Middle Management Is Murder

By Les Rich

When John Robinson, a New Mexico native, heads to Branhaven, Connecticut, he has no idea what lies in wait within the offices of corporate America.

As a writer at Heinlein, Inc., a global liquor and foods conglomerate, John learns fast that his boss, Paul Mac McDermott, is a tyrant who likes letting his staff sit in the meeting room picking at pastries for at least fifteen minutes before making a grand entrance. And thats just the beginning.

Almost everyone hates McDermott, but they tolerate him because they are well paid and receive great benefits and stock options that would be otherwise hard to match. But when McDermott suffers a serious stroke and later turns up dead, people start wondering if someone in the office might be a killer.

Marcia, a tall, gorgeous brunette attracts the most attention, and not just from investigators. Together, she and John must uncover the truth, or could they in actuality be trying to hide it?

Sexy scenarios, comedy, and mystery all play a part at the offices of Heinlein where Middle Management is Murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 5, 2009
• ISBN: 9780595714841

Les Rich

Les Rich, formerly in public relations, is a writer specializing in humor and business. Born in Texas, he freelances from New York and is the coauthor with Joan Rich of two satirical books: How To Be a New Yorker: A Terribly Useful Guide and Dating and Mating by Computer.

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MIDDLE

MANAGEMENT IS

MURDER

Les Rich

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Bloomington

Copyright © 2009 by Les Rich

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ISBN: 978-0-595-47797-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-1947-7 (dj)

ISBN: 978-0-595-71484-1 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 02/17/09

Contents

Chapter 1

LIFESTYLE

Chapter 2

THE WAY FROM THE WEST

Chapter 3

THE WAY TO THE BAR

Chapter 4

BEDSIDE MANNER

Chapter 5

THE COWBOY AND THE LADY

Chapter 6

DEATHSTYLE

Chapter 7

MUTUAL INTERESTS

Chapter 8

NO STYLE AT ALL

Chapter 9

MACKIE, WE HARDLY KNEW YE

Chapter 10

MIDDLE MANAGEMENT MEETING

Chapter 11

SENSITIVE INTERVIEWS

Chapter 12

COWBOY IN COMMAND

Chapter 13

COCKTAILS AND CONFESSIONS

Chapter 14

NAKED NIGHTCAP

Chapter 15

CANDI’S BENEDICTION

Chapter 16

EARLY AUTUMN

Chapter 17

JUST A GENE OR TWO

Chapter 18

AS CULTURES COMBINE

Chapter 19

NAPKINS ARE NOTEWORTHY

Chapter 20

COUPLES

Chapter 21

DAMAGE CONTROL

Chapter 22

MARCIA MEETS MIRANDA

Chapter 23

THE TIME AND THE PLACE

Chapter 24

THE JEFE FROM COUNTY SLIGO

Chapter 25

PICNIC IN THE PARK

Chapter 26

NOTHING’S PRIVATE ANYMORE

Chapter 27

TASKS AND MULTITASKS

Chapter 28

WHERE HAVE ALL THE RIFLES GONE?

Chapter 29

THE HARLEM

CONNECTION

Chapter 30

STRANGE PATHS

Chapter 31

SOMETHING WARM AND FURRY

Chapter 32

DREW WATKINS TAKES RETIREMENT

Chapter 33

COWBOYS TO THE RESCUE

Chapter 34

THE END OF THE AFFAIR

Chapter 35

CAUTIOUS TRIUMPH

Chapter 36

WE AIN’T SOLVED SHIT

Chapter 37

IT’S ME—GOD!

Chapter 38

THERE’S GONNA BE TROUBLE

Chapter 39

I LOVE A MYSTERY

FOREWORD

My father spent much of the last six years of his life working on this book. Although he was a prolific writer, this was his first and only work of fiction. It would have made him very proud to see this novel published, but he unfortunately succumbed to cancer in January at the age of 76 after a long struggle that began about the time he began working on this novel.

I was thankful that he came to live with me again during this period of his life. It was an honor and a privilege to watch an author at work, especially since he was my Dad and more so because he did what he did while struggling with a disease and treatment that so sapped his strength. It always amazed me to come home from work to find yet another chapter waiting for me on the kitchen table to read over. In many ways I think his burning desire to see this book through to publication kept him going as long as he did. As I edited his manuscript, I did my best to stay true to what he wanted the book to be. Hopefully, I got enough out of all our conversations on the various drafts along the way; my apologies to the author if otherwise.

