Tropical Storm - DK1

by Melissa Good

  It was all familiar, all part of her routine. By the time she hit her fourth lap, the sun was peeking over the horizon, painting the sky in peaches and cream as the clouds hung over the ocean, and the humidity was rising as well, drenching her in sweat.

  Dar slowed as she ended up where she started, and as she halted and paced slowly around to cool off, a boy with curly blond hair skimmed up in a golf cart, the words Beach Club blazoned on its fiberglass front. “Morning, Tropical Storm 7

  Carlos,” she said between breaths.

  “Morning, Ms. Roberts.” The boy hopped out, straightening his white linen short-sleeved shirt neatly, and lifting a gently steaming cup from a tray on the front seat. “Here you go.”

  Dar gave him a half grin and took the cup of café con leche. “How do you manage to time this just right?”

  The boy smiled. “Not me, ma’am, it’s you. Like clockwork—six-forty-five, here you are.” He paused. “Unless it’s raining, of course, and then it’s six fifty-five.”

  She laughed and took a sip of the beverage. “Mm...lots of sugar and cream. Just how I like it,” she complimented the server, who sketched a quick bow in response. “Thanks.” Dar started up the stairs as he turned and scooted back into his cart. Turning the vehicle deftly, he zipped back up the path.

  Carlos was a pre-med student, working his way through one of the local colleges by waiting at the Beach Club during the early hours and going to afternoon classes. He was a friendly kid, local, as most of the day servers were, and Dar liked him a lot. He took extra effort to find out things his regular customers—and Dar certainly was that—liked and gave it to them, no questions asked.

  She finished the coffee as she padded around the condo, pulling out clothes and starting the shower running. Fifteen minutes later, she was drying her hair and pulling on the tailored gray skirt suit and black blouse she’d chosen to wear, buttoning the cuffs and laying the top button open to expose the thin golden chain holding up a tiny teddy bear, her only jewelry save the diamond studs perched inconspicuously in her ears. Company dress code: no danglies.

  Dar gave her reflection a once-over, running her fingers through her neatly cut and feathered hair to settle it, then adding the barest touch of makeup. Her skin was already sun-darkened, a legacy of a lifetime in the subtropics, and she hated the mess of putting on and taking off the stuff, so it was a bit of gloss, a hint of eye shadow, and that was that. No one ever notices anyway, she wryly admitted.

  Not these days, anyway. Dar could look back with not quite fondness over a time when she’d played that game in the office and gotten stung by it, but now she took pains to keep everyone at a distance, more fitting in any case to her executive status.

  Look, but don’t think about touching. Dar met her own gaze and acknowledged the sardonic expression with a wry twist of her lips.

  Her most striking features were her pale blue eyes although most people expected hazel or brown to match her coloring. Some people suspected she used colored contacts, others openly speculated about her having Irish or Danish somewhere in a Hispanic ancestry.

  Dar wished they’d find something more interesting to speculate on, but everything was fair game in office gossip. She sighed and picked up her briefcase, slung it over her shoulder, then headed for her car.

  She waited until they’d loaded the Lexus LX470 onto the ferry before she dialed the office, leaning back in the leather seat and waiting for her secretary to answer.

  8 Melissa Good

  “Dar Roberts’ office, how may I help you?” Maria’s precise, Castilian-accented voice issued from the cellular speakerphone mounted in the dash.

  “Morning, Maria,” Dar responded, watching the waves of Government Cut splash over the low deck of the ferry.

  “Ay! Good morning, good morning,” the middle-aged woman replied.

  “Dios mío, Dar, half of the earth is here looking for you already. Did something happen this weekend?”

  “Associated Synergenics happened,” the tall woman explained. “The boys in Houston have their rocks in an uproar.”

  “Tch… ay, no wonder.” Maria rustled some papers. “I have three folders with tons of things in them, and a stack of phone messages for you.”

  “Great.” Dar sighed. “Schedule me out this afternoon to Synergenics, and call a staff meeting of the prelim account team for ten AM, all right?” That would toss her schedule out the fourteenth floor window her office was on.

