The Consultant

by Little,Bentley

  He chuckled, checked his watch.

  It was time to get to work.

  ****

  Hector from the mailroom dropped off the usual boxful of correspondence on Diane’s desk outside Mr. Matthews’ office, and, as always, it sat untouched for several minutes while she finished what she was doing. Finally turning her attention to the mail, she separated the envelopes into three categories: junk, business and personal. As usual, about half of the mail was addressed to Comp-Ware, the other half to Mr. Matthews personally.

  But this time, there was also an envelope addressed to her.

  That was odd.

  Opening it, Diane saw that it was some sort of bill. A credit card bill, apparently, though why it had been sent here rather than to her apartment was a mystery. She glanced down at the charges.

  $186,000.

  Her heart almost stopped. That couldn’t be right. This was a mistake. It had to be. Or a sick joke. That was more than her entire remaining mortgage. She looked over the bill. Current charges: $63.49. That was about right. But the outstanding balance carried over from last month was $185,936.51.

  That was impossible.

  The phone rang, and she answered it, still staring at her bill in disbelief. “Mr. Matthews’ office.”

  “Hello,” the man on the other end of the line said. “May I speak to Diane Bellows?”

  “This is she. How may I be of assistance?”

  “I’m calling in regard to your Visa balance…”

  “I was just about to call you,” Diane told him. “There must be some mistake.”

  “I’m afraid not. You currently have a balance due of one hundred and eighty-six thousand dollars—”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “This bill is past due, and if the charges are not paid in full by the end of business hours on Friday, I’m afraid our only recourse is to start proceedings against you.”

  “I didn’t do it!” she said, panicked. “It’s fraud or identity theft. Someone got my number and used it to—”

  “You are responsible for the charges, ma’am. The card agreement is in your name, and if you read the terms on the back of your statement, you’ll find that your responsibilities in regard to this matter are spelled out very clearly.”

  Diane took a deep breath. “I need to talk to your supervisor. Someone who can make decisions. There’s been a huge mistake here. I need to go over all of my individual purchases with someone and—”

  An idea suddenly occurred to her. “Wait a minute. A hundred and eighty six thousand dollars?” My credit limit is three thousand. How did charges over that amount even get on there?”

  “We would like to know that as well.”

  “It’s impossible. There’s some sort of computer glitch on your end.”

  “We require immediate payment of one hundred and eighty-six thousand dollars.”

  “Even if I did owe that much, which I don’t, I still wouldn’t have to pay the whole thing at once. I’d have to make a minimum monthly payment. That’s how you guys make your money, charging fees and interest.”

  “That time is past, Ms. Bellows. You have been delinquent in your payment for over a year—”

  “What?” Diane was shouting. “This is crazy! You’re making a huge mistake! There’s obviously been a computer error. I’ve never been late with a payment in my life!”

  “Our records say otherwise, Ms. Bellows.”

  Diane hung up the phone, her hands shaking. She didn’t know what to do. She probably needed a lawyer or something. Maybe she could talk to Mr. Matthews, see if he could get Legal to help her—

  The phone rang again.

  It was an outside line, and she knew it could be someone important, someone for Mr. Matthews, someone who had business with CompWare, but she had the feeling that the call was for her, that it was the man from the credit card company.

  Instead of answering, she pressed the mute button and watched on her console as the little red light blinked in silence. It finally stopped, but only for a moment. It started blinking again as another call came in. Diane knew that she couldn’t ignore the problem forever, that she needed to deal with the credit card company—

  by Friday

  —but she needed to talk to someone higher up. This was obviously a gigantic mistake, and all she had to do was tell the truth and get things sorted out.

  She stared at the blinking light, thought of picking up the phone, but realized that she was afraid to talk to that man again. Something about his unflappable persistence frightened her.

  Maybe she would talk to Mr. Matthews about her problem. He’d been acting a little odd lately, but she’d been his secretary for over a decade and she knew he’d want to help her.

  She pressed the mute button a second time, and the phone started ringing again. She picked it up. “Mr. Matthews’ office.”

  “Ms. Bellows?” said the credit card man.

  She hung up the phone, trembling.

  ****

  Huell was not happy. No, it was more than that. He was pissed. He squirmed around in his seat, trying and failing to get comfortable.

  Someone had switched chairs on him. The one behind his desk looked exactly the same as his old one, even had the same crack on the left armrest, but this one was smaller. The seat was so narrow that he had to wedge himself in, forcing his body into a painful angle that was bound to play hell with his bad back. Was this a joke? Was someone trying to tell him he was too fat? He knew he had gained a few pounds lately, but that was his own damn business, and, besides, it was completely understandable. He’d been under a lot of stress lately, what with taking over the OfficeManager project after Tyler’s death, and when he was stressed, he ate.

  But that didn’t give anyone the right to prank him about it.

  This was illegal. It was harassment, that’s what it was, and, damn it, he was going to find out who was responsible. Twisting his hips sideways and pushing himself up using the armrests, he managed to struggle out of the chair.

