by Dianne Emley
She didn’t expect him to move, but yelling at him felt good. She was surprised when he took a step back.
She grabbed the package between her teeth and managed to tear a gash in it. At the same moment, Drye threw himself against her and pressed his pelvis against her buttocks. Iris could feel he was aroused. The coffee grounds showered over her face, down the front of her blouse, and onto the floor, scattering everywhere.
She drove the heel of her pump against his shin.
He grabbed his ankle. “Bitch!”
She stared at him open-mouthed.
He laughed.
She spoke evenly. “I thought you and I had come to an understanding, Drye, but that tore it.”
He laughed harder. He grabbed his ribs and bent over in mock hysteria, backing up until he ran into the aluminum and plastic lunchroom chairs. They skidded against the linoleum.
Some of the bitter grounds had fallen into her mouth. She tried to pull them off her tongue, then brushed at the coffee that clung to the front of her blouse and skirt.
Drye watched her.
She stopped brushing and looked at him. “What?”
He straightened the knot in his tie. “You can’t prove anything.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Just be careful, Iris. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
“Oh, I’ll be careful, all right, because I know exactly who I’m dealing with.”
They stared at each other for several long seconds until he turned on his heel and left the room. She wet a paper towel under the tap and mopped up the errant coffee grounds from the floor, cursing under her breath. “Two-bit bastard. Bully.”
She returned to her office, locking the door behind her. The miniblinds were still closed. Lousy son of a bitch. Try to intimidate me. She stood over the wastebasket and brushed the grounds from her blouse, finally unbuttoning it. Coffee grounds had fallen inside and were stuck to her skin, which was moist with nervous perspiration. Wants to play hardball…She used a tissue to brush off the grounds, reaching under her brassiere. The coffee left brown smudges on her skin. We’ll play hardball.
After she’d cleaned up as best she could, she pulled open a filing cabinet drawer and ran her fingers across the tops of the manila folders. She’d filed the documentation under a phony client name to disguise it from prying eyes. The file for C. GUMBAS had worked its way to the back. It was an anagram of SCUMBAG. She pulled out the file, then opened her door and miniblinds, not wanting to arouse suspicion.
Inside the file were several pages of lined yellow paper. A list of times and events was written in blue ink, pencil, black rollerball, whatever was at hand.
8/23 Drye suggests I sleep w/him. We’re alone in elevator.
9/15 Drye puts hand on my ass in lunchroom. Alone again.
There were many more notes. She had kept track of the incidents for a year before she stopped. She brought up the word processing program on her computer, typed in everything on the list, then added the events of today. She saved the file to the hard disk, then made a copy onto diskette, which she put into her briefcase. She put the C. GUMBAS file back into the filing cabinet.
She looked at her watch. It was time to leave for her appointment. She turned off the computer, gathered her things, and started to walk out of her office. She paused with her hand on the light switch, changed her mind, went back inside, and turned on the computer again. She deleted the file from her hard disk, then opened the filing cabinet, pulled out C. GUMBAS, and put the file into her briefcase. She left the office, turned off the light, and closed the door.
CHAPTER NINE
It was 3:30, and almost everyone had left the office for the weekend. Art Silva was typing client follow-up data into his computer. He kept meticulous records on all his clients and frequently stayed late to update his files. His computer keyboard answered with a shallow plastic retort as he touch-typed, the long fingers of his quarterback’s hands making small space of the keyboard. He sat tall in his desk chair, the woven leather braces that crossed his back making his shoulders look even broader in his white Oxford cloth shirt, which had lost its morning crispness. It was a discordant image, Art’s primeval physique working the dainty plastic of the computer.
He ran his hand through his black, wavy hair, which he kept a bit long at the back and high on top. He looked at his watch, a gold concoction with a bright band that was not cheap but was far from a status piece. He wore a class ring from his alma mater, a local state university, on his right hand. It was set with a red stone simulating his birthstone, and his initials were inset on either side of it.
