by JJ Lamb
“Stop, already.”
“Madre de Dios.” Tina pretended to pull her hair out. “Why do you always have to be such a drama queen?”
“Look, something creepy happened here Friday. It scared the bejesus out of me. And Harry was anything but supportive.”
Gina swiveled back and forth, her chair squeaking, echoing in the room. After a couple of minutes, she got up. “I’m going to take the early break.”
“Oh, no, you’re not,” Shelly said. “You’re not going anywhere until you finish telling us what happened.”
She hesitated, reluctant to relive the moment. Both the women sat on the edge of their seats, staring intently at her.
“Look, it was like a graveyard around here when I took my last call. This guy came on the line–“
“Guy? Wouldn’t mind talking to a few more of those,” Tina interrupted. “At least the ones who aren’t calling for the little woman because he thinks the poor thing can’t handle herself.”
“Let her tell the damn story,” Shelly said.
“Believe me, I wish it’d been you here instead of me. This was one scary dude. He started right off talking about a woman being all cut up.”
“All cut up?” Tina said.
“That’s what the man said. Kept wanting to know my full name.”
“God, you didn’t tell him, did you?”
“I know you both think I’m nuts, but I’m not that nuts.”
“Why didn’t you call for help?”
“Like who? Lexie left on the stroke of five, and you know how this place is on a Friday evening – like a tomb. You two were out, I was here by myself. I don’t think there was a living soul in the whole clinic except me.”
“Not even Security?”
“Couldn’t get through.”
“What about those over-paid pencil-pushers in Administration? “ Tina asked.
“Hah! Their weekend starts at 4:55. Besides, I didn’t want to risk having to talk to Vasquez.”
“Rumor has it the two of you don’t exactly get along,” Shelly said.
“Damn straight. Our dear administrator would love to find a reason to fire me, won’t even look at me when we pass in the hallway.”
“When all else fails,” Tina said, “there’s always la policia.”
“Been there, done that. I spoke to a Detective Yee, but she didn’t seem terribly interested, brushed it off as a crank call.”
“You should have pushed her harder,” Shelly said. “Cops are usually pretty helpful to nurses.”
“It was late and I was in a rush to get home to Harry. I got rattled.”
“Probably just some idiot jerking off,” Tina said.
“Well, I told Harry about it. He thought it was a prank, too. Didn’t think it was worth worrying about.”
“So that’s the reason you didn’t get married?” Shelly said.
“Isn’t that reason enough?” Gina couldn’t look at either of them. Instead, she glanced at the call-waiting board. It was a sea of blinking red lights.
Shelly leaned over and whispered, “I’m really fond of you, Gina Mazzio, but I gotta say, you confuse the hell out of me.”
“Have you and Harry really broken up?” Tina said. “Like, forever?”
“I don’t know.”
Gina blew her nose again. She could barely get the words out: “I need him to believe in me. Or that I don’t need him at all.”
* * *
Gina clutched a damp tissue as she caught the elevator to the cafeteria, ripping mad that Tina and Shelly had treated her like an emotional lightweight. The fact that they found her mostly amusing was not amusing at all. It was damn insulting.
And as for Tina? Gina wanted to treat her to a Bronx blue plate special – a whopping knuckle sandwich, with a dropkick on the side. Maybe that kind of indigestion might dull her appetite for flippant remarks.
And what about Harry? Accusing her of making up an excuse, any excuse, just so they couldn’t get married? What was that all about?
Asshole!
She kicked hard at the wall of the empty elevator.
Asshole!
This wasn’t the first time Harry hadn’t seen eye-to-eye with her. He hadn’t exactly believed her when she thought her patient’s bone marrow was being held for ransom. And it still stung that he hadn’t backed her innovative ideas as the lead contract negotiator for the nurses’ union. He’d claimed she was being too aggressive, was making Vasquez and the hospital negotiators turn a deaf ear to the union’s requests. He suggested more than once that she should back off. Instead, she’d pushed even harder for the things the nurses wanted, particularly a comprehensive pre-school childcare package. And she’d won.
