City of Crime

by Warren Court

  “It’s come to my attention that you’re giving away business to other movers.”

  “How do you mean, Rick?”

  “Did you tell a potential client yesterday that they’d be better off finding a cheaper mover? And that you’d help them find that?”

  “Ida didn’t get the full conversation, just one side of it,” I say, and I surprise myself at my audacity, outing his little spy.

  “Don’t bring her into this. This is between us.” Confirming I’m right about Ida.

  “You want to see the lead card, Rick? The address is downtown – Barton Street, Hamilton. Down near Stelco. You ever been down there?”

  “Don’t get defensive. You admit you deliberately blew off a client.”

  “Damn right I did. It was an eviction, Rick. The guy didn’t have a pot to piss in and the girls gave him the impression it was a flat rate, a hundred and forty-two dollars from Hamilton to Dunnsville. Unless the guy is moving a couple of boxes of feathers you know damn well that move isn’t going to come in at anything less than four hundred. We’d charge the guy almost two hundred just to roll the truck to him and back.”

  “Still, if there’s a chance to do business, we do not turn it down.”

  “Remember when you were training me, you told me that our time is money. That we were just as important as a brain surgeon or a lawyer.” It was true; he did give me that spiel and I nodded in agreement and even chuckled, if I remember. He had been dead serious: Ricky Boy thought moving someone’s four-poster bed and love seat across town was as important as saving a life or putting away a murderer. What an idiot.

  “This part of the conversation is over,” Rick said. He referred to the file. “The computer on your desk. What do you use it for?”

  “Leads, getting contact info for corporate clients. And of course, the software that’s on it, for pricing out cross-border moves. Everyone on the floor uses it.”

  “We’ve got a list here of websites you’ve visited in the last month.” He slides it across to me.

  “I also use it to look at the weather, Google Maps, you know? Okay, occasionally I check my Hotmail at lunch. I even told you that.”

  “Look at the list.”

  Most of the list are the websites I admitted to going to, but mixed within these legitimate websites are pornography sites.

  “Rick, this isn’t fair. Three other people use my computer. The password is on my filing cabinet. That’s what you wanted. And look at these time stamps.”

  “The what?” Rick says.

  “These sites are viewed late at night. I’m not here past six. Even if I have a late-night appointment I just go home afterwards.”

  “I want you to sign this. It’s an acknowledgement that we spoke about this matter.” He slides a piece of paper across to me. An HR notice to go in my file. More ammo to get rid of me with no compensation.

  “This isn’t fair, Rick,” I say again. “Is everyone going to sign it? What about Tony the office manager? I’ve caught him playing solitaire on my computer.”

  “Just sign it, please.”

  I sign it and push it back to him.

  “The meeting on Thursday with AIC,” he says. “I called them and they’re just expecting me, so don’t plan your day around that meeting.”

  “Sure, fine, Rick.” I consider it a favour; I don’t have to spend an hour in the car with Ricky Boy. I want to take an iron bar and bash that giant blonde head in.

  Rick leaves and I follow him out. Neither of us says good night. I collect my stuff and get out of there.

  On the way home, a call comes over my Bluetooth. My car is old; it has no visual display on the dash showing incoming calls so I just push the button on my Bluetooth adapter on my dash.

  “Stan Rogers speaking.”

  “You never called.”

  “Hi, Gillian. Did I say I would call today? Sorry, my dear. I’ve just been swamped with work. It’s a busy time for moving.”

  “You said that was in the summer. That June was the busiest month.”

  “Yeah, it seems every month gets busier and busier. How are you?”

  “Are you coming by tonight?”

  “I didn’t know I was expected.”

  “So you’re not?”

  “Not tonight, my dear.”

  “Stop calling me that. It’s condescending.”

  “I’m sorry, Gillian. It’s been a long day. How about I come by tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be home at five.”

  “Okay,” I say, and I scream in my head Why are you doing this?

  “See you tomorrow night. I’ll fix us something to eat.”

