Copyright © 2015 by Randall J. Funk
All rights reserved
Published in the United States by Ghost Light Press.
www.randalljfunk.com
ISBN 978-0-692-45798-6 (Print)
ISBN 978-0-692-48396-1 (eBook)
Cover design by Ann McMan
First edition
Special thanks to:
Harold and Ann Snow, for their financial assistance and their faith in me.
Ellen Hart, for being a mentor and a friend.
Jessie Chandler, for all the help she provided, including introducing me to:
Ann McMan, for the fantastic cover art.
Matthew Glover, for his excellent website design.
Zach Curtis, for taking my author photo and doing great work with a faulty subject matter.
Mary Logue, for her helpful guidance during the writing phase.
Terese Pautz, for sharing her experiences with me.
John Nordling, for helping me polish up the book.
To all of my friends for their support and encouragement. Truly, it takes a village.
To Kris and Ben, for your patience and your love.
None of this is possible without you.
The most unfair part of a break-up is the timing. Here’s what I mean:
At some point in the relationship (hereafter referred to as The Relationship), the Party of the First Part (hereafter referred to The Breaker) decides they want out of the arrangement. Now the end usually doesn’t come suddenly—unless alcohol is involved—so The Breaker begins to work their way through all the emotional and intellectual baggage that surrounds the Big Event (hereafter referred to as The Break Up). However, the Breaker will do this while still being in The Relationship. The Breaker gets all the benefits of being with someone while slowly, secretly extricating themselves from said someone. Meanwhile, the Party of the Second Part (hereafter referred to as The Break-ee) goes along with a slaphappy grin on their face, clueless that the Doomsday Clock (hereafter referred to as, well, the Doomsday Clock) is getting closer and closer to midnight.
Finally, at some point, The Break Up occurs. And it takes a great amount of sensitivity on the part of the Breaker to realize that while The Break Up is weeks—or perhaps months—old to them, to the Break-ee it just happened. Failure to recognize this disparity can lead to recriminations and bitterness. And in some cases—usually involving alcohol—it can lead to restraining orders.
My name’s Joe Davis. I get paid to write stuff like that.
That little missive comes to mind as I’m sitting in Glacier’s Coffee House, waiting for an ex-girlfriend. I don’t normally take meetings with exes. It’s an invitation to a bad scene. But Tess said she was desperate, so I went against company policy.
Most of the time, I’m right at home in Glacier’s. It’s a converted café with checkerboard tile floors, straight-back chairs and picture windows. Said windows look out on Cathedral Hill, an old school brick-and-mortar neighborhood looming over downtown St. Paul. A stretch of retail along Selby Avenue buttresses the shady areas to the north from the upscale neighborhoods to the south. Glacier’s draws the young and artistic denizens from the upscale side, meaning there’s a lot of self-involvement and very little conversation. Perfect for writing. And on warm summer evenings, it’s walking distance from my place.
On this particular warm summer evening, though, I have a knot in my gut. It’s been a few months, but the break up with Tess was an ugly one. She coolly asked for a point-by-point rundown of why I wished to terminate the relationship and when I was halfway through it, she started crying and threw a drink in my face. The entire bar was then treated to a point-by-point rundown of my faults, most of which revolved around me being a stinking piece of crap. She finished by punching me in the sternum and storming out.
I’ve avoided that place since then.
So, given that we left things on an I-wouldn’t-piss-on-you-if-you-were-on-fire basis, I’m wondering why Tess would even bother contacting me. And this has me pondering, in my own shallow way, the nature of break-ups.
My laptop’s open on the small round table. I write a blog for The Daily Bugle, a zine that began life as an indie rag before going digital. The blog (Cup o’ Joe) covers all things humorous: relationships, politics, pop culture, daily living, etc. Essentially the same stuff I talked about at the lunch table in high school, but now I get paid for it. I write three columns a week. It’s not great money, but it’s enough to pay the bills, keep the cats fed and have enough left over for some socializing. And hell, it beats working for a living.
The little gold bell over the front door jingles and Tess walks in, striking her usual stop-and-observe-the-place stance. Tess is an attractive woman and very well maintained. She’s tall with raven-colored hair flowing perfectly to the nape of her neck and just enough make-up to show off the hazel eyes, high cheekbones and sculpted chin. A Bloomingdale’s mannequin come to life.
Appearances, of course, were never the problem. As long as we were naked, things were clicking along fine. It was when we exposed our personalities that the disconnect arose. Tess sees herself as a powerful, driven, career woman. Others see her as an unpleasant, materialistic shrew. And by others, I mean me after I’d dated her for a few months.