Art raised his head and looked over the top of his cubicle across the empty desks toward the corner office. The door was open and the light was still on. He checked the time once more, then stood. He picked at the burn mark on his shirt, took his suit jacket from a hook on the cubicle wall, and put it on. His suit was gray with a chalk stripe that was neither too broad nor two thin, neither too far apart nor too close together, a fabric that was not designed to make a fashion statement. Like his watch, the suit was not budget and not the best either, but it was the best that he could afford, and he bought the best that he could afford, knowing that appearances count, confident that eventually he’d be able to buy whatever he wanted. He had, however, splurged on his tie. It was silk and printed with a fashionably splashy pattern of Las Vegas icons: dice, card fans, roulette wheels, numbered keno balls and slot machines. It was his favorite tie because it reflected his philosophy of life—roll the dice, spin the wheel.
He grabbed a yellow pad and started walking down the corridor toward Herbert Dexter’s office, rolling his shoulders as he walked, marking the beat of his progression, a gait left over from the high school football field and the barrio, a motion that suggested bravado, that the best defense is a good offense.
At Dexter’s doorway, Art rapped on the door and waited to be invited in.
Dexter was reading The Wall Street Journal, holding his head in his hands with his fingertips spread against his temples, the plain gold wedding band on his left hand resting loosely between the knuckles of his bony ring finger. There was a pile of several back issues of the Journal from the previous week squared against a corner of his desk.
He looked up when Art knocked. The fluorescent lights reflected off his round glasses, revealing fingerprints and smudges on the lenses, something that Dexter, who was never without his glasses, hardly noticed.
“Art! Come on in,” he said jubilantly. His office was decorated in a Western motif. A large painting of Native Americans engaged in a buffalo hunt hung behind his desk. Several replicas of Remington sculptures were around his office, tired cowboys on tired steeds, running cowboys on running steeds, fraternal cowboys sharing smokes, placed so that Dexter could gaze upon them after he had put down the current issue of The Economist or US News and World Report.
He rose and leaned across his desk to shake Art’s hand. His angular frame, long neck and long, bony fingers made him seem even taller. He’d always been a slender reed of a man and hadn’t filled out much in middle age, but there was something in his build that hinted that he’d played some kind of ball in school. He still had most of his lank, pale hair.
Art reached his hand out to meet Dexter’s across the desk. They heartily pressed each other’s flesh and smiled energetically and made meaningful eye contact. Dexter’s handshake was firm, but Art made sure his was even firmer, to the extent that it was almost bone-crushing.
“Sit down, sit down,” Dexter said, beaming with broad, even teeth that had a slightly yellow cast. “Can I get you some coffee?”
Art sat in one of the tapestry-upholstered chairs facing Dexter’s desk. “No, thanks. I’m fine. I’ve had plenty today.”
“I know how that goes.” Dexter relaxed into his chair, letting his knees fall open and clasping both hands behind his head. It was a wide-open pose that said, “Give me your best shot.”
Art attempted his own relaxed pos
ture by setting one leg on top of the other, grabbing his ankle with one hand, and hooking his other arm across the back of his chair.
“Catching up on the Journal, huh?” Art said amiably, nodding his head toward the pile of newspapers.
“Oh yeah,” Dexter said. “I read every issue religiously. If I miss one, I save it for later. Haven’t missed one in fifteen years.”
“No kidding. Why?” Art asked guilelessly.
“My wife tells me I have a compulsive personality.”
Art pushed his lower lip out, tightened his chin so that the flesh was dimpled, and nodded sagely, not knowing how to respond.
Dexter continued, “But I’m inclined to think I like to keep up on current events.” He took his hands from behind his head, rolled his chair forward, and dropped his clasped hands on his desk with a thump. “So, Arthur, you wanted to meet with me.”
Art also leaned forward, placing his arms on his legs and dropping his clasped hands between his knees. “Mr. Dexter, I’ve been in Sales for about six months and I’ve been working really hard.” He paused, waiting for confirmation. None was forthcoming. He continued, “I want to be a success at McKinney Alitzer. I want to be the best salesman you’ve got.”
