He didn’t have to say anymore. She nodded her understanding and told him softly, “I’ll write it down and bring it in to you.”
“Thanks.” Still looking at the papers in his hand as though searching through them for specific information, he walked back into his office.
Several moments later, Diane came in. “Found it,” she said, handing him a Post-It note. “It’s the most recent I could find. Hopefully, it’s up to date.”
He smiled at her. “You’re a lifesaver.”
There was obviously something more she wanted to ask, but she seemed to sense intuitively that he did not want to talk, not here, not now, so she left, closing the door behind her.
He glanced at the address. He recognized the street. It was in Bel Air. A neighborhood close enough to his own that it made Matthews wonder why the two of them had never socialized outside of work. He considered driving over there and showing up at Brandt’s house, but there were probably security gates, and it would obviously be better to phone first and give the man some warning.
He definitely didn’t want to call from his office, not even using his cell phone, so he told Diane he was going out, and waited until he was on the road, making a hands-free call from his car. The phone rang ten times, twelve times, twenty times, the rings continuing long after voicemail should have answered. Matthews didn’t even think about terminating the call, however, and he was rewarded when the phone at the other end was finally picked up. There was no voice, only silence, but he could tell there was someone there, and he proceeded as if this were a routine call and nothing out-ofthe-ordinary was happening. “Morgan? It’s Austin Matthews.”
“Austin?” Brandt’s voice sounded weak and tired, old, with nothing like the dynamic authority Mathews was used to hearing.
“Yeah!” He put some false cheer in his voice. “I heard you weren’t with Bell anymore, and I thought I’d check in with you, see what’s doing.”
There was a long pause. “It’s about BFG, isn’t it?” Brandt said. “It’s about him.”
Suddenly given the option to tell the truth, Matthews took it. “Yes,” he admitted. “It is.”
Silence on the other end.
He pressed on. “I was wondering if we could meet, if I could talk to you in person. I have some questions, and I’m not sure I want to—”
“Talk over the phone?” Brandt said in his old man’s voice.
“Exactly.”
“I understand.”
“I’m on my way home, and I’m in the neighborhood. I thought I could stop by your place.”
Another long pause.
“Do you still live off Summit Ridge? I’m over on Oak Pass.”
Silence.
“It won’t take long. A few minutes. I just want to…talk.”
“Are you alone? You’re not with anyone?”
“I’m alone. In my car. I didn’t want to call from work, and I don’t want to call from home. I know I’m taking a chance even here, but I have questions.”
Brandt was apparently satisfied. “Okay,” he acquiesced.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Do you have a gate or anything…?”
“Use the intercom. I’ll buzz you in.”
They said goodbye, hung up, and Matthews mused about what must have happened to make Brandt so fearful. He was frightened himself—and paranoid—but even after everything he’d seen, he hadn’t sunk to Brandt’s level.
Although it might be only a matter of time, he thought. Shivering, he turned up the radio to distraction level, concentrating only on the music as he pulled onto the onramp of the freeway.
****
Brandt’s estate looked…sick. It was the only word that fit. The iron fence surrounding the property was a pale gray instead of the shiny black it should have been, and the landscaping had reverted to wildness. Shrubbery was not only overgrown but underwatered, the exotic once-carefully manicured plants now untamed and shapeless, green leaves drying out to brown. The gardeners had obviously been let go, which explained the grounds, but Matthews could think of no reason why the house itself looked so dilapidated. He cruised slowly up the drive, parking at the top of the slope next to a dirty Mercedes whose tires were connected to the cement by spiderwebs.
Ringing the doorbell, he was told via intercom to come in, the door was unlocked. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness of the interior. No lights were on in the entryway and all of the shades were drawn. A flickering bluish light emanated from an arched doorway to the right, and Matthews walked into the most depressing room he had ever been in. There was no furniture save a recliner in which Brandt sat, and a small table next to it. The only illumination came from a flat screen TV mounted on the wall and turned to CNBC.
