The Job (19 page)

“God, those fingers of yours are really black and blue.”

“More black than blue,” I said, reaching into my suit pocket for two bottles of pills, flipping them open, and popping one tab from each into my mouth.

“You on painkillers?” Nancy Auerbach asked as I washed them down with water.

“Yeah, and anti-inflammatories.”

“That must have been some accident.”

“It wasn’t an accident, Ms. Auerbach.”

She looked me straight in the eye.

“I am aware of that.”

“You know what happened?”

“I know exactly what happened.”

She cleared her throat.

“Now what we have to look at, Ned, is the professional complexity of your case and how it may impact your future prospects. But first, I think we should begin by identifying your career objectives and discussing how to maximize program benefits to your advantage.”

Career objectives… maximizing program benefits… professional complexity. Nancy Auerbach spoke a new language: Outplacement-spiel. A language I would have to master quickly.

The phone rang.

“Mind if I take this, Ned?” She grabbed the receiver and was deep in conversation within seconds.

“.. . Now all we’ve got to do here, Matt, is lose Banker’s Trust from your resume.”

As she rattled on, I studied Nancy Auerbach with care. Tall, fifty-something, clean-limbed, long, elegant fingers (no wedding ring, pictures of her two teenage children on her desk-a divorcee), a gray herringbone suit. Definitely East Coast. Probably born and bred in Fairfield County, spent summers at the Greenwich Country Club, went on from Rosemary Hall to Smith or Skidmore, hooked up with some jerk lawyer named Brad, did the raise-the-kids-in-the-suburbs thing until the marriage went down in flames, whereupon she hit the job market again and established a born-again career counseling the downsized victims of corporate America.

“.. . Matt, you know their P.O.V…. Of course, I hear you, and, yeah, moving to Rochester isn’t my idea of a good time either. But that’s the deal. It’s re-lo or no-go….”

I could see her occasionally stealing a glance in my direction-her gaze constantly returning to my damaged hand, my blotchy fingers. It was almost as if she was keeping an eye on me. Wondering if I was some kind of hair-trigger psycho in a designer suit-the sort of maniac who was destined one day to walk into a McDonald’s carrying an AK-47 and announce to the assembled diners, “After I finish this Big Mac, I’m taking you all with me.”

You know what happened?

I know exactly what happened.

No doubt, so did everyone in the computer magazine business. The curious saga that led to the demise of CompuWorld had made all the papers; the Wall Street Journal, the Times, even Newsday, reporting in their business pages how we were tossed like a hot potato from Getz-Braun to Kiang-Sanderling to Spencer-Rudman, only to be bumped off like some upstart street punk who’d dared to take on Mr. Big. Though the Times report was only three paragraphs long, the Journal devoted half a column to the story. With a real whopper of a final paragraph:

According to sources within CompuWorld, the shocking news of the title’s demise provoked considerable consternation among the magazine’s employees-especially since, prior to the Christmas holiday, they were assured of CompuWorld’s future by Mr. Klaus Kreplin, group publishing director of Kiang-Sanderling. The resentment felt toward Mr. Kreplin was vented by one CompuWorld manager, Edward Allen, the magazine’s regional sales director for the Northeast. On being told of his termination, he physically assaulted Mr. Kreplin. No charges were filed against him.

Yes, that was true. But what the Journal (thankfully) failed to mention was that, after I attacked Kreplin, there followed a terrible two-minute period when I thought I had actually killed him. Lying motionless on the floor, blood cascading from his nose and mouth (now missing a front tooth), Kreplin was immediately surrounded by two of the Corp Secure staff. Quickly determining that he was unconscious, they attempted to revive him using crude methods. They slapped his face, they shook him hard by the shoulder, they shouted into his left ear. Then one of the women guards felt for a pulse.

“Oh Jesus, he’s arrested!” she screamed, and began administering CPR by slamming her fist into Kreplin’s chest. There was a loud groan as Kreplin snapped back into consciousness and reacted with displeasure to having a couple of ribs broken.

The cops were called. While we waited for them to arrive, Lorenzo handcuffed me to a chair (at least he had the decency not to use my freshly fractured right hand). Two ambulance men arrived first. Kreplin kept groaning loudly as they loaded him onto a stretcher and carted him off. After Kreplin was gone, I asked Lorenzo if he could un cuff me.