Did she have to prove herself with every breath?
Well, screw you, Harry Lucke.
In the cafeteria, she grabbed a cup of coffee and whizzed through the line looking for a place to settle in.
“Hey, over here, Gina. Grab a seat.” It was Arina Diaz.
Gina wanted to be alone, to think about a life without Harry, to think about the nutcase who called Friday. But she smiled at Arina, who waved her to the table.
Gina set her cup down and slipped into the chair opposite the Labor/Delivery Room nurse. It didn’t take long to realize Arina was also upset or why she wanted company.
“Jorge just takes me for granted, Gina. Can you believe it? I moved away from my parents just so we could spend time alone. Only now I’m the one who’s alone.”
Gina tried to look sympathetic, but her mind was on her own problems. She couldn’t come up with and appropriate response.
“Hey, here I am running on and on about me when the word is that you married Harry Lucke over the weekend.”
“It didn’t happen, Arina, no matter what you may have heard.” Gina’s voice caught in her throat.
“You gotta be kidding! I’ve seen that hombre with you. He absolutely worships the ground you walk on. What happened?”
Gina checked her watch, pretending to be on a short break. “Maybe when I have more time we can talk about it.”
Arina looked disappointed, but smiled. “Let’s get together for lunch sometime. That would be cool.”
“Ciao,” Gina said, barely making it out of the cafeteria before tears gushed down her cheeks.
Chapter 6
CHEMwest’s oval conference table spread out before Eddie St. George—a freshly polished, satin surface without a scratch or finger smudge on the solid teak. He jammed his sweaty palms underneath it and took a trio of deep breaths.
The regional sales manager had yet to arrive and, in fact, he wasn’t due for another five minutes.
The clock took on a stern face, shouted the current minute:
7:55.
Robert Merz would cross the threshold and take his place at the head of the table, primed and ready for his ritual Monday morning let’s-start-the-week-off-right meeting. The sales staff hated the mandatory get-togethers and the buzz was that most didn’t sleep well the night before.
Everyone’s eyes watched the doorway as they topped off their coffee cups, stuffed last minute muffins or bagels into their mouths. Anything solid had to be finished before the boss arrived. No spitting mouths or loose food crumbs around his conference table.
Eddie followed the second hand’s smooth circuit, then watched everyone settle down as they got ready for the hammer of evaluation. Nothing new, just the usual monthly trash-your-performance-to-pieces.
The room was getting hotter, the air foul with crackling fear, excitement, and ugly tentacles of sexual heat that smacked of raw competition. Scrutiny was the name of the game and Eddie hated the sense of doom that permeated the conference room.
Why should I be nervous?
He was one of those unique birds that flew in the upper stratosphere. No one was going to pull the rug from under him. The company’s monthly sales graphs, prominently displayed on two large easels, were there for everyone to see; they not only made him king of the mo
untain, but showed a reign of consistency that defied the competition. Rarely did anyone come close to the revenues he generated. He’d been awarded four free trips to anywhere in the world, and though he’d never taken advantage of these outstanding performance bonuses, he had taken a few free weekends to Vegas, New York, and Los Angeles. But it was no free ride for him –he paid a high price in verbal abuse from Father each time he dared to leave the Bay Area.
Yes, his performance demanded a grudging respect from every sales rep in the room. And while they were all nice enough, he’d made it plain he didn’t want or need their friendship—especially the questions that came with it.
His stomach howled an audible growl; he searched the room to see if anyone heard or cared.
No. Everyone was too caught up in his or her own thing to acknowledge anything that occurred beyond the space they occupied.
St. George took more deep breaths and forced a casual glance at the four men and three women that made up the sales staff of CHEMwest-Northern California Region.
All the reps were going into hyper drive – shifting in their seats, taking notes, repeatedly lining up pens and pencils, tapping fingers on their notepads, and laughing a little too loud, too often.