“Austin?” Brandt said weakly, peering at him through the gloom.
“Morgan,” he greeted his friend. There were a lot of questions and comments he had, but he sensed the emotional fragility of the situation and decided to pretend for the moment that there was nothing unusual going on. What he wanted—what he needed— was information about BFG.
Brandt didn’t beat around the bush. “He put me here.”
“Patoff?” It felt weird saying the name aloud.
“I’m the one who brought him on board. I hired BFG.” Brandt struggled to put down the foot rest and scoot forward in his chair. “They were supposed to just streamline operations, make us more competitive. Like they did for all those other tech companies.” His frail voice was filled with regret. “Their references were stellar.”
“I know,” Matthews said. “You gave them a great recommendation when I called.”
“I knew by then,” Brandt said quietly. “But I was afraid to tell the truth.”
In the light from the television, Brandt’s face looked odd, swollen. Matthews had the impression that he was suffering from some type of skin disorder, that the darkness was purposefully meant to hide his appearance.
He put me here.
“What is the truth?” Matthews asked. “What does he want? I’ve tried firing him, I’ve offered to buy out his contract, but he won’t go. It’s like he has some sort of…I don’t know, mission.”
“Oh, he does.” There was a long pause. “Do you know how many permanent full-time employees BFG has?”
Matthews shook his head. “I have no idea.”
“One. Regus Patoff. Owner and operator. He hires other people on an ad hoc basis, but only for specific tasks, things he doesn’t want to do himself or doesn’t have time for.” Brandt’s voice had gotten a little stronger. “That’s his goal, for BFG and for the companies he consults for—to pare down the number of workers.”
“I got that,” Matthews admitted.
“I’m not sure you do. Before he—” Brandt spread his arms to indicate his surroundings. “—put me out to pasture, he talked to me.” There followed a short coughing fit, and Matthews had the distinct impression that Brandt was suggesting that the physical state he was in was a direct result of that talk.
“His goal,” Brandt continued, “is to create what he calls the ‘perfect company,’ an organization so lean and mean, so expertly put together, that it can be run by a single person, with no other workers. He hasn’t reached that goal yet, but he’ll never stop trying. He did it with Bell; he’s doing it with CompWare.” Brandt coughed again. “That’s all he cares about. He’s worked for corporations that he’s driven into the ground, others that have tripled their stock prices and profits. Doesn’t matter to him. All beside the point. The objective is manipulating departments and people, input and output, purchases and products, to get to the point where the company can run on its own, with just that one employee. And he takes the long view. He might hire more people. Or expand departments. But those are just temporary detours on a road that goes in one direction.”
“He doesn’t like anyone to interfere with his plans,” Matthews noted.
“Oh no, he does not.” Brandt let out a sickly chuckle.
�
�A woman quit, a woman he wanted to get rid of, but she exited on her own timetable, not his, and he went crazy.” Matthews was not sure how much of this he wanted to tell, but he decided to press on. “He stormed into my office, and suddenly things started flying off the walls and floating off my desk.”
“He has power,” Brandt said grimly. “I don’t know what it is or where it came from—I don’t know what he is or where he came from—but he’s not human. That’s one thing I’m sure of.”
“So what do I do?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t be here.” Brandt coughed. “Bell was my company. And now it’s not. If you’re not careful, you’ll find yourself in the same situation.” He sighed. “Or maybe even if you are careful. It depends on Patoff’s plan. And only he knows what that is.”
“There’s no way to stop him?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Have you tried talking to anyone else?”
“No. In fact, I probably shouldn’t be talking to you right now. But I know you. And…” He trailed off for a second. “…it’s partly my fault you’re in this mess. I gave BFG a good reference when you asked. I knew what was going on. I was just…afraid.” Struggling, Brandt sat up further, leaned to the left, reached over to the wall and flipped on the room’s light.