I close the laptop and stand to greet her. She plants a not-quite-kiss on my right cheek. When we sit, the table seems suddenly smaller.
“How are you, Joe?” she says, situating the chair just so.
“I’m good.”
“You always are.” She waves a hand toward the slacks and dress shirt I’m wearing. “You didn’t have to dress up.”
“I’m going to a party later on.”
“Oh. Fine.” Tess taps my laptop. “I read one of your columns last week.”
“Which one?”
“The one about artificial butter flavoring.” It was a column where I recalled working in a movie theater in college and how the butter topping was as easy to get off my hands as motor oil. “It was truly stunning work,” Tess says.
Tess always made it clear that my fine brain was wasted on smallish topics. After all, I could be figuring out ways to make myself money or make others money or build research models into how to make money in the future. You know, stuff that’s not remotely shallow.
“Glad you enjoyed it,” I say.
“Can’t wait to see what you come up with next.”
“I’ve already got one in the can.”
“And what’s that?”
“A ten point plan for peace in the Middle East.”
Tess’ perfectly-trimmed eyebrows go up. “Really? What’s the first point?”
“The total elimination of artificial butter flavoring on popcorn.”
Her mouth tightens, pinching off whatever laugh might have escaped. “Fine. I walked into that one.”
“Indeed you did.” I drop the laptop into its bag and pull my mug of French Roast a little closer. “So what’s on your mind?”
Tess’ right eye twitches a little. “Okay. Wouldn’t want to keep you.” She folds her hands on the table and fixes me with a placid look. “First of all, I’d like to apologize for my behavior when we last…talked.”
“Well, it was a very sticky girl drink you threw at me.”
“I know.”
“And did you realize—because I didn’t know this before—that the sternum is the second-most painful place you can hit a guy?”
“I’m sorry.”
“And it’s dangerous. I think that’s how Houdini died.”
The pace of the twitch picks up. “Are you finished?” she asks.
“I am.”
“Good. Because I need your help.”
This comes as no surprise. When Tess said she was desperate, I figured it meant something along these lines. What does surprise me is the look in Tess’ eyes. It’s not anger or disapproval. I’ve seen those often enough. This is fear.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Someone’s trying to kill me.”
Now that’s something you don’t hear every day. Well, I suppose if you run a terrorist cell you do, but most of us are in the clear. “Someone’s trying to kill you?” I ask, “Okay, maybe I need some more information here.”
Tess’ eyes brush the room. She drops her voice. “A co-worker of mine is trying to kill me.”
“Why?”
“It’s a work-related thing.”
“Something to do with stealing food out of the break room fridge? That kind of deal?”
There’s a flare in Tess’ cold eyes. “I’m asking for your help. Do you think you could be serious for five seconds?”
“I’m trying. But you work in an office that maintains insurance policies. How do things get intense enough for murder?”
The espresso machine fires up. Tess jumps. She puts a hand to her chest, catching her breath before taking a bracing sip of my coffee. “You need to know the person involved here,” she says, “It’s a co-worker named Nancy. She’s pissed because I got a promotion.”
“Ah. Sounds perfectly plausible.”
“You don’t understand. Work is Nancy’s life. She doesn’t date. She doesn’t have friends. She works eighty hours a week, commutes and sleeps. That’s it.”
“So what’s the deal with the promotion?”
“Our boss, Tom, was promoted from Insurance Service team leader to Service Vice President. He’s been doing both jobs for several months and he finally decided to name a replacement. I got the job.”
“And this Nancy person thinks it should have been her?”
“Yes. She and I were the only in-house candidates and she wasn’t remotely happy when I got it.”
“Okay, where do you get the idea she’s trying to kill you?”
Tess’ nails claw the table. “She’s threatened me. Several times.”
“How?”
Tess takes a folded piece of notebook paper from her purse and slides it over to me. It reads: You know what you’ve done. You’re dead. I’m watching you.
I fold the letter up. “Lacks a certain touch of the poet.”
“It’s not a book report, asshole. It’s a threatening note!”
The little bell over the door goes again. Tess turns an ugly face to a dude with a checked jacket and lime tie. (Possibly a writer, but I’m going with poseur.) When she turns back, the fear is in her eyes again.
“There have been phone calls, too,” she says, “Along that same line as the note.”
“She’s probably just trying to scare you.”
“Well, it’s working. Believe me.”