7:57.
Three more minutes and Regional Sales Manager Robert Merz would appear, take his seat and begin the two-hour session.
St. George tried not to think about it, but his mind drifted to the last woman he’d snatched, taken to the shop. He couldn’t get her face out of his head.
She’d looked at him with, what was it?
Betrayal?
Her eyes screamed: I know you. How could you do this?
Squirming in his seat, he tried to focus on something else, but he couldn’t block the memory of those questioning, accusing eyes. They haunted him:
Why? Why me?
If he could have told her, would she have understood?
She was a nurse, like Mother. Nurses were supposed to understand, Father said. Nurses knew life wasn’t a Disney fantasy. And if he could, he would have helped her, would have helped all of them. He closed his eyes, shut down the image, and forced his mind back to the present.
The other CHEMwest NorCal reps had his attention again. He concentrated on each person, spaced around the table, as though set equidistant on a three-dimensional chessboard. St. George could visually define the territorial borders each had mapped out.
The women were clones of each other. Young, seductive, but still business-like in their dark suits and expensive, muted silk blouses. There was little to differentiate one from the other. St. George sometimes wondered if they checked with each other in the morning before going to work. On any day no two ever wore the same color blouse. He studied each in turn, focused on the brunette who sat directly across from him.
You think being a woman gives you a leg up, don’t you, Martine Yamada? How many of those docs have made it into your panties? And you’re still not top dog, are you?
He wondered if she remembered their one night together. She turned her head just then, almost as if she knew what was on his mind. He nodded and gave her a quick thumbs-up, but she averted her eyes and began rearranging the pencils in front of her.
The men were beardless, with close-cropped hair. All of them dressed in custom tailor-made suits, with rep ties that were expensive, subdued, and conservative. He took satisfaction in the fact that he was the only one with even the slightest offbeat appearance: his red, gelled hair often brought snide remarks, especially from Merz. But he knew that man was never going to mess with success. St. George brought in enough money to leverage some individuality, as long as it didn’t get out of hand, and he continued to be a winner.
8:00
Robert Merz burst through the door, quickly covered the length of the room with long strides, and took his seat at the head of the table.
“So, Marti,” Merz said without any preliminaries. “I see your stats are still hovering over the toilet. What’s the problem?”
Yamada’s skin lost all its color. “I’m on it, Bob. You’ll see a big turn-around next month.”
“What’re your criteria for handing out these expensive perks?” Merz said sharply, consulting his notebook computer. “Let’s see, two trips to Paris for the good doctors Grandemange and Farkas at Ridgewood, yet, their orders aren’t worth mentioning. Looks like you’re trying to frost the cake before it’s baked.”
“I just need a little more time, Bob.”
St. George looked at Marti’s animated face.
Did he feel sorry for her? He considered that for a moment.
In a fair world, all the reps should have occupied the same playing field, but the fact that Marti was so young and beautiful should have nudged the odds in her favor. Yet here was Merz roasting her over the coals.
“Time?” Merz leveled a finger at St. George. “Does Eddie ask for more time? No! He does his job, stuffs the big bucks not only into CHEMwest’s pocket, but into his own.” He swung the finger around and leveled it at Yamada. “Get with it, little girl.”
Merz moved on without missing a beat. “So, Archie,” he said, taking a quick glance at his open laptop.
The moment was filled with tension; everyone held their breath. Archibald Jervis had been low man on the sales stats for three months running. Merz had been increasingly harsh following the posting of each month’s results.
“Archie, when are you going to finally show me those big guns you keep bragging about?” Merz said. “Right now you’re only shooting blanks.”
The sales manager loosened his tie, getting ready for battle, then sat upright in his seat. “Between you and Marti, NorCal is going down the chute faster than a snowboarder.”
Jervis did not change expression. The wide smile he’d walked into the room with took up the same spread of space from cheek to cheek.