I know my Dad would want to thank my wife Kim for all her input as he wrote this book. He always relied on her to fact check him as to current culture, clothes etc. As he used to put it, at 70-something years old I am no longer anyone’s target audience. She never hesitated to tell him where changes were needed, and he always knew he could trust her on that.

I must also thank my wife Kim for her support during the editorial process. For the past six months, she has patiently listened to me think out loud as I edited and revised. Like my father, I could rely on her to give me an honest appraisal. Thanks also to my friend Dave for his invaluable feedback and for reading through the manuscript not once, but twice.

STEVE RICH

September 2008

A MIDSUMMER

NIGHT’S DREAM

Man, this is some sloppy office. Okay, mine had never been what you’d call tidy, but I’d never let it go to hell like this. A thought strikes me: wait a minute…go to hell?

I’m sitting in a wobbly straight chair facing a scuffed, scarred old wooden desk piled high with yellowing papers that are curling at the edges. On it is a cheap plastic ashtray overflowing with unfiltered butts. The file cabinets are rusted, with their drawers half open, the handles corroded. More papers are falling out of the accordion folders on top. There’s one window, but it’s so smeared with scum that I can’t see what’s outside. Sure as hell wouldn’t be a Central Park view. A parking lot, at best. More likely just an air shaft.

The bulky Presence behind the desk is as disheveled as his office. His formerly white shirt collar is frayed, his polyester tie is askew, and he needs a haircut. He looks like a lower-middle manager marking time until retirement. He gives me a brief glance, fumbles in his pocket, pulls out his pack of Camels, shakes one to the top, mouths it out of the pack, and lights up with a wooden match. After he takes a drag, he turns his weary gray eyes to me.

Not what you expected is it? he asks. I have no answer. So let’s start the process. What do you remember?

Just this roar and the blinding flash and the lights and…

He makes a check mark on his notepad. Same ole same ole. And here you are.

I’m losing my temper. Where? Am I dead, or what? I’m sure as hell not in heaven. Am I in hell?

He waves that off. Neither. Those terms don’t apply here. Think limbo. What would you say is your chief concern at this moment in what you call time?

What I call time? Jesus God…oh, pardon me—I didn’t mean to…

Blaspheme? He chuckles. Nobody cares about that. Your concern, you were saying, is…

Well it’s just that. You know, after I heard the roar and saw the flashing lights, I thought that at least I’d cross over into some kind of wisdom. I was about to have all my questions answered. I’d understand the fucking universe. But this…

Again, not what you expected.

God, no. At the very least. The grievances are piling up. I thought I’d be rid of this damn pain in my lower back. Which the narrow, stiff chair wasn’t helping. Plus these tight tendons in my neck. And this persistent itch around the left ankle, minor but annoying.

We’ll see what we can do about that. He waves a stubby finger, and I do suddenly feel better. What else?

And I thought…I always thought…that I’d be, you know, reunited with, you know, loved ones and friends and like that.

He sighs again, his eyes going gentle. Family? Friends? All coming together at last in love and understanding? Your many sins of commission and omission all forgiven, and vice versa? No more remorse, no more regrets? He brushes his hand across the file folders on his desk. Regrettably, it’s a universal delusion.

He makes another check on his notepad, puts out his Camel, lights another.

"If you wish, we can arrange a reunion. But let me assure you, there wouldn’t be any of that swirling around in cosmic understanding. Just doesn’t work that way.

No, you’d just be thrown together to go over the same old stuff. The same old conflicts and guilt. Do you want that?

I have an option?

Certainly. That’s why we’re having this conversation. Knowing you as I do… His thick fingers shuffle through the mountain of paper. He doesn’t find what he wants. Annoyed, he calls out, Marsha! Where’s his file?

She materializes at his side. She’s tall, trim, and perfectly groomed, her dark hair twisted at the top. The perfect executive assistant. Way too elegant to be working for this slug. Inwardly, I smile at her. Outwardly, she smiles back, as if we share a secret.

I decide to be funny: Well hi there, Marsha Lisa.

She says nothing, merely places a slim folder on the desk.

Yes, this is it, he says. He leafs through the pages, puffing away. I have the impression that this administrative work is a secondary occupation for him. His real job is smoking his cigarette. I’d known people like that, addicted to the core.

I look at the folder. Just a few pages with my name laminated on the tab. I take it that’s my life story?