I slide the note back over to Tess. “So where do I come in?”
“I need you to go to an event with me.”
Okay, this has entered my Five Goofiest Conversations list, and is rapidly moving up the charts. Someone’s trying to kill Tess and she’s asking me on a date? It’s like getting a call from someone who’s trapped upside down in a ditch, smells gasoline and wants you to pick up their dry cleaning.
“An event?” I ask.
“It’s weird, I know. But it’s a company thing and I think Nancy’s going to try something.”
“Why? Is it a guns and knives event?”
“No. It’s an announcement of NewCo Mutual’s Charity Drive, over at The Taft Hotel.”
“And why would Nancy try something there?”
“Because one of the calls said I would be a dead woman by the end of the event. I mean, if somebody’s going to get to me, this is a good spot. There’s going to be a big crowd and not a ton of security. Plenty of chances for Nancy to do something.”
“Why not go to the police?”
“With no proof?”
“You got a threatening note.”
Tess tosses the note aside. “All the letters are cut from magazines. Anybody could have done this. I could have done this. It doesn’t prove anything. I mean, you don’t seem to believe me. Why should the police?”
Hmm, nice little twist of the guilt knife there. “Okay, fine,” I say, “Why not skip the event?”
Tess looks at me like I’m a child who just wet himself. “Joe, there will be people there I need to talk to. And to be seen talking to. This is my career, after all.”
Ah. Should have known better than to weigh Tess’ career against her life. It’s no contest. “Can’t someone in the office help you out?” I ask.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I think Nancy has someone working with her.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “A co-conspirator? This is an insurance office, right? I mean, you didn’t start running Covert Ops while I wasn’t looking?”
Tess’ manicured nails clack away on the Formica tabletop. “There have been times when I’ve been in meetings with Nancy and come back to find notes left on my desk. And I’ve heard a male voice during a few of the phone calls. She’s not doing this alone. I can’t trust anyone at the office.”
Which brings up the Bonus Round question. “Why me? I mean, the last time we talked, I was the Anti-Christ with a piss poor attitude—”
“And I apologized for that.”
“And on top of it, I’m not exactly the first guy you call in a situation like this. I’m a writer. Okay, journalist. All right, blogger. Still, I’m not a cop. I haven’t thrown a punch in anger since the fifth grade. Hell, my favorite exercise is running. How much help can I be?”
Tess takes a long breath. “I don’t have anyone else to ask. I talk about Nancy having no life outside of work, but I’m not any better. You’re the closest thing I’ve got to a friend.” She looks at me, eyes glistening slightly. “Will you help me, Joe?”
I’d be a fool to do this. Tess is clearly blowing this thing out of proportion. It’s an entanglement that won’t come to anything but misery. I let out a long sigh and look her straight in the eyes.
“All right, when’s this event?”
My big commitment for the evening is a birthday party for my friend Wheezer. No one’s sure how old The Wheeze is (on a guess, early thirties, like most of our friends) or if, in fact, this is his birthday. And given the amount of creative pharmaceuticals Wheezie’s consumed over the years, I doubt he knows, either. But every now and again, he throws a bash at Big Ben’s Distillery, a kick-ass brew pub in downtown Minneapolis, and calls it his birthday party. While the event may be held anywhere from February to November, The Wheeze only holds one per year. His way of giving in to convention.
The party is at a collection of tables, next to a bar that stretches the length of the place. Though Big Ben’s is cavernous, the pools of light from the hanging lamps give it a sense of intimacy. I’m at the bar, nursing a pint of Hefeweizen while my best friend, Mike, ignores his pint of India Pale Ale and goes on about his latest break-up.
“Everything is going great,” Mike says, “I meet her parents. I’m charming. We have dinner. The conversation’s wonderful. Coffee and dessert afterwards. Couldn’t be cozier. Then they take the dishes into the kitchen and I’m left alone with her brother.”
“Oh, you mean the one who’s—”
“Retarded. Yes.”
Our friend Carol is one stool over from Mike. She takes a hand away from her girly drink and waves it like she’s erasing a blackboard. “Not retarded. Mentally challenged.”
Mike spins toward her. “No, no. You don’t know this kid. If anyone in that room was dealing with a challenge, it was me.”
Against my better judgment, I encourage him to continue. “So what happened with the brother?”
“Ah, he starts in on me, telling me I’m ugly, I eat funny, his sister’s only dating me because she feels sorry for me. Stuff like that. At first, I just ignore him. But he keeps going and I start getting pissed. So I very politely tell him to shut the hell up. He doesn’t. Then I tell him to go screw himself.”
