Pound Foolish (Windy City Neighbors Book 4)

by Dave Jackson

  “Greg! The hot water ran out again,” Nicole yelled from their bathroom.

  Oh, no! Not this morning. He didn’t have time to mess with the water heater. But he couldn’t leave the family without hot water. He took another swallow of coffee and called to his wife, “I’ll take care of it!”

  On his knees in the laundry room downstairs, he opened the little door at the base of the water heater and bent down. Sure enough, the pilot was out again, so of course the burner hadn’t come on. He’d relit the thing several times in the past few weeks. At some point he needed to figure out why it kept going out. Was it set too low? Was there an adjustment? He didn’t know.

  He shined a flashlight around the interior of the firebox. The burner was heavily scaled with rust, and the area around the small orifice for the pilot light glistened with . . . water? Sliding his hand underneath the water tank, he felt a small puddle, no larger than a jar lid, but it was definitely wet. Water must be dripping on the pilot and putting it out. He’d have to find where the leak was coming from, tighten a fitting or close a valve or something.

  But he didn’t have time to track that down this morning.

  He went through the relight sequence and reached the propane lighter in until the pilot caught, waited sixty seconds, turned the valve to On, and the burner roared to life.

  Whew! Fifteen minutes wasted, and he should probably clean up a little, but if he still hurried . . .

  He arrived late, and the standard room he’d reserved turned out to cost him $149 per night even with the conference discount. As the receptionist at the front desk took his card, he almost stopped her to ask if anyone from the conference was interested in sharing a business-class room to save a little money. But of course the hotel people wouldn’t know that, and he didn’t wanted to look cheap, so he let her swipe his card.

  Handing five bucks to a bellhop to take his bag up to his room, he asked the concierge where SlowBurn was meeting.

  “They’re in the Copper Room.” The man pointed. “Past the stairs, third door on your right.”

  Forty or so women and men had already gathered, a light lunch buffet along one wall of the conference room, when Greg slipped in and found a seat at a table in the back. Arlo was up front making announcements. He paused momentarily and nodded his recognition of Greg. That felt good. At least someone knew him and was glad he was there.

  Each place along the long narrow tables held a leather-covered tablet, a pen, and two cans of chilled SlowBurn. Greg gratefully opened one of his cans and took a swig. Ahh. Refreshing. Should be easy to sell the stuff. But Greg hadn’t yet figured out how.

  The afternoon proceeded with one of the SlowBurn executives from New York reviewing the history of the company and the development of the secret formula for the drink—stuff Greg had already read online. Then a middle-aged African American couple from Florida told how SlowBurn had revolutionized their lives and how they were now living the high life in a waterside villa with a private boat slip in which they’d parked their new forty-eight-foot yacht. They both had BMWs and were on their way to Alaska for a three-week vacation.

  “We just wanted to stop over here in Chicago and wish y’all the best from your SlowBurn family in Key West. You’re welcome to drop in and see us any ol’ time, ya hear? And please forgive us for duckin’ out, but we have a plane to catch.”

  Greg watched them go. Really? Lucky stiffs.

  That evening at the awards banquet, Greg sat at a table with seven other Chicago area reps. All of them seemed gung ho and doing well. He tried to match their enthusiasm, but his claims felt like dust in his mouth. Could the others tell?

  At the banquet that evening, Arlo was again the emcee, which gave Greg a point of connection, but Arlo hadn’t done anything more to recognize him during the day other than shake his hand and say he was glad Greg had made it.

  “And now,” Arlo said, “it’s time to recognize all the hard work you’ve been doing recently.”

  Yeah, yeah, yeah, thought Greg as he took another bite of his chicken cordon bleu. The conference was supposed to encourage and train the reps, but so far Greg hadn’t learned anything new that would turn his business around. In fact, in comparison to all the other success stories, he was beginning to feel downright discouraged. Maybe SlowBurn wasn’t his ticket to success after all.

  Arlo’s words broke through his gloom. “Greg Singer, come on up here. Greg’s our rookie salesman of the cycle with three, no it’s four reps working for you now, isn’t it, Greg? And he’s only been on the job for two weeks. So, everybody, put your hands together for Greg Singer!”