  “Sounds good.” She hangs up.

  “Buddy, what are you doing?” I say to myself. “You got to get out of this. So what if she calls up Henderson and makes up some story that gets you fired? You’re on your way out anyway. You can make do without the severance.”

  FIVE

  Next day I beat all of the other salesmen into the office. Only people I don’t beat in are Mike the dispatcher and the movers; they’re busy getting the trucks ready. I say hello and try and start up a conversation with them, but they’d don’t have the time for me. The writing is on the wall. The older guys and Mike know I’m not cutting it. I want to tell them about the two moves I got yesterday, how on fire I was, but what’s the point? Instead I write the moves down in the book. They are sufficiently far in advance that there’s no issue about booking a truck.

  I swing by the girls in reception and hear Laura’s voice. She’s at the water cooler with Maria, one of her assistants. She sees me and smiles.

  “Hello, stranger. You working hard?”

  “Or hardly working,” I say, our old joke. “Is the golden boy in yet?”

  “You mean young Master Rick? No, I haven’t seen him.”

  “Thank god.”

  She winks and the assistant leaves. She lowers her voice. “Not going well?”

  “No. I think I’m on my way out. I need a farewell drink. What do you say?”

  “Not tonight, sonny boy. I have a date.”

  “Okay, then.” I turn to walk away and she grabs my arm. “Make it tomorrow, okay? After work, down the road at the pub. I can meet you there.”

  “Sounds good.” I cheer up a bit as I ascend to my office.

  Ida has her door closed and I stare at her for a good while until she looks at me and grins that false-teeth grin of hers. I’m still here, baby. My phone rings.

  “Mr. Stan, this is Christopher Waltz, director of employee compensation and adjustment for Midi Computer Research Labs.”

  That name rings a bell. That’s where Gillian works.

  “Yes? How can I help you?”

  “I need to book two moves with you. We have two executives moving down to California at the end of the month.”

  “You must know Gillian Lent,” I say.

  “I work for her. She’s my VP.”

  “She is?”

  “Yes, Gillian is vice president of human resources for Midi. She’s handling all of these transfers.”

  “How many are we talking about?”

  “You haven’t been reading the papers. Almost the entire company. All of the executives for sure. We’re moving south of the border and they’re transferring over a hundred people. It’s part of the merger.” I almost fall out of my seat. “Miss Lent has informed me that you’re our exclusive provider for the transfers.”

  I am silent.

  “Do you think you can handle it? I do have the right person, correct?”

  “Yes,” I splutter. “We’ll handle it. When I met with Gillian, she mentioned this. I’m sorry, it’s just a little early in the morning.”

  “Understood. Can I email you the details on the two moves?”

  “Yes, please do.” I give him my email and hang up and pump my fist in the air. Ida looks at me funny. I’ve just landed the big one. Even Kevin, who’s been schlepping corporate moves for twenty-five years, has never landed over a hundr
ed moves in one day. Then I slump back down in my chair. When Rick gets wind of this, he is going to push me out. Or can he? I have Gillian on my side.

  I only have one appointment card on my desk. It’s out in Oakville and in the afternoon. Perfect. I can wait around here for this email to come in. Book these two moves. I go online and google Midi Computer Research Labs. They got bought up by a tech firm in the States. Silicon Valley. Where’s that? Christ – California. Other side of the continent. Perfect. And executives. I have to imagine their homes are nice. Lots of stuff to pack up and move.

  The email comes in ten minutes later. The two moves are complete executive transfers including full packing and unpacking services and vehicle relocations. Their cars are to be put on trains and shipped down to the new location. The estimate is twenty-five thousand pounds per move; it seems a local firm sent a guy in to do the estimate and they’re basing it on that. I want to run down and shove these moves in Ricky’s face.

  I want to high-five everyone in Mike’s dispatch office. I want to grab Laura, spin her around until she’s dizzy. I want to pound on Ida’s window so hard her teeth fall out. But most of all, I want to go and show my appreciation, as many times as I can muster, to Mrs. Lent.