  “This is a hot one; Alastair is sitting on it.”

  “Ayeyiyi!” Maria made some quick notes. “You had a doctor’s appointment this afternoon.” Her voice held a gently chiding tone.

  “Cancel it,” Dar replied, getting the expected silence in return. “Can’t help it, Maria. A checkup can wait a few days, this can’t.” The headaches that had prompted the appointment had tapered off during the weekend anyway, and with any luck, it would stay that way for a while. “Don’t worry, I took it easy this weekend. I feel great.”

  “I’ll call that secretarita of your doctor’s and get another appointment,”

  Maria replied stubbornly.

  Dar relented. “All right, gotta go. I need to call Mark.”

  “Oy.” Even through the phone, Dar could sense her assistant’s rolled eyeballs. “You tell him, okay for me, Dar—no more little pink rabbits on my screen, all right?”

  The tall executive stifled a chuckle. “All right. Talk to you in a bit.” She disconnected and dialed another number, watching idly as the ferry nestled into its dock. The phone rang twice, then a gruff voice answered. “Yeah?”

  “Good morning, Mark.”

  “Who in… Oh, uh, yeah. Right…Monday morning. Who else would be calling me at seven thirty? Hi, Dar.”

  “I need Synergenics, Mark.” Dar released her parking brake and eased the Lexus up the metal gangplank, as the dockers washed the car down with fresh water to remove the salt spray from the ocean. “Now.”

  “Aw…for chrissake, Dar, it was closed last friggin’ night!”

  “I have a meeting there this afternoon, and I need the info, Mark. Get in there and get it, no whining,” she crisply told the manager of Information Services. “They have a bullshit system; it shouldn’t take you more than fifteen minutes to get in, if your reputation is up to it.”

  Mark Polenti had been, in his younger years, both a hacker and a cracker.

  That is, he raided computer systems and cracked security codes in devices such as long distance boxes. Now, he served as part of Dar’s advance team, which went in and got information on an acquisition, information that the new account usually didn’t want Dar to have. Things like personnel reports, workman’s compensation claims, insurance statistics…things she needed to Tropical Storm 9

  base her slice-and-dice decisions on.

  Only good, low-maintenance people would be candidates for transitioning, and that kind of information was usually kept back. For good reason. But Dar’s job was to incorporate the new account into the infrastructure as economically as possible, thereby making the account as profitable as possible. It was a simple formula, and relied on her ability to shift work from the new company to existing agencies within the corporation, thereby rendering the newcomers superfluous. They never saw it that way, though. They viewed her swooping in as a shark circling defenseless fish, and tried to hide in any nook and cranny they could to escape her teeth.

  They never did.

  She had the ability to strip resources to the bone and trim down an operation with a lightning speed that had gained her a justifiable reputation for savage, precise decisions. It was what had landed her the VP position, and what kept her as Alastair’s favorite girl, the one he handed the tough ones to.

  She’d never let him down, and had no intention of starting with this one, especially since Synergenics was local. Their offices were right off Kendall Drive, and she could get to them without having to send the team on ahead by air. “Get going, Mark. I need the prelims by the time I hit the off
ice.”

  “Where are you?” The MIS chief queried, a rapid-fire clicking transmitting through along with his voice.

  “McArthur, about to pass Star Island.”

  A definite smug tone floated through the airwaves. “Tch tch tch…you’re slowing down, Dar. I’m in. I got the database. Which printer you want it at?”

  Dar chuckled. “Mark the Shark…you are something else. AdminP2 will be fine.”

  “Okay, sending. Man, this security is bullshit. No wonder these losers got inhaled.” The mutter was interspersed with clicking. “Oh well, no wonder…Novell. Oh, man, and unsecured gateways. Jesus, Dar, they don’t even have a frigging firewall!”

  “Pathetic,” Dar agreed. “Who’s responsible for this mess?”