  Greg could feel the heat rising up his neck, turning his face red as he slid his chair back and walked toward the front. He never expected this . . . and wait a minute, he didn’t have four reps working for him. He had Mattie Krakowski, Ben Garfield, and Destin Jasper—an elderly lady, a dumpy-looking retiree, and a teenager. As far as he knew, not one of them had sold more than one or two cans of SlowBurn. And there was no fourth rep. But he was already walking toward the platform.

  At the front, rather than take Arlo’s proffered hand, Greg leaned forward and whispered, “I only have three reps, not four.”

  “Ha, ha, ha!” Arlo’s voice boomed through the microphone to the whole group. “Greg’s trying to tell me he only has three reps.” He threw his arms wide. “How can that be?” And then he slapped Greg on the back. “It’s because the man’s so modest, he forgot to count himself. Here, this is for you.” He stuffed an envelope into Greg’s left hand and shook his right hand. “So let’s give it up for Greg Singer, rookie rep of the cycle.”

  Greg’s face was burning up. He acknowledged the group’s applause with a nod and small wave and hurried back to his seat.

  “Believe me, ladies and gentlemen”—Arlo’s voice followed Greg—“in this business there’s no room for modesty, because we’re all winners. Isn’t that right? Greg’s a new winner, and some of the rest of us are old winners, but we’re all winners, so we don’t need to apologize for anything.”

  Greg took his seat and scanned the big smiles from others around his table.

  “Congratulations, Greg. You’re doing great,” said the older man to his right.

  Greg nodded and turned his attention to the next award recipient—the first rep from Rockford, Illinois, was celebrating his one-year anniversary. But while he listened to Arlo describe the woman’s accomplishments, Greg looked down and opened the envelope between his legs. It held a beautifully printed certificate with his name on it and a crisp hundred-dollar bill.

  What?

  Greg glanced from side to side to see whether those sitting next to him had noticed. No one was paying any attention.

  Wow! When Arlo had first described the SlowBurn business to him, he’d emphasized the many rewards a person could earn with increased sales, but he’d never mentioned this little perk. A hundred dollars wasn’t much, but it certainly lifted his spirit.

  The award ceremony continued for another forty-five minutes until it seemed half the people in the room had been recognized for one thing or another. As Greg watched, he noticed other people pull a bill out of their envelope too. A few waved theirs at those around them, but no one seemed surprised to have received it.

  There were no scheduled events after the award presentations, but for the first time, people began to reach out to Greg, congratulating him, calling him by name—even though he’d been wearing a nametag all day—welcoming him, and asking what part of the city he was from. Everyone seemed so friendly as the group moved like an amoeba out of the Copper Room, down the hall, and into the bar where they began ordering drinks.

  Greg didn’t drink alcohol, but he wanted to remain sociable, so he had a Coke and schmoozed with the others. He soon saw that the tradition was to buy drinks for all those standing around you with your hundred-dollar bill. His Cokes were three bucks, but some of the mixed drinks others ordered on his round were three or four times that much.

  An
hour later he slipped up to his room with only twenty-three dollars of his award money remaining in his pocket.

  * * * *

  When the conference was over on Friday, Greg headed home congratulating himself that he hadn’t succumbed to the pressure to take advantage of the full financial management program SlowBurn was offering. Greg had always handled their own money at home and was sure he could do the same for his new business.

  He had, however, agreed to the company’s tax package. The SlowBurn executive said it would help him decide whether it would be most beneficial for him to operate as a sole proprietorship or incorporate as an S-Corp. “Taxes can be a real headache. There are monthly taxes, quarterly taxes, and annual taxes. And you don’t want to get behind or mess up any of them because you don’t want to attract an audit from the IRS. I can help you get it set up right, and later, if you want, you could do it yourself.”

  But the tax assistance package for the first year was fifteen hundred dollars. Greg signed up but hadn’t paid any money. “This’ll just reserve you a spot in my schedule,” the executive said. “If you don’t want to follow through, you can always cancel later.”