This is it.

But it’s so short!

All lives are short, essentially. We left out the time you wasted. Let’s see, you were a lawyer…no, sorry. In public relations. About the same. You see, all hours are not genuinely billable. You thought you were thirty-five, but in terms of your life actually lived, you were barely able to vote. But, he ponders the file, from what I see here, I suspect you’d rather move on.

Move on?

Yes, yes, he says with a note of impatience. To the next life, of course. You’re marginally eligible for reassignment.

To the future, you mean?

The future, the past. Has no meaning here. But actually, he refers to what looks like a spreadsheet, we do have several interesting slots opening up. How would you like to be an astronaut on board the first flight to that other little planet down there…Mars? Or, he moves along the spreadsheet, you could ride with Ghengis Khan, tenderizing your meat under your saddle, raping and pillaging and having a great deal of carnal satisfaction. Want to try that?

One of us, I reply, is crazy.

Not interested in the past or the future? How about coming back as a single drop of rain? Or a stem cell, leading to an incredible medical breakthrough? No? Maybe you’re one of those beings who just want to go back where you came from.

I think about that. It’s wasn’t all bad.

Another deep sigh. No sense of adventure. Another settler-sit-by-the-fire. Oh well. Let’s see…looks like a decent childhood here. Open air, riding horses. New Mexico, was it?

I’m beginning to get disoriented. Yes…New Mexico, I think. Some of it is sort of fading away.

And soon will be gone, as will this conversation. You’ll remember nothing. Of course, there will be those puzzling and unsettling dreams. Well, what’s it to be? He raises his eyebrows in question. Obviously he’s ready to wind up the meeting.

I make a decision. All right, I’ll go back.

Up to you. He rises from his desk, pausing only to stash his cigarette butt in the overcrowded ashtray. Beginning, in fact, to dissolve. Just a little processing to do. Have a nice trip.

This is too damn much. Wait a minute, I say. You’re acting like you’re God. Who are you?

Dear me. Again, nothing like what you expected.

I seem to rise to my feet. Well, let me tell you something. I’ve known God. He was a friend of mine. And sir, you’re no God.

The shoddy office is filled with deep, throaty laughter. That’s good. You’re very good. I’m beginning to have hope for you. Good-bye.

As I collapse in the chair, his attentive administrative assistant, if that’s what she is, flashes me a brilliant smile. Her teeth are perfect, her lips are full, and her face is oval, with a light Mediterranean tan.

I’m Marcia, she says. "That’s with a c-i-a, not an s-h-a. Marcia. I’ll be your facilitator."

I follow her out of the office and into a dark corridor. Her hips are swinging enticingly under her filmy white gown.

Marcia, are you by any chance an angel?

If so, I seem to have forgotten my wings. There are some scenes coming up, familiar scenes. Try not to get antsy, she says—and disappears.

Suddenly I’m at a gasoline station, huddling under the shelter against a sleet storm. I fumble for my credit card, wait for the authorization, pick up the pump, and begin to refuel, my fingers half frozen.

Then I’m in an uncomfortable chair waiting to get my hair cut, feeling claustrophobic because this is taking too long and I forgot to bring anything to read.

Now I’m in the checkout counter at the supermarket, waiting for the old lady in front to sort out her coupons and write a check, first tediously entering the amount in her ledger.

Next I’m at home, in that alcove off the living room in the apartment, waiting for the couple from next door to go home, but realizing they haven’t even begun to tell me about their Disney World vacation, and that they’re waiting for me to get a projector so they can show me their slides.

Then, for what seems like hours, I’m in front of the bathroom mirror, shaving. Easily the most boring occupation in the world. I’d once mentioned that to a girlfriend who was sleeping over, and she said she felt the same way about shaving her legs. I said I had no idea girls had hair on their legs, and she told me that wasn’t funny.

Then it comes to me: My life is flashing before my eyes. Isn’t it a little late for that? Besides, why am I only reliving the boring parts? Or maybe it was all boring. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe I’m in hell after all, condemned for eternity to shave and stand in line at supermarkets.

Okay, Marcia, I call out. "I get it—life is boring. So why should I go back?"

You might be surprised, she says with a wink and slight swirl of her gown. Anyway, you’ve already committed. Just a little processing to do. You might want to catch up on your reading.