  More ticking and then Mark said, “A…well, I’m assuming here, ’cause you never know, but a lady by the name of Kerry Stuart,” He continued,

  “Hmm…hmm, hmm. …Hmm. …Ah. …Yep, bingo assumption. Ooo…hmm.

  Hey, Dar, she’s cute.”

  Dar rolled her eyes and sighed. “Can it, Mark.”

  “Mmm-mmm, nice. Blonde hair, pretty green eyes. Jesus, she’s just a friggin’ kid. Twenty-six, not married, nothing on her medical side. Oh wait, heh…she had a pregnancy test just after Christmas last year. Negative.”

  “Mark…”

  “All right, all right. IT degree from Michigan State. She’s from somewhere up there in the boonies. Last job was for Edutech as their regional co-ord up in that neck of the woods. Oh hey, her father’s Senator Stuart.”

  “Hmm…yeah?” Dar inquired, as she turned onto Brickell Avenue and headed south towards the high rise that housed the company. “He’s been courting the Troy office for some contribs. I remember hearing Lou complaining about it.” She directed the Lexus into the parking lot and up to the security gate, nodding to the guard as he opened it for her. “All right, can 10 Melissa Good you give me a folder on her, too?”

  A chuckle sounded from the phone. “Do seagulls crap on your windshield? I’ll be nice and add a color picture to it.”

  “Not necessary, Mark,” the executive warned. “That’s more your line.”

  “Who said I was doing it for you?” The MIS chief chortled. “Bye.”

  Dar chuckled softly as she turned into a spot and shut the car off, grabbing her briefcase, then taking a quick look in the rearview mirror before she got out and locked the car. “Another day, another gutting,” she commented to a passing cat, who gave her a look and dashed off.

  “THEY’RE GONNA FIRE all of us,” Charles stated, for the sixth time in five minutes. “My cousin worked for Allied when they took over, so forget it.

  We’re toast.” He was sitting on the small desk in his cubicle, his headset dangling around his neck and a Styrofoam cup in his hand.

  “You don’t know that,” Elaine protested, glancing at her phone pad, which showed several lights blinking. “Who knows, maybe it’ll be better.

  Maybe we can get pencils now,” she jiggled a small barrel on her desk, full of writing implements, “instead of having to go steal them from banks.”

  The large room was more than usually noisy, most of the staff being occupied in talking about the merger, which was being referred to as a hostile takeover. Associated Synergenics was a company of about two hundred employees, dedicated to providing software and hardware solutions to the hospitality industry.

  They had a core of programmers and engineers who designed systems for restaurants and hotels to manage their points of sale, their accounting, and other areas where computers were used for record keeping and analysis. Of course, they also had a group of support staff to answer questions, and a small department of hardware technicians, who installed the equipment and went out to provide service on it.

  They were local, in the tri-county area of Dade, Broward, and Palm Beach, which provided enough customers to result in a slowly growing business. Everyone had been very optimistic about this year, especially after they’d landed a huge contract with Publix supermarkets, the major grocery retailer in the state of Florida. Now this.

  Everyone was upset. It was like all their hard work was going to be swallowed up by this monolithic company who didn’t care about them, and certainly didn’t care about the customers they’d been so careful to attract and retain. It didn’t seem fair, really.

  Charles sucked down the contents of his cup, then sat down with a grunt and put on his headset. “Guess I’d better at least pretend to work. Where the hell is everyone, anyway?”

  Lana, a tall, thin brunette who sat on the other side of his cube, looked up.

  “Big meeting. The brass called all of them up there about an hour ago. I guess to give them the bad news.” Her eyes focused on something. “Uh oh, here they come.”

  They all turned as the doors to the front of the support center opened, and a group of managers filed in, ranging from the support manager, Ray, to Tropical Storm 11

  the lead programmer, Susan. All of them looked grim. The last one in was Kerry Stuart, who leaned back against the closed door for a minute before she straightened her shoulders and nodded for everyone to move on ahead of her.

  At twenty-six, Kerry looked hardly old enough to be a junior manager.