“And what did he do?”
“He punched me in the head.”
Carol and I wince. Punching Mike in his big bulldog head is about the worst thing you can do. While his forehead doesn’t look remarkable, it has a density that makes you think he’s the product of a Cro-Magnon and a concrete block.
Carol asks, “How bad did he hurt his hand?”
“Pretty bad,” Mike says, “He starts hopping around, screaming, ‘My hand’s busted! My hand’s busted!’ The family comes rushing in. I try to explain, but I know it’s a lost cause. The mother’s hysterical. The father throws me the hell out. I offer to drive Whitney home, but she wants no part of me.” He finally takes a sip of his IPA. “Haven’t heard from her since.”
“That doesn’t surprise you, does it?” I ask.
“Well, I could expect a little understanding! I’m the victim here. Who’s prepared for a situation like that? You never hear about a special needs kid with an attitude problem!”
“What about Glenn Beck?” I say.
“Who?”
Should have known. Mike could probably follow politics if he wanted to, but he can’t put down the comic books and grape soda long enough to pay attention.
He takes a long drink of the IPA, grimacing against the spicy bite of the hops. “To hell with it, right? Onward and upward.”
“Into yet another quagmire,” I say.
Mike’s been my best friend since about five minutes after we got to college. He’s like a big, ill-behaved Doberman: good-looking, charming, but very likely to eat your shoes or crap on the front porch.
He strokes his goatee. “Speaking of quagmires, how was coffee with Tess?”
Carol nearly spills her Cosmo on her sleeveless white blouse. “Tess? The woman who threw the drink at you? That Tess? Why would you have coffee with her?”
“She’s needs my help. Someone’s trying to kill her.”
Since I’ve got their undivided attention, I give them the ADD version of Tess’ likely paranoid fantasy. Carol brushes away the dark bangs framing her face and curls up against the bar, tapping her finger against her chin as she thinks. Mike, however, jumps in with the first opinion.
“You know what she’s trying to do, don’t you?” he says, “She’s trying to get something started again.”
“Kind of a weird way to go about it, isn’t it?” I say.
“You said she’s a little off the beam. A little power-mad. And she’s been scorned. Women like her will try anything.”
Carol rolls her large blue eyes. “How would you know?”
“Who’s been scorned more than me? Believe me, Joe, you don’t want anything do with this woman. She’ll kick you to the curb first chance she gets. Revenge Break-Up. Classic Revenge Break-Up.”
And the advice session ends because our friend Lars, his quasi-pompadour, his cheap suit and his orchestra, has burst into view. That’s how Lars enters. He never saunters or ambles up. He just suddenly appears, a tangle of arms, legs, asshole and elbows, and hauls you into the middle of whatever he’s doing right now. In this case, he swoops in, tosses a stuffed manila folder on the bar and orders an oatmeal stout.
“I’m giving you guys an opportunity,” he says, as if this is what we’d been talking about for the last ten minutes, “It is a sure fire money-making investment.” Lars fancies himself an entrepreneur. The rest of us fancy him a spectacular waster of other people’s time and money.
“What is it?” I say, “Baby’s First Ponzi Scheme?”
“No. Nothing like that.” Then he gets a toothy grin and points at me. “Good one.” Lars doesn’t miss jokes. He just runs several seconds ahead of them. “It’s an entertainment venture,” he continues, “And I’m giving you guys a break. I’ve got all the investors I need for overhead, but I want you guys to get in on the ground floor.”
“Ground floor of what?” Mike asks.
Lars grandly flips open the folder. His gestures are always grand, if a bit jerky. The folder contains a detailed pencil drawing of a nightclub named Les Bos. Mike’s big canine head hovers over the drawing.
“It’s a nightclub?” he asks.
Lars casually slides in front of Carol. “Of sorts. You see, we’re going to provide entertainment. For a discerning and bold type of male clientele.”
Carol pokes her head out from behind Lars. “It’s a strip joint?”
Lars wags a finger at her. “It’s a gentleman’s club.”
“No,” Carol says, “Gentleman’s clubs are men sitting around a paneled room, smoking cigars and talking about stocks.”
“And that’s what we provide. That and some boobs.”
Carol’s severe eyebrows furrow. It’s the thing about her: her smile can light up a room, but if she’s not smiling, you best keep your distance. “The last thing the world needs is another strip joint.”
Lars folds his bony arms in a stance of defiant superiority. “This isn’t another strip joint. It’s unique.”