She’s gone, and I’m lying on a creaky bunk bed in what looks like an Army barracks, which is strange because I’m almost sure I’ve never been in the Army. Maybe a scene from an old movie? Piled at the foot of the bunk is a stack of books. Fumbling through them, I realize they’re a sample of all the things I was always going to read, but didn’t: Dante, Virgil, Rabelais, Proust, the Holy Bible. Books I even took along on trips but never opened, passing them up for mystery novels.

There’s a note on my pillow, in a flowing hand: Now’s your chance. Best wishes, Marcia. But I don’t read a single word.

As time is no longer a valid concept, I have no idea how long it is before someone appears over me. It’s not Marcia; it’s a beefy sergeant with a clipboard.

Paperwork’s all done, soldier, he says. You’re on your way.

We step outside and into what looks like the old Jeep I’d driven from New Mexico. But didn’t I wreck it? And then there were the flashing lights…

Hop in, he invites me. I’ll drive.

We ride in silence along a makeshift military road. We roll across the sea, across islands. I look at the unsettled green waves on the left, the calm blue on the right.

I ask, Are we by any chance going to Key West?

The sarge glances at the clipboard on the seat. You’re not programmed for that. Just thought you’d appreciate a little scenery. Here’s our exit.

Without so much as a bowl of conch chowder, we pull off to a narrow beach. A small boat stands ready. It has no sail, no motor. I climb in.

Welcome aboard, says the sarge, shoving the boat into the rippling waves. Feeling better? He looks at his clipboard again. No back pain, no tight tendons?

I shrug my shoulders. No, they’re gone. But there’s still this minor but annoying itch on the left ankle.

Nobody’s perfect. The boat begins to move.

You’re not coming with me?

Not damn likely. However, it is my duty to wish you bon voyage.

I’m resigned. Okay, back to public relations. But listen, I always wanted to be a real writer—poems and plays and books. Any chance of that?

He glances at the clipboard. Not within your parameters. Want to get going? I’ve got three or four others to process before evening report. Waste any more of my time and you’re gonna get latrine duty.

With a last shove of the boat, more of a kick this time, I’m adrift. I look back at the coral shore. The sarge has disappeared, his place taken by a shimmering substance: Marcia.

Be of good cheer, she calls. We’ll meet again. It’s programmed.

From somewhere, I hear the throaty voice of the grubby old middle manager in his grubby old office, probably lighting up another Camel. He’s chuckling. No, he’s laughing out loud.

Chapter 1

LIFESTYLE

If it’s Sunday, the man says on television, it’s Meet the Press. But if it’s 8 a.m. Monday morning, John Robinson thought, it’s Meet the Boss. Except that, as usual, he hadn’t shown up.

Paul Mac McDermott, the senior vice president for communications of Heinlein, Inc., the global liquor and foods conglomerate, liked to let his staff sit in the conference room, sipping coffee, picking at pastry, and making desultory conversation for at least a quarter hour before he descended the two escalators from the executive level and made his grand entrance.

What am I doing here? John wondered. As he sat at the foot of the table, his Justin cowboy boots parked on the vacant chair to his right, he glanced around the room.

To his left was Peter Eakins, the press relations guy, hunched over the table with his tie slashed over his shoulder, making notes on his yellow legal pad in case he got a chance to speak at the meeting, which was unlikely. Peter, small in stature but large in what passed for piercing intelligence, was still dressed as he probably did when he was in high school bagging groceries at the local supermarket. Frenetic in manner and so eager to please, but for his receding hairline, John would have thought Peter had yet to celebrate his thirtieth birthday. In reality he was closer to forty.

By him, hogging the seat next to where McDermott would sit at the head of the table, was tall, genial Turner Spellings, who did the annual report early in the year and apparently spent the rest of his time going out to lunch with vendors. Turner was sitting upright with his usual fixed smile, an avuncular zombie, draped in an athletic cut Hugo Boss suit that only accentuated his lankiness. John considered him the perfect poster child for form over substance.

To John’s right was Wes Enfield, the audiovisual gofer, rehearsing the wise nods he’d use instead of trying to say anything when the meeting started. Wes was the only guy in the room wearing his suit jacket—over a vest, for God’s sake. He went in for formality, compensating for his lack of status with an air of statesmanship. If they ever got to be friends, John intended to advise Wes to stop combing his mound of sandy hair from the side of his head to cover up what viewed from the rear was a totally bald dome.