“Sorry, my man. Just doing my job.” Then he leaned forward and whispered, “But lemme give you a little tip. Next time you want to clock a guy, use the heel of your hand. Causes maximum damage to him, minimal to you. You take a swing at someone with a clenched fist, you’re both gonna be heading to the ER.”

The police finally showed up. They took me uptown in a squad car.

At the station house I was booked for assault. I was also given the opportunity to make one phone call. Thank God, Lizzie was at her desk. When I told her where I was-and what had landed me there-she let out a gasp. But she was at the precinct in less than thirty minutes. Walking into the squad room where I was being held, she hugged me, then said that a lawyer was on his way.

The officer who booked me was on the phone. When he put it down he turned to us and said:

“Cancel the lawyer. I’ve got good news for you on all fronts. Your victim’s okay. He’s badly bruised and missing a front tooth,

but there are no internal injuries, except for a couple of busted ribs. Anyway, the lawyer told me they won’t be pressing charges against you. As far as I’m concerned, you’re outta here, guy.”

As Lizzie helped me to my feet, the cop said, “Free piece of advice. Next time you thump someone, don’t be a jerk and use a clenched fist..

..”

My hand was now feeling like a bag of flesh stuffed with broken glass. In the cab en route to Lenox Hill Hospital, shock finally descended. Lizzie, sensing just how bad I was, squeezed my operable hand and whispered, “Hang in there, darling.”

And then the lights in my brain went off.

When I came to, I was stretched out on a hospital trolley in the emergency room. Standing by me was a doctor in a white coat. He was holding up an X ray.

“Welcome back,” he said.

“Want to see what you’ve done to your hand?”

He lifted the X ray above my face and pointed to some delicate bones in three of my fingers. Still adjusting to the hospital glare, I had to squint to see them.

“You fractured the fourth metacarpal on the third, fourth, and fifth fingers. First time I’ve ever seen a metacarpal hat trick like that. You must have used a clenched fist.”

“Is it serious, Dr…. ?”

“Harding. Jeff Harding. I’m the resident E.R. orthopedist here at Lenox Hill. If you were a concert pianist, your career might be over. In your case, it’s just going to be eight to ten weeks in an elastic bandage …”

Eight to ten weeks. Terrific. Just when I’d be interviewing for a new job. That is, if anyone would now dare hire me. And even if they somehow didn’t know about the assault before the interview, they’d sure as hell ask about my black-and-blue fingers during it.

” .. so the long-term prognosis is excellent.”

Only from where you’re sitting, Doc.

The hospital released me an hour later. In the cab downtown I told Lizzie, “No one will ever hire me again…”

That’s not true. Everyone in the industry knows how successful you were. And they also know that you were screwed. Trust me:

People will sympathize with you. You went crazy for a moment, that’s all. It was sort of understandable, given the circumstances. And it’s not like you have a record of violent assaults.”

“The money thing’s scaring the crap out of me. I mean, without the second half of the bonus…”

“Don’t even think about that now.”

“… and the bank will be putting the thumb screws on me when they learn …”

“Ned, please. You’re in shock, they’ve got you doped up with painkillers, so everything’s going to seem a little scary right now. But it will work out.”

Lizzie was right. The pills had me so doped that the weekend vanished in a blur. There were occasional moments of lucidity, during which I obsessed out loud about my ruined career, and Lizzie had to keep reassuring me that all would be fine. And on Sunday evening I did manage to take two phone calls. The first was from Phil Sirio.

“Boss, I know you’re at home recuperating-but word got around about what you did, and I just had to tell you: It was a beaut.”

“Thanks, Phil.”

“

“Course you shouldn’t have used a clenched-” “I know, I know. How’re you taking the news?”

“I’m kind of pissed off, you know. Especially about the bonus biz. Leaves me a bit light.”

“How much you out?”

“Fourteen.”

“Ouch.”

“Everyone got burned. But they owe me.”

“So what are you going to do now?”

“This and that. I got friends. I’ll be okay. And you, boss?”

“I don’t know. After what I pulled, the only job I’m probably suited for is as a bouncer.”