“What’s unique about it?”
“The women strip each other.”
For the first time, Mike takes his eyes off the folder. “Each other? Right up there on stage? Women taking off other women’s clothes?”
“You got it. Sound good?”
“Are you hiring?”
“Sorry, my friend. Payroll’s full up.”
“Who said you had to pay me?”
Lars chuckles and lays a hand on Mike’s shoulder. “I’m just in the market for investors.”
“I’m in. Where the hell’s my checkbook?”
The oatmeal stout arrives and Lars leaves his usual large tip. He sips the coal black ale and raises his eyebrows at me. “What about it, Joe? You in?”
I’ve got my cringe on. “I don’t know. It’s a little…”
“Daring?”
“Depraved.”
He turns to Carol. “What about you, dear?”
“Yeah, I’m in.”
Now I turn to Carol. “What?”
She shrugs. “Nobody ever lost money betting on the depravity of the American male.”
Lars scoops up the folder and leans toward me, dropping his voice. “I’ll keep a spot open for you. Think about it.”
“Leave him alone,” Carol says, “He’s got a lot on his mind.”
“Oh yeah, coffee with the ex. I’d steer clear of that one, brother.” He pats me on the shoulder and he’s off again.
I watch him go. “So the nays have it?”
Mike stares into his beer. “It’s your call.” In my experience, that’s a friend’s way of saying, “You’re free to fuck this up seven ways to Sunday. I’ll be at the bar if you need me.”
***
The party breaks up a few hours later. I’m not certain The Wheeze even showed up. He’s not the kind of guy who does well with commitment.
I walk Carol back to her car. We’re in the same ramp, a few blocks from Big Ben’s. Mike and Lars were too caught up in planning their junior high fantasy/business venture to notice us leave.
“Joe?” Carol asks, “You still there?”
We’re near Carol’s car and I believe I’ve been staring at my shoes for the last few minutes. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Thinking about Tess? This thing bothering you that much?”
I scratch my chin. “She’s scared. Said I’m her only friend. Maybe I owe her.”
Carol scrutinizes me with those big blue eyes. “A break up is actually bothering you?”
“Is that odd?”
“Yeah. You break up with a girl every three or so weeks. Besides, you’ve never struck me as real angst-ridden.”
“I hang out with Mike. There’s not a lot of angst left to go around.”
“Tell me about it.” Carol and Mike dated for about a year. Their break-up came as a real surprise. To Mike. “You really think she wants to get back together?” Carol asks.
“I don’t know. Wouldn’t make my dating life any worse.”
“Tell me about it. I’m on a major losing streak myself.” She twirls her keys on her finger as we reach her car. “So you’re going to help Tess?”
“I suppose. I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?”
“She pulls your heart out, Temple of Doom-style, and eats it right before your eyes.”
“Well, that would be a worst case scenario, yes. But I think I can brave it.”
Carol spins away and flutters her fingers over her shoulder. “Your funeral.”
My car is two levels up, and on the other side of the ramp. Fortunately, my cardio’s in tip-top condition, so I jog most of the way. Coming up on my car, I see a folded piece of paper stuck under one of the windshield wipers. Probably a flyer for a pizza joint or something. I’m ready to toss it, but the little block letters catch my eye. They’ve been cut from a magazine. Several magazines, in fact. I open it up.
Do yourself a favor and stay out of this. Could be hazardous to your health. And Could be is circled in red marker.
I look around, as if the person who left the note is hanging out, watching me and giggling. I don’t see anything, of course. The corners of the note are getting damp where it’s touching my palms.
My funeral. Thanks for the good karma, Carol.
I don’t like big parties as a rule. Smaller gatherings like The Wheeze’s faux-birthday party are fine, but large-scale blowouts turn me off. If I want to see people get liquored up, dance badly, vainly attempt to get laid and generally make asses of themselves, all I have to do is…well, all I have to do is go to a big party.
Corporate parties are the worst. They combine all the previous elements with the insular, sweat-the-small-stuff culture of your average office. Now imagine a guy who’s spent his adult life religiously avoiding anything resembling office work being thrust into this atmosphere and you’ll realize I’m in for a special kind of hell.
And that’s got me squirming as I drive my Saturn Ion through downtown Minneapolis. That and Tess’ glare from the passenger seat. My black suit has apparently passed muster, but she hates the collarless white shirt. It sends the wrong message. (“F-you, I don’t think enough of this deal to wear a tie.”) And that, of course, is exactly the message I wanted to send. For her part, Tess is resplendent in a low-cut black cocktail dress, high heels and gold jewelry. Like a less-crazy Vivien Leigh. A slightly-less-crazy Vivien Leigh.