  Rusty walked by, probably on one of his three thousand trips to the bathroom. Huell called the technical writer over. “What was that manual update you gave me?”

  Rusty looked confused. “When? Recently?”

  “This morning.”

  “I haven’t sent out an update for weeks. I’ve been working on testing and redocumenting OfficeManager.”

  “Yeah? What’s this, then?” Huell picked up a paper-clipped set of papers from his desk. “You think that’s funny?” The technical writer looked confused. Exasperated, Huell turned to the second page, tapping his index finger on the headline Suicide Instructions.

  “I…I didn’t write that!”

  “Then who did? You’re the only tech writer we have.”

  “I don’t know, but it wasn’t me.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Huell…”

  “You call me Mr. Parrish from now on.”

  Rusty walked away, shaking his head. “Whatever.”

  Rusty might be weaselly enough to write idiotic things like “Suicide Instructions,” but there was no way he had the wherewithal to pull off a subtle trick like switching an office chair. That required someone with more focus and determination.

  Huell started walking around the programmers’ workstations, trying to figure out if one of them was behind it. He had his doubts, but—

  He stumbled, nearly falling, tripping over a leg that had been thrust into the aisle. Recovering, he turned to see Lorene glance briefly in his direction. “Whoops,” she said. “Sorry.”

  Huell confronted her. “You tripped me on purpose!”

  Lorene looked up innocently. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “That’s it,” he said. “I’m reporting you to Craig. I don’t want you on this project anymore.”

  “Wittle baby’s going to cwy to Daddy,” she responded in a whiny girlish voice. Her tone hardened and she fixed him with a laser stare. “Like the pussy that he is.”

  “F
uck you, bitch.”

  “No, fuck you. I know you’re the one who erased the new updates I created.”

  He glared at her. “Yeah? Well, you were trying to get me fired by making my computer access porno sites.”

  “That doesn’t even make any sense.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “Asshole.”

  “Stupid dyke.” He started to walk away, then turned on her. “And, besides, you changed my chair, didn’t you?”

  “Changed your chair?” She rolled her eyes crazily and pretended to be manipulating steel balls in her left hand. “It was the strawberries,” she said in a terrible Humphrey Bogart voice.

  “It doesn’t matter. You’re off this project.”

  “Go to hell.”

  Huell was about to storm off when Rusty reappeared. “Have you ever thought,” the technical writer said, “that they’re trying to get us to fight with each other, that they’re pushing our buttons, knowing how we’ll react?”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Huell told him.

  “Yeah, douche,” Lorene said.

  “The consultants—”

  “Both of you just stay the fuck out of my way,” Huell said. He made a quick tour around the cubicles then ended up back at his own workstation. It could have been any one of them, he decided.

  He needed to stay on his toes.

  Nobody could be trusted anymore.

  ****

  Julio Ortiz was the first of the day shift custodians to arrive, and he was early enough that he was able to chat for a few moments with Maria, one of the cleaning women on the night shift and one hell of a fox. He was pretty sure she was illegal—why else would someone who looked like her have such a crappy job?— but that was a point in her favor. Maybe she was looking for a green card marriage. In his fantasies, the two of them got hitched so she could become a citizen and, while they were pretending to love each other, they actually fell in love. He knew that was more a movie plot than something that would happen in real life, but even if things didn’t pan out that way, he was still willing to be in a sham marriage with her.

  As long as she helped pretend the marriage was real by performing her wifely duties.

  None of this was anything he ever brought up with her, though. Their conversations, short as they were, were always about work and things in general, and all of that romantic stuff stayed where it belonged, in his head.

  After Maria left, he was still early, so before clocking in, he walked over to the row of boxes next to the tool room and checked his mail. Traffic and the snooze button on his alarm had led to him to be a minute or two late almost every day this week—which was why he’d made a special effort to get here early today—and he hadn’t checked his mailbox. He was surprised to find that it was nearly full.

  That was strange.

  The only mail he usually got in his box was the union newsletter once every two months.

  Julio pulled the stack of papers out, sorting through them. They were all nearly identical: single lines of type in the center of a blank sheet.

  “I know where your parents live,” said one.

  “I know where your sister lives,” said another.

  “I know where you live.”

  “I know the name of your dog.”

  “I know the code for your alarm.”

  Beneath the stack of papers was an envelope, and in the envelope were photographs. His parents eating breakfast in their kitchen. His sister naked in the bathtub of her apartment. Himself, asleep in his bed. His dog, Armando, eating a raw hot dog from the hand of the man taking the picture.

  “What the hell…?” Julio said aloud.

  He looked into the boxes next to his to see if similar messages had been given to anyone else on the custodial staff but saw nothing. How long had these been piling up? he wondered. Had someone put them all in at once or had they been inserted one each day?

  And who had done it?

  And how could anyone have possibly taken those pictures?

  Julio considered himself a pretty brave man. He had never run away from a fight, and even as a child, he had stepped in to help kids who were being bullied, no matter if the bullies were gang members. But he had never come up against something like this before, and he was more afraid than he had ever been in his life.