“Man,” Merz said, “don’t just sit there with that shit-eating grin. What’s going on in that overly-educated head of yours?”
Jervis flushed, then his skin turned pasty, but the smile remained. A sheen of perspiration oozed on his forehead and St. George could smell the fear two seats away.
“You can’t know what a nightmare it is out there,” Jervis said.
Merz leaned forward in one quick, threatening motion. “Are you kidding me? It’s my business to know exactly what’s going on out there.”
“I didn’t quite mean it that way.”
“Well, how the hell did you mean it?”
The tone of Merz’ voice caused St. George’s chest to clamp down.
No. He’s not Father. You’re safe here.
St. George pulled his inhaler from a jacket pocket, took two solid puffs. For several seconds he tried to quash the wheezing that squeaked out into the room. They all turned their attention from Jervis to stare at him. Their eyes were merciless, did not waver until his chest eased and silence returned to the conference room.
“Well, Archie? I asked you, just what did your dire comment about what’s happening out there mean?” Merz demanded.
“The fact that we left the negative results from the latest clinical trials off the informational insert is making the docs suspicious of our big money maker, Longinal,” Jervis said. “They’re not putting in orders like they did in the past.”
“I see.”
“Those class-action suits against us aren’t doing us any good either,” Ellen Carrie blurted.
“And it doesn’t help being accused of having the FDA in our pocket, either,” Monique Larkin said. “We’re getting a whole lot of static about corporate policy that tends to make the job twenty times more difficult.”
“What a bunch of whiners. Do you stay up nights thinking up this bullshit?” Merz said. “You’re all supposed to be professional sales people. Sales mean selling. Sell the goddam products!”
“We’re trying,” Yamada said.
“Did you hear what I said?” Merz stood, leaned over, rested his palms on the table. “You need to sell
more. Do you hear me? More! MORE!”
Goose bumps rose on St. George’s arms. He stared hard at the manager. Agitated coughs from other reps rippled throughout the room. Some started to get up, assuming the meeting was over.
“No, no, no!” Merz shouted. “Stay right where you are.” He turned his attention directly to St. George.
“I’ve got a biggie for you that’s going to make your month, Eddie, maybe even your whole year. And you’ve earned it. If you think your cohorts are envious now, they ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
Merz let his eyes roam from St. George to each of the others in turn. Those who had left their seats quickly sat back down. Everyone’s attention was hard on the sales manager.
“As we’re all painfully aware,” Merz said, “the patent will soon expire on CHEMwest’s successful and highly profitable lung cancer inhibitor, Pneucanex.”
“Zyloctine, right?” said Terence Hawks.
“Forget the generic. Let’s stick with our trade name: Pneucanex,” Merz said.
This should be interesting, Eddie thought. Merz, in a rare weak moment, once confided that he was often at loss as to how to deal with Hawks, CHEMwest NorCal’s only Afro-American detail man. “Really want to get him out of the middle-of-pack in stats,” Merz had said, “but I’m afraid if I push too hard I’ll get hit with a discrimination suit or some other anti-black nonsense.”
“How long before the altered version of Pneucanex is ready?” Larkin said. “And what’s the new name?”
“Hold off! I think I can answer all your questions so you don’t waste any more of my time,” Merz said.
“Essentially,” he continued, “the new polymorphic form of Zyloctine – to give it its full, legal, generic name, for the moment – is ready for field trials.”
“Thank God!” said Yamada. “When can I start telling my customers?”
Merz glared.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Marketing is in the process of putting together a series of pre-launch events, to be closely followed by a launch program to heighten interest and enthusiasm for the altered product.”
Merz nodded at several of the reps. “I know many of you have commented that you would like to see marketing come up with a new name for the Pneucanex replacement, and I don’t totally disagree. However, what we have is a recognized, mature brand. While we all might have preferred a brand new drug, with a brand new name to fight lung cancer, we go with what we’ve got.