“I admire your ambition. Good thing to see in a young man.”
Buoyed by Dexter’s response, Art became more animated. He unclasped his hands and moved them expansively. “I’ve landed a couple of new accounts. They’re starting slow but I’m nursing them, gaining their confidence.” He shimmied forward until he was sitting on the edge of the chair. “I know I’ve got what it takes to be the best. I know I do.” He leaned his forearms on the opposite side of Dexter’s desk. The tapestry chair tipped forward slightly on its slender front legs. Dexter sat back in his own chair to avoid being nose to nose with Art.
Art rolled into his pitch, elbows on the desk and both hands held out. “Mr. Dexter, I want Sam Gold’s accounts when he retires.” Having reached his apex, he collapsed back into the chair with his legs sprawled out. Too nervous to sit still, he waggled his legs in and out.
Dexter sat quietly for a painful beat or two, rubbing his chin between his thumb and forefinger. Finally, he leaned forward in his chair. “Art, I’m glad you brought that up. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this. I’m happy to say that you are getting some of Sam Gold’s accounts. To be fair, I’m dividing them up among all the sales reps according to the management requirements of each account.”
Art was sitting on the edge of his chair again. “That’s fair.”
“I’m happy to tell you that you’ll be managing the Panosian Markets and the Silvers.”
Art blinked as if it would help him hear better. “Panosian Markets and the Silvers?”
Dexter was again sitting with his legs spread and his hands clasped behind his head. “They’re both long-standing, medium-sized accounts—good clients—and I’m confident you’ll do well with them.”
“The Silvers? That old couple? All they want are money markets and CDs. And Panosian’s got a couple of mom and pop stores in Armenian neighborhoods like my dad’s corner store in East L.A.”
“These are people who have entrusted their life savings to us. It’s a big responsibility and not to be taken lightly. You have to walk before you can run, Arthur. It’s hard to break in new clients.”
“But I’ve brought in new clients. I know how to handle new business.”
“You’ve done great, but they’ve all been related to you. Your uncle, your cousin. Of course, that’s the way you have to start in this business. That’s the way I started. But the worst thing you can do right now is get in over your head. And that’s the worst thing I could let you do.”
“What about Consolidated Industries and the Keyhole Fund and those pension plans Sam’s got?”
“To be frank, I need a more seasoned person to handle those. They’ll be split between Iris Thorne and Billy Drye.”
“All right. And Amber?”
“Amber’s getting six. She’s been in the industry significantly longer than you have.”
“And Sean Bliss gets the rest.”
“That’s correct.”
Art bolted up. “Why?” He walked to the center of Dexter’s office, then turned to face him. “No. I know why.”
Dexter was sitting straight in his chair again, looking as if he were preparing to stand.
“You’re friends with Sean’s father. You both belong to the Edward Club. Like they’d ever let me in that club.”
“My relationship with Sean’s father has nothing to do with this. Sean’s background and personality are more in line with the needs of these accounts than yours are.”
“His background?” Art walked to Dexter’s desk and leaned on it with both hands, his shoulders pressing against the leather braces that crossed his back. “We’ve been in Sales the exact same amount of time.” He slapped Dexter’s desk. “You must mean his race.”
Dexter stood. He was a head taller than Art, but they probably weighed about the same. “If you think your being Hispanic has something to do with this, you’re sadly mistaken, fella. I put a lot of thought into matching clients with reps. I can see by your display here that I made the correct decision. Now, please step away from my desk.”
Art became aware of himself and stepped back. He looked at Dexter sheepishly, his big hands limp by his sides. “I got carried away. I’m sorry.”
“I’ll accept your apology. I was a Young Turk once too. A real hothead. But that didn’t fly when I was coming up and it’s not going to fly around here. I’ll give you two pieces of advice, Arthur.” Dexter pointed one finger at him. “Lose the attitude.” He straightened a second finger toward him. “Pay your dues.”