  She was about average height and had a slender build, with lightly tanned skin that contrasted with her blonde hair and green eyes. Her face held a stamp of youthful innocence that belied a certain intensity in her eyes, and she often surprised people both with her insightful knowledge of the business and her skill at handling conflict.

  Right now she carefully got up onto the printer table at the end of the huge room and held up a hand. Since everyone there was looking at her anyway, it achieved its intended effect, and calls went on hold immediately.

  “Okay, folks, listen up.” She had a clear voice, but she was shaking a little, and they could all see it.

  Silence fell, she paused as one of the programmers loped up to her and handed her a small microphone. “Does this w—oh, I guess it does.” Kerry cleared her throat, her voice suddenly magnified. Heads of other curious employees popped out of the offices surrounding the large central area.

  “Okay, I’m sure you all know by now that as of last night, we were officially bought out.” She paused and took a breath. “Some of the people who belong to the company that bought us are going to be around here starting this afternoon, and I think we all know that we’re going to see some changes.”

  A low murmur rose, and Kerry put a hand up to still it. “I don’t know what kind of changes, or what they’re going to do, or what this really means for any of us; we’ll just have to wait and see. What I’m going to ask you to do is just go on and do your jobs; take care of our customers. Let’s not overreact until we know what’s really going on.”

  “Get your résumé ready,” a voice uttered in a disgusted tone.

  “Bet they find some way not to give us benefits for six months,” came another. “If they bother to keep anyone.”

  “All right, come on, people, let’s just wait to see what happens,” Kerry stated again. “That’s all I have. If someone from them comes in here, be nice, answer what they ask, and just keep it cool.” She handed the microphone to the programmer and gingerly got off the table, smiling at Ray, who held her elbow to prevent her from falling off. “Thanks.”

  She moved on towards the end of the big room, passing through the small labyrinth of offices until she reached her own, buried in the back corner. Most of the managers trailed her there, obviously wanting a private word with her, but she put up a hand as she entered her sanctum. “Give me a few minutes, guys, okay? Go get some coffee, or check your e-mail or something.”

  “Call my headhunter.” Susan snorted, shaking her silvered chestnut head. The short, stocky programmer stalked over to her tiny office, piled to the ceiling with printouts.

  Kerry watched them disperse before she entered her own office and circled the desk, sitting down in her chair and putting her head in h
er hands.

  “Jesus.” What a mess. And it had all been going so good, too. With a sigh, she leaned back, letting her hands fall on her denim-covered thighs, the fabric reminding her of yet one more change they’d have to face—dress codes, as 12 Melissa Good Robert Mayabera had warned her when he’d met with her that morning.

  “I didn’t think we’d done that badly,” she’d said in shock when Robert told her the news. “I thought it was just rumors.”

  The company founder, a short, pugnacious Cuban immigrant, had laid his immaculate hands on his desk. “Chica, you did nothing wrong, okay?” His brown eyes had been a little sad. “It came down to money, that’s all. They made me an offer, like you say in the movies, I cannot refuse it.” He’d lifted a hand. “I’ve got six kids, all getting to the age where I have to now do quinces, and cars, and college. I love the company, but the buyout, my friend, the buyout makes me able to do right by my family.”

  “No, Robert, I don’t…” Kerry had sighed. “I don’t blame you. I just…we were like a family ourselves, here.”

  “Chica, I know.” Robert had gotten up and crossed around his desk, hitching up his trousers to perch on the arm of her chair, and put a hand on her shoulder. “I tell them how great you are, every chance. You did a fantastic job with everything, really turned it around here the last year, all that. I give them an opportunity to see that.”

  “I don’t care about me,” the young director had stated quietly. “Robert, these people work really hard. I don’t think those guys are going to care about that. I think they’re just going to come in here and tear us apart.”

  “Hey, come on now, let’s wait for the boat to sink before we start thinking of drowning, okay?” He patted her cheek. “Let me see that tough Michigan State warrior thing. What is it, a Trojan?”