway?

“I spoke to that mar icon bursar at Faber this morning,” Debbie said, handing me another glass of champagne.

“He said he got your letter, and that he was really makin’ an exception here-‘cause it’s usually money up front or no school. But he told me that it was your phone call that swung it.

“Your boss, he’s some sonofabitch salesman.”” I laughed.

“I’m sure he didn’t use ‘sonofabitch,” Debbie.”

“I owe you big, Mr. Allen.”

“All part of the job, Debbie.”

She leaned into me and kissed me fully on the lips. I was a little startled by this spontaneous show of affection, but at least had the presence of mind to keep my lips shut. Debbie herself was even more flustered. Taking a giant step back from me, she blushed deeply.

“Oops,” she said.

“Yeah.” I said.

“OODS.”

“Oh, Mr. Allen, I am such a jerk….”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said.

“Too much champagne,” she said.

“It is a common excuse, no?”

Debbie spun around and there was Klaus Kreplin, beaming broadly at us.

“Nice speech, Klaus,” I said, trying to remain composed.

“I am not interrupting anything?” he asked, his eyebrows arching slyly.

“Nothing at all,” I said.

“Klaus, I’d like you to meet Debbie Suarez.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, “the brilliant Telesales star you always tell me about.”

Now it was my turn to blush. Trust Kreplin to maximize our embarrassment. He took her hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it.

“Charmed,” he said. Judging from her what-the-fuck-is-this? reaction, I doubted very much if anyone had ever kissed Debbie’s hand before.

“Yeah, uh, likewise,” she said, at a loss for words.

“Will you guys excuse me?”

And she hurried off across the room.

“A delightful young lady,” Kreplin said, “as you obviously agree.”

“It was a kiss, Klaus. Nothing more.”

“Oh yes, I forgot. You are, of course, the ‘prince of virtue.”” I smiled thinly.

“But we are all tempted by misconduct, aren’t we?” Kreplin said.

“Life is nonstop temptation,” I said.

“Ah, you are a philosopher as well. But one, I hope, who understands the value of silence.”

“I’ve said nothing to anyone, if that’s what you mean. I do follow orders.”

“Edward?” he said, slapping me on the shoulder.

“We will make excellent colleagues-of this I am certain.”

He reached into the breast pocket of his suit, pulled out a business card, and shoved it into my pocket.

“I am off back to Hamburg-tomorrow evening,” he said.

“On this card you will find my phone numbers at the head office, at my home, and for my cellular phone. You must call me if there is the slightest problem.”

“There will be no problem. I’m in the office Monday and Tuesday, then Lizzie and I fly to Nevis on the twenty-sixth. We’re at the Four Seasons there if you need me. Otherwise …” I proffered my hand. “.. . see you back in New York on January second.”

“I shall be there, Herr Publisher,” Kreplin said in a whisper. As he turned to leave, I noticed that Chuck was on the far side of the room, watching us. I gave him a quick wave, a facile smile, wondering if I was looking particularly guilty. Then I strolled over and said, “Helluva party.”

“What did Kreplin have to say for himself?” he asked abruptly, the words slurring ever so slightly (well, we had all drunk a lot of champagne).

“Usual Kraut horse shit. And he was congratulating me on the GBS biz. You tell him something?”

“Yeah-I mentioned we had a problem and that you solved it.”

I gulped.

“That was decent of you, Chuck.”

“Yeah, well, I always was a sap.”

I remained very composed.

“A sap? You? Get outta here. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?” he asked.

I shook my head, shrugging my shoulders.

“You’re not bullshitting me?”

“About what, exactly?”

His mood seemed to lighten.

“I think I’m getting paranoid in my advanced middle age.”