  The guy sitting across from him on the shuttle from the Hyatt to O’Hare left his newspaper when he got off, and Greg picked it up and took it with him.

  Once seated on the ‘L’ on his way into the city, he opened it to catch up on the news of the last few days. He flipped from page to page until one headline caught his attention: “Unemployment Benefits Extension Nixed for Nearly 1 Million.”

  Greg frowned as he read. It didn't say unemployment benefits would be eliminated. It just said they wouldn’t be extended for people who were already receiving them.

  Was he one of the unemployed? He’d never thought of himself that way, but at least until he started making some money, it would seem he could qualify. Maybe he should find out. He’d certainly had enough unemployment tax deducted from his checks over the years to qualify for something. But the idea of admitting that he’d lost his job, was unemployed, and didn’t yet have a source of income was really hard to face. It felt like admitting defeat.

  Still, an unemployment check would bring in a little money, more than he’d made so far. But he’d heard that to receive unemployment benefits, you had to actively search for work. Was he willing to do that while SlowBurn was still a possibility? Did he even have any viable leads? The idea made him feel defeated.

  So much for coming home from a rah-rah conference that was supposed to fire up all the SlowBurn reps. He felt flat, like a glass of ginger ale left out overnight.

  In the Loop, he transferred from the Blue Line to the Red Line and headed north toward home. It was the middle of rush hour, and he had to remain standing until the train got to Ravenswood before a seat opened up. He couldn’t let Nicole see him this way, nor the kids either, though they probably wouldn’t understand.

  The thought of his family cheered him up, especially remembering the Father’s Day surprises they’d had arranged for him. They really did love him.

  Nicole met him at the front door with a breezy kiss on the cheek. “Welcome home, honey. Sorry to run out. I was just ready to take Mom home. Go say hi to the kids. They’re down in the basement.” She called over her shoulder, “Mom, you ready? We gotta go.”

  Frida Lillquist came out of the master bedroom and down the hall to the foyer pulling a small, rolling suitcase. She smiled when she saw him. “Oh, there you are, Greg. We were going to take the kids along, but they didn’t want to leave their show. Now that you’re here, they can finish it.”

  “Hi, Mom. Good to see you.” Greg reached for her case. “Here, let me take that. You have a sleepover?”

  Nicole’s mother chuckled. “Hmm, something like that.”

  “Hey, I can take that. It’s light.” His wife grabbed the luggage from Greg as though they’d been running a relay with it. “Go on down and greet the kids. I’ll be back in a half hour or so. Supper won’t take long when I get back. I bet you’re tired.”

  Greg watched them go. Well sure, it made sense for Nicole to invite her mom to stay over while he was gone. Maybe she’d been lonely. Strange that she hadn’t mentioned it when they spoke on the phone the other night though.

  Chapter 24

  True to her word, Nicole had supper on the table within thirty minutes after getting back with the car. Spaghetti with Nicole’s homemade sauce. Not exactly a “welcome home” meal, but plenty of it and Greg was hungry. “Did you kids have a good time with Grammy?” he asked.

  “Uh-huh.” Becky pursed her lips and slurped in a long strand of spaghetti, earning a frown from her mother.

  “Who cooked this meal?” Nate looked around the table as if a chefs’ competition was in progress.

  “I did, silly.” Nicole pinched him playfully.

  “You’re a good cook, Mom.”

  Greg smiled at the little ritual Nathan had adapted from his mother’s positive reinforcement techniques when the kids did a chore without being reminded or otherwise did something noteworthy. But he was curious about Mom Lillquist’s visit, which puzzled him because Nicole hadn’t mentioned it on the phone. “How long was your mom here?”

  “She came over on Tuesday, and she was so helpful. I’ll have to tell you all about it—but later, okay?”

  Greg got the later message and let it rest. In fact, he forgot about it until after the kids were in bed. “Oh, hon, look at that sunset,” Nicole said as she came into the living room where Greg was on the computer.

  Greg turned toward the front window. Deep reds and burnt purples outlined the dark clouds in the west.