Matthews gasped. He’d known there was something strange about Brandt’s face, but he was still shocked to see the extent of deterioration. For the man barely looked human. His forehead and cheeks were swollen so badly that his eyes could barely be seen; they were little more than slits peering out from between folds of flesh. Beneath his wide, flattened-out nose, his mouth had been twisted into a grotesque grimace exposing overlapping teeth, the lips bulging.
Acromegaly, Matthews thought, although Rondo Hatton had never looked anywhere near this bad.
It was not only the distorted shape of Brandt’s face that was so disturbing, however. The skin itself seemed to have been transformed. It was scaly and lizardlike around the nose and cheeks, furry in an almost feline way on the chin.
“Jesus,” Matthews breathed. “What happened?”
“The consultant happened.” Brandt flipped off the light, fading back into the shadows, and Matthews welcomed the darkness. “You don’t want this to happen to you. So my advice? Lay low, keep quiet, stay out of his way.”
“But it’s my company. And I intend to keep it.”
“That decision’s not up to you anymore. It’s up to him.”
THIRTY THREE
Every day now started with a meeting.
Before the arrival of the consultants, Craig would not have thought that anyone enjoyed meetings more than Austin Matthews. But the CEO was a piker compared to Patoff. The consultant lived and breathed meetings, seemed to draw strength and energy from them, and he used the get-togethers to unveil major policy changes as well as to announce inconsequential minutiae. Everything seemed to be equally worthy of meeting status in his eyes, and while BFG’s initial assemblies had been with workers of a specific class or particular job definition, they now seemed thrown together completely haphazardly with employees of little or no commonality.
The one constant was that Craig seemed to be invited to all of them. At least the observers were gone. Cameras were still in place, had continued to multiply in fact, but somehow they were easier to ignore and felt less restrictive than an honest-to-God person sitting there taking notes and monitoring everyone’s every movement. On the flipside, no one trusted anyone anymore. Other employees were now suspect, and in crowds larger than two or three close friends, people were wary, not certain where the others’ loyalties lay, worried that one of them might be a conduit to BFG. Craig had no idea if this was intentional or not, but it was like living with the Hitler Youth, and tension was ratcheted up so much that most employees preferred to spend their time at the office alone, working—which may have been the point.
But no one could be alone at a meeting.
Today’s was an anomaly. It consisted entirely of supervisory personnel and had an actual purpose: an announcement that CompWare would soon have its own cafeteria.
Patoff stood in front of a professional draftsman’s detailed conception of a light, airy restaurant. “While it is too early to draw conclusions on many of CompWare’s business practices and operations, our study shows that, on average, employees return from lunch a minute to three minutes late. Which means that, in the course of a year, the company loses approximately a day’s work from each employee. With three hundred and sixty-eight employees at present, that’s a loss of three hundred and sixty-eight days, more than a year. Having a cafeteria onsite will put a stop to that, in fact will quite possibly result in employees taking shorter than allotted lunches. It will also allow CompWare to control the portion size and nutritional content of its employees’ lunches, which, in the long term, will lead to a healthier, happier and more efficient workforce. A win-win!”
“When is this cafeteria supposed to be completed?” Sid Sukee asked.
“Oh, it’s done,” Patoff said, and Craig was surprised to hear that. Everyone seemed surprised. There’d been no indication that any sort of construction or remodeling had been going on in the building.
“The official grand opening is Monday, but we’re going to give you a sneak preview today. Are you ready to take the tour?”
People started standing up, gathering their things.
“I said—” The consultant was glaring at them. “Are you ready to take the tour?”
“Yes,” they responded. “Sure…Of course…Yes…”
“That’s better.” He smiled. “Come with me.”