Tess taps the folded threatening note on her leg. “You didn’t see who left this?”
“No. If someone leaves a threatening note, they generally don’t hang around. Sort of defeats the purpose of leaving a note.”
“It had to be Nancy.”
“Why would she threaten me? She doesn’t even know me.”
“She’s probably tailing me. Remember what the one note said. She’s watching me. And she’s probably trying to scare you off.”
I’m tempted to tell her Nancy doesn’t need to scare me off. For a sandwich and a bag of chips, I’d gladly drop this whole thing. But I stay quiet and we fall into tense silence, which is what we do best these days.
NewCo Mutual’s gathering is at The Taft, a towering hotel on the west edge of downtown Minneapolis. The twelve floors are stacked around a sunken plaza; each floor with a walkway providing a view. Glass elevators shoot up and down on two sides. The plaza is surrounded by potted flora and crisscrossed with hanging lights. This is used for special events, such as the NewCo party. We arrive ten minutes before the party’s 6:30 starting time. I leave the car with the valet while Tess tends to something at the front desk. She grabs my arm and yanks me across the carpeted lobby.
“Just stick close,” she says, “Don’t let me out of your sight.”
“All night?”
“Of course. Is that a problem?”
“Well, I was banking heavily on standing at the bar, looking surly and chatting up the bartender.”
“Sorry. I’m running the show. It’s important. There’s going to be people from both the home office and the field here.”
“Okay, explain the difference to me again?”
Tess rolls her eyes, letting me know this has been explained to me before. “The field means our financial advisors who are working with clients. They sell our individual products: mutual funds, insurance policies, annuities, brokerage products, things like that. The home office works in support of the financial advisors. If they need to make adjustments or get information about their clients’ accounts, they call us.”
“Do the actual clients ever call you?”
“Sometimes. Or they write letters. Generally, we encourage them to talk to their advisors. Too many cooks spoiling the broth. That kind of thing.”
Having been thus schooled, I’m content to let Tess run the show. Clearly, she’s in her element. All the way through the lobby, she’s like a lightweight contender pacing the corner before a big fight. As soon as we’re past the velvet rope and into the party, her eyes light up and a huge smile blossoms. She moves from person to person, pressing the flesh, saying how glad she is to see them. Meantime, I get dragged around like a piece of luggage.
It doesn’t take long to cover the whole territory. A long buffet table, set up with hors d’oeuvres, dominates the room. Tables devoted to each department are grouped around it. To one side, there’s a long mahogany bar with three hustling bartenders and a large collection of booze. Insurance Service, Tess’ department, is seated near the bar, which may be the only break I catch all night.
Suddenly, Tess fastens a death grip on my arm and whispers. “There she is.”
Nancy matches up with the description Tess gave me: wavy hair pulled back into a severe ponytail, a plain blouse-and-slacks combo showing off nothing and no make up to be seen. Her skin is taut around the eyes and mouth, bringing to mind a Rottweiler ready to strike. She finds a place on the opposite side of the table and sits.
“Let’s keep making the rounds,” Tess says.
Thankfully, our next stop is the bar. Tess orders a Mojito and I get a vodka rocks. Let the games begin.
“I assume this is the cocktail hour?” I say.
“Yes. There’s going to be a few words from Barry then dinner and a dance.”
A dance. Wow, that’s a depressing thought. “Who’s Barry?”
“He’s the CEO of the company.”
“Do we have to stay for the dance?”
“No. But if you want to make an evening of it, I’ve got a room reserved for the night.”
My drink stops just shy of my lips. “You reserved a room for us?”
“I didn’t reserve it. The company has a block of rooms set aside and I said I’d take one. Better safe than sorry.”
Yoinks. Somewhere, Mike is giggling. I know it.
I busy myself with following Tess around and keeping an eye out for Nancy. Tess spends her time talking to people I don’t care about on topics that don’t interest me. After a while, I’d actually take a bullet for her just to break the monotony. I’m contemplating the checked floor when Tess taps me on the arm.
“Joe, I’d like to you to meet my boss, Tom Reilly.”
Tess par-whips me into a handshake with a burly, bald-headed guy who grips my hand like we’re in the consolation bracket of a Tough Man contest.
“How you doing?” he says, flashing me a grin full of uneven teeth, “Tom Reilly, VP of Service.”