“You’ll land, boss. Don’t sweat it. And remember: When you socked that Kraut fuck, you were doin’ it on behalf of all of us. So Phil here owes you one. You ever got a problem, I’m here. Understand?”

“You’re a class act, Phil.”

“Later, boss.”

The second call was from Debbie Suarez. As usual, she sounded as if she was on speed.

“I gotta tell ya, I just gotta tell ya, it made my day when I heard you popped him. You’re my hero, Mr. Allen. I mean, I know you broke your hand, but it was worth it, right?”

“I’m not too sure about that, Debbie.”

“I know what you’re thinkin’, but they’re gonna be linin’ up to give you work. I mean, you’re the best.”

All this talk about how I was a shoe-in for a big new job was making me nervous. It was terminal-ward talk-everyone being far too cheerful to the guy with two months to live.

Trying to change the subject, I asked Debbie how she was going to manage financially. She grew quiet and said, “I already got a job.”

“That was fast.”

“Yeah, well, it’s Chuck Zanussi who offered it to me.”

“I see,” I said.

“I know, I know-he’s an asshole. But he called me at home yesterday, asked me to be part of the Telesales team at PC Globe. And I kinda had no choice….”

“It’s great news, Debbie.”

“Honest-I really wanted to tell him “No way, Jose.” But I was desperate….”

“You don’t have to explain….”

“You know what really makes me want to kick that German in the cojones-if they hadn’t sold the company until tomorrow, my mom would have just made it on to my insurance. It’s totally unfair, y’know?”

“Believe me, Debbie. I know.”

“But this is great, you’ll love this-I called the money guy at Faber Academy on Friday after I got the news, all upset, telling him I wasn’t gonna be able to pay him the additional four-five I owed the school at the end of January. Guess what he told me: Because my boss had written him a letter on company stationery guaranteeing the money. the company would have to cover it.”

For the first time in days, I managed a small smile. According to the standard corporate takeover rules, when Spencer-Rudman bought CompuWorld, they also agreed to honor all commitments to its creditors (even though they were immediately killing off the title). Thanks to my letter, Raul Suarez’s third-semester tuition at Faber was now going to be paid by Debbie’s new employers.

“Like I told you at the party,” Debbie said, “I owe you a lot.”

“Keep in touch, Debbie.”

The next morning, Monday, heavy snow returned to Manhattan. Lizzie had to go to the office-and I sat up in bed, watching in silence as she dressed. That’s when it hit home. She was in a suit, I was in pajamas. She had a future, I didn’t.

Sensing my gloom she said, “Do yourself a favor. Take a couple of days before calling the out placement people. When you go in there, you want to give a confident impression….”

“You’re saying I look like a disaster?”

Lizzie was taken aback by my angry tone-but her voice remained considerate, soothing.

“I’m just saying, you’re still probably suffering from a bit of trauma….”

“What are you, my goddamn shrink?”

She looked at me, stunned by what I had just said. So was I. Immediately, I was on my feet, burying my head in her shoulder.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She disengaged herself, and took my face in her hands.

“Don’t do this, Ned. Please.”

“I really didn’t mean…”

“I am on your side. Remember that.”

“I do.”

She gently kissed my forehead.

“I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later, see how you’re doing.”

As soon as she was gone, I collapsed back into bed, pulled the sheets over my head. How-why-could I have turned on her so viciously? Attacking the only real ally I had in life. She was right: I was suffering from aftershock. And I was in no state to put on a happy face in front of an out placement counselor. I needed to stay indoors until my equilibrium was restored.

I reached for the phone. I called our local florist and arranged for a big bouquet of roses to be sent to Lizzie’s office. I asked them to enclose a card with the following message:

I am so sorry. I love you.

For the next few hours I lay slumped on our sofa, staring out at the snow. My hand was still hurting like hell. I popped more painkillers. I dozed off, and woke an hour later to the sound of our intercom buzzer. Stumbling over to it, I hit the speaker button and heard a static-laden voice:

“This Edward Allen?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Crosstown Messenger Service. Got a letter here for you.”

I buzzed him in and waited by the door until he got off the elevator. He wore knee-high black boots.

“They make you do deliveries in a blizzard?” I asked.