  His wife rubbed his shoulders. “Let’s go sit on the front steps. I want to hear about your conference.”

  Greg looked back at the computer screen where he’d been studying the members-only page describing the financial management assistance SlowBurn offered its reps—for a very steep fee. He saw nothing new on the page he hadn’t heard at the conference. He clicked out of it, glad he hadn’t put down any money.

  “Sure, why not.” He got up and followed Nicole out the front door. A tree had once inhabited the parkway right in front of their bungalow, but it had died and the city had removed it several years ago. Sometimes Greg groused that they hadn’t yet replaced it, but the gap in Beecham’s tree-lined canopy allowed the Singers to view sunsets over the roof of their Hispanic neighbors across the street.

  They sat on the steps in silence, taking in the gnarly sky as its last embers died.

  Nicole reached out and touched Greg’s arm. “I wanted to tell you why Mom was here. Remember how I had Tabby—Tabitha Jasper—come down to be a mother’s helper for me a couple of times?”

  “Yeah. You were thinking of doing some work for that lawyer guy, right?”

  “Yeah.” Her voice brightened at his recollection. “Well, when I called to see if Tabby could come over this week, I found out she was away at a cheerleading camp in Indiana. But Mr. Paddock had some paralegal work for me, so I called Mom, and she seemed happy to come over.”

  “Did he call you?” He knew his question carried a sharp challenge in his voice, but he couldn’t help it. He had no problem with Mom Lillquist caring for the kids, but . . . he’d already suspected this guy was hitting on his wife.

  “No, I called him. Why?” Her hand dropped away from his arm.

  “But why? Why would you call him?”

  “Because . . . because you were going to be gone this week, and I thought it would be a great opportunity to test picking up a little work. I’m sure we can use the money until . . . while SlowBurn gets going.”

  She had him there, but money wasn’t the issue right now. Still, it stopped him for a moment. “So what did you do? He drop off some typing for you or something?” At least Nicole’s mom would’ve been home when the man came by.

  “No. I went down to his law office, fifty-first floor of the AON Center. He’s with Watkins, Ellis, and Katz.”

  Greg chewed on what Nicol
e had just told him. “AON? So he’s in a real firm, not a back room in his limo company’s garage?”

  “Of course not.” Nicole said it with eye-rolling tolerance. “It’s a big firm, Greg, over eight hundred attorneys plus hundreds more support staff. It’s legit, big. Turns out Lincoln’s a junior partner, which makes him pretty important in a firm that size. Know what I mean?”

  “Yeah.” Greg thought about it some more. “So what did he have you do? You go to court?”

  “No. I spent all week preparing a bunch of boring contracts. But at least I was back in my field.”

  “Contracts about what?”

  “Greg, client/attorney privilege!” She punched his shoulder. “You know if I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

  “All right, all right.” The tension was broken.

  “Here.” She handed him a folded slip of paper. “This is the good part.”

  He opened it and by the light coming through the screen door saw it was a check from Watkins, Ellis, and Katz for $1,152. “Wow! How much were they paying you per hour?”

  “They paid me thirty-six an hour, but on a fee-for-service basis. I had to sign a waver with HR stating that I had not been hired and am responsible for all my own taxes, etc. But if I continue, Lincoln said they’ll put me on the payroll.”

  “If you continue? Uh, Nikki, I appreciate you doing this, but you’ve got the kids and all. I can’t let you start supporting us—”

  “Well, is SlowBurn paying the bills yet? You don’t tell me anything, but I haven’t heard you crowing about any big sales. And I’m sure you would if they were coming in like you said they would.”

  Ouch, that hurt. “Not yet. It takes time to establish a business. You just don’t understand these things.”

  She stood up. “Is that right?” She turned on her heels and slammed her way through the screen door, calling back, “I may understand a lot more than you think.”

  Greg sat in the dark, the neighborhood now illumined only by the peach-colored streetlights and the glow from the windows of other homes along Beecham Street. There, he’d gone and done it again. But she was so sensitive . . . too sensitive. He didn’t like feeling as if he had to walk on eggshells around her.