“Joe Davis, Ayatollah of Rock and Rolla.”
He laughs, more at my play on words than the inference I could care less about titles. Tom isn’t in the boss mold as I would picture it. He’s got piggy-eyes, a scraggly goatee and a suit he probably bought at Target just for this occasion. As he takes a big sip of his light beer, a pair of cufflinks, probably not purchased at Target, gleam in the low lighting.
“Quite a shindig, huh?” he asks.
“Quite a shindig, indeed,” I say.
“Guess if you’ve gotta do these things, you want to do them in style. Waste of time as far as I’m concerned, but what are you doing to do?”
“You don’t like parties, either?”
“The party? No, the party’s great. I was talking about the charity drive.”
I do a double take. “Not a big charity guy?”
“Ah, it’s fine, if you’re into that sort of thing and it’s your money. I just figure company resources can be better spent.”
“On what? Bonuses for overpaid executives?”
“Exactly, exactly. Give it to people who can do something with it.”
“Like buy new cufflinks?”
He holds them up, shining in the light once again. “You got it. Keeps the economy moving.”
I’ve never been clear on which type of person I dislike more: those who willfully have bullshit points of views or those who simply don’t know any better. Given his buddy-buddy variety of openness, I’m guessing Tom is one of the latter. Tess, her smile becoming more forced, tries laughing along.
“Business comes first,” Tom says, his eyes dropping to Tess’ cleavage, “You know why I hired Tess to take my place in Insurance Service?”
“Yeah, a couple things present themselves,” I say.
Tess giggles and hugs my arm, turning her chest away from Tom’s gaze.
“Because she’s focused,” he says, his gaze returning to me, “Knows the business, doesn’t let anything stop her.” He waves his drink, indicating the entire party. “None of this dog-and-pony-show stuff.” He turns to Tess. “You were the right choice to lead Insurance Service. Every day of the week and twice on Sundays.”
Tess nods, suddenly shy. “I don’t think everyone feels that way.”
Tom’s mouth curls into a little sneer. “Fuck ‘em.” With that bit of managerial wisdom, he turns to me. “So, Joe, right? What do you do for a living, Joe?”
Here’s my issue: the conversations I have with nine-to-fivers usually go something like “What do you do?” “I’m a writer.” “Oh, what do you write?” “A humor blog.” And then I get a look saying it’s too bad I’m thirty-three and live in my parents’ basement.
“I’m in public relations,” I say.
“Oh? Who do you work for?”
“The Irish Republican Army.”
The piggy-eyes bore into me. “The IRA?”
“Erin-go-bragh, me boy-o.”
Tom may have a vague idea he’s being messed with, but he lets it go and turns to Tess. “You’re doing good. You’re doing good. Don’t worry about what other people are saying. Stay true to who you are.” Five bucks says he got that little nugget out of a motivational book about moving cheese or some shit.
Suddenly, Tom’s face clouds and he stares across the room. I follow his gaze to a tall, steel-gray guy in a blue serge suit. The guy seems harmless enough, but the intensity of Tom’s stare would indicate a fist fight is nigh. After a second, Tom again flashes his gnarly smile.
“I need to make some rounds,” he says, “I’ll drop by the Insurance Service table later on, talk to everyone. Nice meeting you, Joe. Be good to Tess. Hate to think she’s banging a mick, but what are you going to do?” And he’s off, his bald head bobbing over the top of the crowd.
“Great guy,” I say, “Product of incest, I’m guessing?”
Tess finally stops forcing her smile. “He lacks a few social graces, yes.”
“Doesn’t exactly strike me as management material.”
“Tom’s got a lot of hidden talents. He’s organized, he knows the business inside and out, he works well with people.”
“Huh.”
“And his father-in-law’s the CEO.”
“Ah.”
One vodka rocks later, the cocktail hour ends and we find our seats at the Insurance Service table. Tess and Nancy glare at each other through the slightly-wilted salad course and into the rubber-chicken-and-overcooked-rice entrée. Meanwhile, by way of small talk, I keep getting asked the same stupid question by their co-workers.
“What do you do for a living, Joe?”
Leading to a bevy of answers.
“I’m a goat herder.”
“I grub stumps.”
“I sip cognac and kick ass.”
Tess gives me an occasional dirty look, but is otherwise busy promoting herself like only a born politician can. After the entrée, things thin out a little bit at the table. I look mournfully toward the bar, craving another drink. Unfortunately, Tess shows no inclination of going that direction, so I’m forced to settle for a dessert of weak coffee and dry cake.