They followed Patoff out of the meeting room to the elevators. Craig was surprised to see that, even after everything that had happened, the consultant still retained some of his original charm for some of the women. He conspicuously flirted with two of them and spoke of personal matters with three others, matters he’d obviously discussed with them several times before and that he gave a good impression of caring about. The remaining supervisory staff, however, was wary, suspicious, and kept a wide berth. Not wanting to be stuck in an elevator with the consultant, Craig, Phil, Elaine and a stream of others, under the pretense that it would be faster, took the stairs down to the second floor, where Patoff had said the cafeteria was located.
If any of them had thought they’d have a difficult time finding the eating area without Patoff to lead them there, that fear was put instantly to rest the second they opened the stairwell door. For the entire second floor seemed to have been converted into a massive high-end restaurant. Gone were the nearly identical corridors and rooms found on every floor above the first. In their place was a gigantic open space filled with light and plants and access to windowed views. Craig could not remember exactly what department had been stationed on the second floor, but it had obviously been moved elsewhere. His eyes took in the blond wood tables, spacious booths, potted ficus trees and ferns. Behind the long counter where food would be served, the kitchen was wide open, visible to all behind a glass wall.
“It seats four hundred,” Patoff was saying, as he came out of the first elevator with the initial group of supervisors. “Even without staggered lunch hours, there’s room in here for every employee as well as visiting clients.” He nodded at those who had taken the stairs and at the employees still emerging from the stairwell. “We have a few more stragglers,” he said, nodding toward the elevators. “Once everyone’s here, we’ll get started.”
How had they all missed this? Craig wondered. It had taken a tremendous effort to redesign an entire floor, yet no one had seen any workers, trucks or materials. No one had heard any noise or smelled any dust or paint. Whoever had previously occupied the second floor had not said a word, so there’d been no news from the rumor mill.
How was that possible?
“What are the prices going to be like?” Phil asked.
“The cafeteria will provide a free lunch to all employees,” the consultant said, and there
was a murmur of surprised approval. “Of course, a minimal pre-tax cafeteria fee will be deducted from each employee’s paycheck in order to subsidize these meals. This has already been approved by the Board, and not only will it provide everyone with a lunch, but it will act as an incentive to eat healthy. Since you’ll be paying the fee anyway, why bring a leftover greaseburger from home when you can have a nutritious meal here for free?”
“If we’re paying a fee, it’s not free,” Phil pointed out.
Patoff beamed. “Exactly!”
Both elevators opened and the last batch of attendees emerged awestruck onto the second floor.
“Shall we?” the consultant announced, and led them through the cafeteria, showing off the seating arrangements, allowing them into the clean spacious kitchen, going over proposed menus with the head chef, who joined them for the tour. Patoff, as usual, was acting as though he was in charge of the company, and Craig couldn’t help wondering where Matthews was and why he wasn’t the one showing them around.
Ghost in the machine.
It was all very impressive, Craig had to admit, and even he was looking forward to eating here. It would be very convenient—despite the fact that they would be under constant surveillance.
“One other thing before we adjourn,” Patoff said as he gathered everyone before the elevators. “It has been decided that it would be more advantageous for the ongoing benefit of the company if all supervisory personnel were married. Studies have shown that a stable homelife leads to less volatility at work and a more logical, less rash decision making process on the part of the employee. Put simply, the presence of a spouse allows an individual to focus more of his or her attention on work rather than dating and socializing.
“Now, obviously, we can’t force anyone to get married. That would be illegal. But let me assure you that, as we contemplate culling the ranks, that will be one of many factors that could be considered.”
Jonah Kosinski, a manager from the Finance department, spoke up timidly. “Does that mean I need to start looking for a wife?”
Patoff laughed. “Of course not. But if you are involved with someone and in a serious relationship, perhaps you should consider taking the plunge. If you are not currently involved with anyone, then we will be offering a dating service that can match you with compatible individuals within the CompWare family, or in one of the many other companies and corporations for which BFG consults. Strictly voluntary, of course, but, as I said, a stable homelife can lead to a stable work life—and stable employment.” He clapped an overly familiar hand on Kosinski’s back. “Just something to keep in mind.”
The Consultant Page 29