  I print the email with the details and immediately begin punching them into the computer. Each move comes up at over ten thousand dollars. Twenty thousand dollars in sales and all I had to do was let Mrs. Lent have her way with me. I hit the submit button. It puts the moves into the computer and holds them there until the paperwork is signed. There’s still a lot of legwork to do. I’ll have to head out to Brantford to meet the executives and see what type of moves we’re looking at. Nurture the hell out of that relationship, make sure there are no hidden surprises. But I don’t really care. These moves will be handled by the international carrier Henderson is affiliated with. All they do is have a driver pick up two of our guys for the loading. We send our own packing team in first to box everything up, and a moving company at the destination does the reverse.

  My afternoon sit goes great. A retiree who is downsizing tells me he is getting three quotes.

  “Go ahead,” I say full of confidence. He looks at me funny.

  I leave him with my estimate, and on the way to my car he opens his front door and says, “Go ahead and pencil in a truck for me on that date.”

  “Can’t do that. I have to book a truck to get it reserved. Can’t pencil anything in.”

  “Okay, go ahead and book it.”

  “What about the other quotes?”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  I thank him and drive away. Is this that Zig Ziglar stuff coming out of me now? All those hours listening to tapes in the car, watching videos at home. Selling with confidence. To hell with that, I say. Selling you like you don’t give a crap – that’s what works.

  I swing by Mrs. Lent’s house. It looks empty; she’s working. She wouldn’t be home until five, she said. I have two hours to kill so I go to the Burlington Mall. I contemplate buying some flowers for her. There’s a liquor store too. Maybe a bottle of wine. I say yes to the wine and no to the flowers. I’m not marrying this woman. All she did was pass me on two great moves. With the promise of more if I play my cards right.

  I hang out in a pub for another hour but I take it easy on the booze. Just see where the night takes you. At a quarter to five I head over. Her car is in the driveway. I park on the street and carry my clipboard up to her house. An older woman, about sixty with short grey hair, is walking a little dog with short white hair. I smile and nod but she ignores me. Other cars are pulling into driveways on the street. Nice little suburban paradise. Bedroom community.

  Gillian answers the door. She’s still in a business suit and looks a bit exasperated. She smiles and I move inside fast. I don’t want to be embraced at the doorway. She hugs me and I smell sweat and perfume.

  “You look fantastic,” I say. “Nice power suit.”

  “Turn you on?” she says, and we kiss passionately.

  “I didn’t know what you were serving. Hope this is okay,” I say, and hand her the bottle of wine still in its brown paper bag. She studies it, then carries it into the kitchen and puts it on the counter.

  “I’m just starting dinner. Why don’t you open that and pour us a glass?”

  All very sophisticated, normal. I can really see the age difference with her dressed up in her black pencil skirt and nylons and white blouse. A string of pearls around her neck. I feel like a kid again with my “best friend’s mother” fantasy, and it’s exciting.

  I open the wine and pour us each a healthy dose. We cheers and then I retire to the living room while she clanks around with the pots. Domestic bliss. I could get used to this.

  And the dinner is good. Simple and quick to prepare. Just a chicken dish with a creamy white sauce and two greens and a salad and some rice. I’m gracious during dinner. We chat and laugh and learn a little bit more about each other. She’s never been married. No kids.

  “Me neither,” I say, and she laughs, acknowledging the divide in our ages. Mrs. Lent, in the warm light of the candle, looks about five years younger than when I first saw her in the harsh white light of her foyer.

  After dinner we both clean up until she shoos me back into the living room with another glass of wine. I’m drunk now; we polished off my bottle during dinner and opened a second. Wine always hit me hard and I did not eat that much today.

  We get close on the couch until she finally puts her wine glass down on the coffee table and moves in for a kiss. This leads to more foreplay. She unbuttons my shirt. She wants to touch skin, she says.