During one of my wistful glances toward the bar, I spot Tom and Nancy having a chat. I can’t figure out whether or not they’re in an argument. Nancy’s gestures are compact and forceful and she’s speaking through her teeth. Tom holds his beer in front of him, glancing around. For a second, he leans in just as forcefully, the shock of it calming Nancy down. He continues his little speech. No one else seems to be paying attention.
I nudge Tess, getting an annoyed look in return. I nod toward the argument, but when Tess looks that direction, the participants are gone.
“What am I supposed to be looking at?” she asks.
“There was a, I saw a…you know what? Forget it.”
Tess’ look of disgust goes up to eleven. “How much have you had to drink?”
I politely sip my coffee, letting the “Not damn nearly enough” remain unspoken.
The program follows, hosted by a stiff-as-hell junior exec wearing a Hillary Clinton-esque pants suit. She introduces Barry, the CEO. Turns out, he’s the guy with the steel gray hair that inspired Tom’s earlier stink-eye. Unlike the MC, Barry actually commands the room, calmly and clearly stating the need to keep the community healthy and safe. He finishes to significant applause, leaving the MC to deliver some mind-numbing program notes. A short video follows, then the program is mercifully over and the staff starts setting the room up for the dance. I’m jostled by the crowd as the tables are cleared and the buffet is relocated to one side of the room. Then I realize Tess is gone.
Panic grips my chest. My head’s on a swivel, searching the crowd. Son of a bitch. One job to do—stick close to Tess—and I’ve botched it. Mom always said I’d get in trouble by not paying attention to other people. (But, hey, I’m the middle kid. We’re supposed to be self-centered, aren’t we?) I finally spot Tess near the bar. She’s being guided into a back hallway by a guy just a step shy of being a gorilla. The close-cropped black hair and the shoulders of his black suit stand out above the crowd. I get only a glimpse before they disappear through the door. I shoulder my way through the crowd. No idea what I’m going to do when I reach them. Getting beaten to death may be my only option. When I get through the door, the guy has Tess backed up against the wall, standing uncomfortably close.
“What’s going on?” I say, trying to work an edge of authority into my voice.
Tess and the guy both sport wide smiles. “Hi, Joe,” Tess says, “Meet my friend Brian.”
Brian, the afore-mentioned gorilla, grabs my hand in a bone-crusher. “Brian Denton. How you doing?”
I’m about six feet tall myself, but Brian has half-a-head on me. Not that the head is impressive. It looks ridiculously small on the rest of his body. I’m guessing the health club is Brian’s best friend. He’s got the requisite jewelry, tan and cologne of your average metrosexual, but the simian quality of his face kills the effect. It’s as if he was carved out of granite, assuming it was near the end of the day and the workman was anxious to get home.
Tess rushes to make things friendly. “Brian and I started in Service together.”
He grins, his teeth obscenely white. “Same training class, same day.”
“He was up for the promotion as well.”
The grin fades a bit. “But Tess got the job. That’s the important part.”
“As long as it wasn’t Nancy,” Tess says.
Brian flinches like he’s been kicked in the crotch. “Don’t even think about that. Half the team would’ve left. We’re all thrilled to have you on top.” He makes a show of covering his imagined faux pas. “I mean on top of the department. The department. You got that, right?”
Tess playfully slaps him on the arm. “We’ll talk later.”
“Save me a dance.” He gives me another crushing shake. “Nice meeting you, Jeff.”
“Joe.”
“Him, too.”
Brian disappears through the door. I wheel on Tess.
“You mind not disappearing on me?” I say.
“I was just talking to Brian. I was perfectly safe.”
“Okay, fine. If you’re perfectly safe with Brian, why am I here? I thought you didn’t have a friend in the world.”
“It’s complicated. Just trust me. I do need you here.”
Grudgingly, I let her lead me back to the party. The dance has started and music is provided by Stan Olsen and The Rhythm Kings; a combo so bland, they would have made Lawrence Welk puke. I’m anxious to leave, but Tess hasn’t socialized with enough muckity-mucks. So I get dragged around the room a little more. After a round of socializing, Tess almost walks right into Barry. Rather than rejoicing at another opportunity for social climbing, Tess freezes up. Barry regards her, coldly.
“Tess, right?” he asks.
For a second, Tess debates ‘fessing up. She offers the forced smile and extends her hand. “Yes, I am. Pleased to see you, Barry.”