Next to him was Eileen Tortoricci, the young and assertive human relations liaison and editor of the company newsletter, who John believed had been hired to balance the politically incorrect, preponderantly male staff. Eileen was not unattractive with her olive skin, large eyes, and black bangs. Now she appeared to be rehearsing comments she might be allowed to make and trying out power cliches such as proactive. If they were friends, John also had some advice for Eileen: he’d tell her to stop walking around the office bent forward from the waist so that she almost overbalanced—the picture of naked ambition.

John didn’t dislike these people. In fact, he sort of liked them. They’d all been very sympathetic when he’d had a car wreck a couple of months ago and spent a day in the hospital. They’d all signed the get-well card. But really, this was Stiff City—a muddled mound of middle management. They tolerated McDermott’s tyranny because they were well paid, receiving good salaries, plentiful benefits, and stock options that otherwise would be hard to match in the backwater New England town of Branhaven, Connecticut.

Wonder what’s keeping McDermott this time? Peter Eakins muttered, looking up at Turner Spellings. Some undercurrent here. Peter and Turner had been with Mac for years and were battling it out to be Number 2 in the food chain—the yessest of the yes-men as John mentally phrased it.

Why don’t we send the girl to find out? Turner said, smiling at Eileen.

And get more coffee while I’m at it? she asked, not looking at him.

That’d be cool.

Why don’t you go screw yourself? she said evenly, still not looking up from her notepad.

No, I meant John’s girl, Turner said. She’s just down the hall. I bet if Marcia went up to see McDermott, he’d follow her to the ends of the earth.

John fixed his southwestern hawk-like gaze on Turner and said, Turner, why don’t you go perform an anatomic impossibility on yourself?

Just joking, Cowboy, Turner retreated. We’re all friends here, aren’t we?

Yes we are, John told him. Otherwise you’d have a cowboy boot up your ass.

Before it could turn ugly, the door creaked open. Outside there was a hush in the cubicles: the great man was here. There was no sound, but in his head John heard music—Pomp and Circumstance.

Mac had presence—John would give him that. An imposing presence thanks to his shaggy brows, full head of white hair, and imposing girth enclosed in an expensive and defiantly unfashionable brown suit with wide lapels. He brought with him no notes, no memos. He didn’t need them as he was here to preach to his browbeaten congregation.

John leaned over toward Eileen and muttered, You don’t have to get the coffee, but maybe you can take up the collection. She all but smiled.

Apparently hearing the comment, McDermott frowned and gazed around the room. He sat at the head of the table, cleared his throat, and began, The world is changing. Changing more rapidly than ever in human history. Got that?

The Stiffs including John nodded their agreement and pushed aside the coffee cups and pastries to make notes. As if they hadn’t heard it all before. McDermott went on to quote chapter and verse:

"So what we’ve got to keep in mind, people, is very simple. Yes, we sell beverages and foods on a worldwide basis. Notably, we sell Saascha Premium Vodka. We sell a lot of it, which pays the bills around here—including your somewhat inflated salaries.

We are successful, very successful. Heinlein, Inc. is a force to be reckoned with in the global consumer products industry, from Maine to Madagascar. He was quoting from a press release he’d personally authored a few weeks ago that drew oohs and ahhs within the company, but groans and yawns from everybody outside the building, including Wall Street.

But we can only continue this success, McDermott continued, a note of threat in his delivery, to the extent that we keep up with this changing world. Got that?

Nods and murmurs.

"Because we’re not selling booze, folks—we are selling lifestyle. Lifestyle! Got that?"

What Mac was, John had concluded, was a portly Irish politician. A businessman-philosopher, communications vice president of a three billion dollar company, a man who demanded details of memos his staff had sent him but which he hadn’t read. A richly compensated executive who didn’t seem to know much about financial matters, but made up for it in portentous generalizations.

But he did have a certain style. No doubt about it.

He continued, You may recall the famous Pepsi commercials—‘Pepsi, for those who think young.’ The Pepsi Generation. Pepsi people. Remember when that started?

Nobody did, as McDermott was the only one old enough. But they pumped their heads up and down anyway.

But we’re not selling imitation cola battery acid to the Pepsi people. No, we’re selling Saascha Vodka, premium and pure, to… as if he had just thought of it "…to the Saascha people. To consumers around the world who choose Ascham for light and flavorful alcoholic beverages as a welcome addition to their lifestyle.

"And that’s what we must remember at all times when we write our press releases or talk to reporters or pick out pretty pictures for the annual report or talk to employees or family and friends. Ascham belongs. It’s the lifestyle of today. Got that?