  “Tit for tat.” I unbutton her blouse and touch her cool skin. It comes alive at the touch of my fingertips and I feel a flutter in the underside of her breast through the satiny smoothness of her white bra.

  She reaches behind her and unpins her hair and shakes it. I go rock hard now and she moves her hand onto me and gives me a squeeze.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” she whispers.

  I want to jump her from behind on the stairs. She sways her rear end back and forth and she goes up. I’m right behind her. Can’t keep my hands off her.

  We get undressed and fall into the bed. Everything is going normally; we’re kissing passionately. Her neck really shows her age now. I see wrinkles on it. I’m on top of her and we’re doing it. Great.

  Then she says, “Hit me.”

  I don’t think I hear her right and I pull back from her and she says it again, but softly. She looks away and gets this funny look on her face.

  “Hit me,” she says again. I don’t know what to do. But I want to do it. I have no animosity towards this woman, but if this is what she wants. . .

  “Hit me,” she says, louder now.

  I spank her ass. Hard. It should hurt.

  “Hit me, damn it.” Her voice is shrill. That mischievous look is gone and she’s commanding me.

  “No. I can’t.” I pull out.

  “Goddamn it. I said hit me, you little faggot.”

  I move to the side of the bed and sit up. She laughs. I get up and start to dress. Probably the fastest I’ve ever gotten my clothes on. Faster than the last time I got dressed in her bedroom.

  “Seriously?” she says.” You’re going?”

  I’m still drunk and I stumble a bit trying to get my pants on.

  “You shouldn’t drive. You’re drunk. Get back in this bed.”

  “No. Not into it. Sorry.” What should I be sorry for? I finish dressing and I leave.

  I take a deep breath when I’m in my car. My heart is still pounding. I curse Mrs. Lent. There’s a guy walking a dog; he turns and looks at me. I glare back at him. Despite the wine in me, I race home.

  I check my messages when I get in. Gillian’s called three times. How did she get my land line? Must have looked it up online or something. The phone rings again. It’s her on call display. I don’t answer. I get changed quickly and head down to my local pub for last call.

>   SIX

  The next morning I’m at my desk, checking the one appointment card left for me. Not enough, I think. I want more to distract me. Rick comes up to the sales floor. I remember that he’s got that corporate call today, the one I set up.

  He pops his head in on Ida. I haven’t spoken to or even looked at her since I arrived this morning. I even avoided Laura, bypassed her desk and slunk in through the warehouse up the back stairs. For some reason I don’t want to see her. I feel she can read it on my face, what I’ve been getting up to with Mrs. Lent. We have our drink tonight after work. I think I might cancel.

  Rick is standing at my cubicle, hands on his hips, jacket flared out, that weird ultra-domineering look on his face.

  “So, how’s it going?” He sees the printouts of the moves for the Midi executives and picks them up. Doesn’t ask; he owns them. Owns everything in the building.

  “These just come in?”

  “Yup. Corporate contact of mine with Midi.”

  “How come you didn’t tell me?”

  “They just came in yesterday. There’s more to come, too.”

  “How much more?”

  “A lot. Whole company is moving to the States. It was bought up. They’re moving most of their people. In this economy they go where the jobs are.”

  “Wow,” he says, and for a second that bluster in his face is gone. The arrogance is begrudgingly replaced with respect. It comes back fast, though.

  “I’m excited. This is great for us.” I hate the way he says “us”; there’s no “me” in it. These are my moves, pal, not yours. My contact. I nurtured this relationship right up to her bedroom. I should have belted Mrs. Lent until her jaw swelled up, if that’s what she wanted.

  “Keep it up. I’ll let you know how this afternoon goes.”

  He leaves the papers on my desk and walks down to see Kevin, who’s just arrived. I hear them talking in whispered tones. John comes over to my desk.

  “What’s up, Gustav?” I hand him the Midi moves. “Wow, two whales.”

  “Corporate contact.”

  “I usually say that stuff is a waste of time, but good job.”