He unrolled the rest of his fingers and extended his palm toward Art. Art took it. Dexter leaned across his desk and patted Art’s shoulder with his other hand. “Keep up the hard work. You’re doing great.”
“Thanks,” Art said, releasing Dexter’s hand and moving toward the door. “There’s only one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s Arturo, not Arthur.” He walked out the door.
CHAPTER TEN
Julie’s was the street-level watering hole in the McKinney Alitzer office tower. The room was dominated by an oval bar around which businesspeople freely and unapologetically invaded one another’s space. It was Friday and happy hour was just getting started. The folks who had gotten paid that day had an extra reason to celebrate. The eagle will soar.
Iris spotted an empty stool at the bar and nabbed it a second ahead of another woman. She was fifteen minutes late to meet Barbie Stringfellow, but there was no Barbie to be seen. Iris ordered a chardonnay and grabbed the last piece of focaccia from a napkin-lined basket. The flat bread was covered in an olive oil‒based paste of garlic, basil, and rosemary. Iris gobbled it down, then dabbed her finger in the basket to retrieve fallen basil and rosemary fragments. She asked the bartender for more.
Several televisions were hung around the oval bar, all tuned to the Lakers game. Most of the men and some of the women had tilted their heads to raptly watch big men skilled at running while bouncing and throwing a ball. Iris tried to become interested in the game as a way of passing the time, but watching the players run back and forth, back and forth soon bored her.
She was into her second basket of bread, the stress of the work week giving way to unrestrained consumption, when she caught a flash of purple out of the corner of her eye. Barbie had arrived, forty-five minutes late. Iris waved a piece of focaccia at her and Barbie returned the wave with fingers decorated with shiny nails and glittering rings.
The crowd prevented too breezy an entrance, but Barbie made the most of what was available. She wore a purple chiffon blouse that was sheer except for two patch pockets over her breasts. Her bra, visible through the blouse, was also purple, as was her leather miniskirt and the faux jewel-encrusted baseball cap perched at a jaunty angle on her abundant hair. She slid thr
ough the crowd, holding her hands above her head, pressing full body against the men she passed, momentarily drawing their attention away from the Lakers game.
“Iris! I love this! Out and amongst ‘em!” She threw her large, white purse on top of the bar, where it landed solidly. “Whatcha got? Wine again? Barkeep! Yoo-hoo! Barkeep! Bourbon and ginger ale in a tall glass with a lotta ice, if you please. Whatcha eatin’?” She leaned close to Iris, pressing her breasts against Iris’s arm to grab a piece of the focaccia. Iris leaned away.
Barbie laughed. “Sorry, honey. These enter a room before I do.” She bit into the bread, leaving a fuchsia lipstick mark. “Hmmm…different,” she said with her mouth full. “Sorry I’m late, sugar. This town, I’m tellin’ ya. I don’t know how y’all get anywhere. Well, how the heck are ya, Iris?”
“I’m good, thanks. I’ve done a lot of research and I’ve got a great plan laid out for you.” Iris started to reach down into her briefcase, which was sitting on the floor.
Barbie put her hand on her arm. “Darlin’! Always the businesswoman. Always on the go. Just go, go, go. Relax. Let’s have a drink. We can always talk about business. Good Lord, ain’t it the truth?” She started brushing at Iris’s shoulder. “What the heck you got on ya?”
Iris looked at her shoulder. “Oh. Coffee. It’s a long story.”
“Sounds like a doozy. Here’s my drink. Boy oh boy, is this gonna go down good. Let’s toast, sugar. To the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Remember that from Casablanca? I love that movie. Cry every time I see it.”
Iris lifted her glass to Barbie’s.
A man wearing an expensive suit and standing next to Barbie smiled with amusement at her.
Barbie spotted him. “You got a financial manager? I got a great one. Give him your card, Iris. You got a card? Give him your card.”