"We don’t want people to drink more. We want them to drink moderately and always choose Saascha and the other proud products of Heinlein Inc. for their light and flavorful lifestyle." He paused, as if for applause.

Well, it was sound marketing strategy, John thought. Even if, as he suspected, a good percentage of their consumer base took their Ascham straight out of a bottle in a paper bag in some alley. And at least Mac hasn’t gone through his entire repertoire. That started with the changing tastes and new sophistication of the postwar years, the discovery of vodka (relatively breathless as compared to gin), and led up to Heinlein’s exalted position in the lifestyle of today. Surely now we can talk business, particularly the plans about to be announced for the big merger.

Okay, now let’s talk business, said McDermott, answering John’s prayer. "We’ve arrived at a critical juncture. We’ve expanded the Saascha line, adding the flavored varieties— the raspberry, the lemon and so on—to answer competition. We’re holding our own, but we have to consider the consolidation that’s going on in the industry. Half the liquor brands in this country are now owned by European conglomerates. We’re about the only big independent left in America. If we get taken over by Grand Met or somebody, I don’t have to tell you what will happen to what you laughingly call your jobs.

"So we have to expand. This great global food and beverage company is entering a new phase. Three days from now the board will meet and presumably approve the acquisition of an outstanding fast-food company—Quik Chik. As soon as the board meeting ends, we will be holding a press conference downtown at the Hilton.

The city leaders of Branhaven and a few of our local shareholders have been invited, McDermott continued. And, of course, the press. Peter, you got that covered?

Red alert, Mac, said Peter.

And if anybody calls in the meantime? You say…

That we never comment on rumors. Check, chief, Peter answered, writing something down on his notepad.

Now, Turner, said McDermott, shifting his heavy body from right to left. You’re in touch with Finance? They’re cool with the numbers?

Well, they’re still looking at the goodwill part. We’re paying quite a bit more than the book value.

Handle it. Do I have to tell you how to fart? Wes, you’ve got the slides ready? You’ve booked the room? Got the coffee and cakes coming?

Check.

Did you get the weather forecast?

The what? Wes asked, his eyes widening.

If it’s going to rain or sleet or whatever, we need to know in advance. Be ready to provide extra umbrellas, get it?

Well, I’ll see if I can get a forecast. Of course, what they say on Channel 3 is open to some question, and…

"You ever hear of The Weather Channel? Or call the National Weather Service, for Christ’s sake. Handle it. Eileen, what are we going to tell our family of employees? You in touch with Human Resources?"

Certainly, Mr. McDermott. But I’m not sure they can check off on it today. I hear they’re having an off-site retreat, the whole department, to discuss employee empowerment.

Let’s see, John put in. Today HR may or may not be out of the building. How will we know? I mean, since HR is the only department with an unlisted phone number?

Even McDermott joined in the general chuckle. I’m sure you can handle it, Eileen. Now John, how’s the chairman’s speech coming? How do we explain why this highly successful company in the field of alcoholic beverages and specialty foods is coughing up three hundred mil to buy Quik Chik? All drafted?

Sure, Mac. We’re stressing it’s in our long-term interest to build shareholder value and leverage any fall-off in…

Did you bring the draft?

If you’d like to go over it now, I’ll call Marcia and have her bring the script over.

I like.

John picked up the phone on the side table and dialed Marcia Alberghetti’s number. His blessed administrative assistant was on the ball as usual, answering immediately and promising to skitter over to the conference room with the manuscript. John knew she’d dressed it up early this morning using boldface type, triple spacing, italics, and phonetic pronunciations. Presentation was everything, John knew, especially in-house. And Marcia was nothing if not a presenter. She made John’s scripts look so good that the chairman thought he was reading the goddamn Gettysburg Address.

Actually Marcia was the administrative assistant for half the staff, but as everybody had his or her own computer, she tended to brush off the others and spend most of her time working with John. The speeches needed special attention, she would say. John was sure the others were plotting revenge.

John knew what he had written: a perfectly packaged pile of corporate shit. He would have brought it with him in the first place except that he really needed a glimpse of Marcia to break up this miserable meeting.

In only moments she was there, twirling in with the papers, wearing that gray-and-white woolen suit of hers, so businesslike from the waist up but with a mid-thigh skirt that clung around her ass like a shrink-wrap. She didn’t look at John at all, the soul of discretion, before taking her exit