  He tried to tell himself that it was a joke, but he knew it was no joke. He tried to tell himself it was one of the other custodians, but he knew it wasn’t one of the other custodians. He didn’t know who it was, but whoever—

  whatever

  —was behind this, knew everything about him and could do the impossible.

  Diablo, his mama would say, and though he thought he’d grown out of that sort of childish superstition, he crossed himself.

  He jumped a mile when Akeem walked into the basement a second later, and he forced himself to smile when his friend laughed and said, “A little nervous today, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I guess I am.”

  THIRTY FIVE

  “Check this out,” Phil said, pushing a paper across Craig’s desk. “What is it? A memo?” “Read it.”

  ****

  TO: Human Resources Senior Supervisory Personnel

  RE: New Hires

  It has been determined that preferential consideration should be given to potential hires who are not married or are, at the very least, childless. In today’s competitive work environment, the presence of children in an employee’s life invariably results in a loss of productivity on the part of that employee. Until a companywide standard can be established and corresponding rules implemented, it is strongly suggested that any new part-time, half-time, full-time or contract workers engaged by CompWare through the Human Resources department not be married and not have children.

  Regus Patoff

  Regus Patoff

  BFG Associates For Austin Matthews, CompWare CEO

  ****

  “How did you get this?” Craig asked.

  “I have my sources.”

  “But weren’t they just saying that we had to be married?”

  “Supervisory personnel,” Phil reminded him. “These rules are for non-supervisory employees.”

  “That seems random.”

  “They’re just fucking with us. Probably trying to pressure certain people into quitting or retiring or something.” He pushed another paper across the desk. “I have something else,” he added. “I’m not sure how real it is, and there’s no way to authenticate it, but check it out.”

  Craig picked up what turned out to be a printed list of names, dozens of them, in small print, arranged alphabetically in five columns. “What’s this?”

  “Supposedly, it’s the people who are going to be fired, laid off, let go, downsized, rightsized, whatever you want to call it.”

  “The list?”

  “The list.”

  Craig scanned the paper. “Lorene’s on here,” he noticed.

  “There’s a lot of names you’ll recognize. From your division and mine. I haven’t done any calculations, but it definitely seems like some enemies of the state have been targeted and are going to lose more people than others. Your group, of course, is relatively safe because, well, you’re necessary. You create content.”

  “Huell, too?” Craig said, still reading. “Lorene and Huell are two of my top programmers.”

  “What I want to know is: how are they going to do this? Is it going to be gradual or done in one fell swoop?”

  They were both silent for a moment, each of them able to read between the lines.

  Was anyone going to die?

  How had it come to this? Craig wondered. How had it gotten to the point where the two of them were wondering if any of their co-workers were going to suffer some mysterious accident or illness, yet neither of them were even contemplating going to the police or quitting their jobs or…doing something? For all of their defiance, they were little more than passive bystanders, watching what was going on and hoping that none
of it touched them personally.

  Capitulation was a slippery slope, and they were already sliding down to the bottom.

  It was all for Dylan and Angie, Craig told himself. That’s why he was doing this. And it was. He didn’t want to rock the boat too hard and have Patoff come after his family. But it was also easier to stay out of it, and he realized that for some time he had been putting up with much more than he should have due to an optimistic hope that BFG’s presence here was temporary, that the consultants would be gone soon.

  That’s all it was, though. A hope.

  He saw no indication that BFG would be leaving anytime in the immediate future.

  “It’s almost lunch,” Phil said. “Want to try the cafeteria? It opens today. And we’re paying for it.”

  “Sure,” Craig said, handing back the list.

  “No, that one’s for you. I made a copy.”

  “And what exactly am I supposed to do with it?” Craig said.

  Phil frowned. “What do you mean?”

  He sighed. “Nothing. Let’s eat.”

  They were in a full elevator on their way to the cafeteria, when a Zen-like bell tone issued from the overhead speakers, followed immediately by an announcement made by a woman’s voice so mellifluous it sounded like that of a professional broadcaster rather than another CompWare staffer: “Attention all employees. The lunch hour has begun. Outside doors to the building will be locked until lunch is over. Those who have brought their own lunches may eat at their desks, in the break rooms or in the cafeteria. Those who have not brought their own lunches should proceed immediately to the cafeteria, where healthy food options are available for all.”

  “Huh,” Phil said, eyebrow raised.

  “We’re going to be locked in? I hadn’t heard about that,” Craig admitted.

  No one on the elevator had, and though everyone was cautious and circumspect in their reactions, the consensus seemed to be that this was not a desirable development. It was unsettling to know that they were prisoners here at work, and while Craig understood the more-efficiency-greater-productivity rationale, it didn’t make it sit any better with him.

  The doors opened on the cafeteria floor and though he had seen it before, Craig was once again blown away by the sight of the open, airy restaurant. As much as he hated to admit it, the consultants and whoever they’d hired to build this place had done a wonderful job. It was truly impressive, even more so when filled with people. The well-designed space easily absorbed all comers and managed not to seem crowded no matter how many arrived.