Graveland: A Novel by Alan Glynn Page A

baby-faced regional manager, and another guy. Mike is in a suit, and the other guy, who looks even younger than Mike, is wearing a zipped-up leather jacket, but with a Paloma shirt on underneath it.
    Frank can see the logo sewn into the collar.
    “Hi, Mike,” he says, and then adds—as though responding to some Pavlovian trigger, unable not to—“who’s your little friend?”
    Mike rolls his eyes. “Say hello to Josh, Frank. He’s the new manager here.”
    “Here?”
    Mike nods.
    Of course. What was he expecting? Some kind of reasoned negotiation? A lively exchange of views? An apology ? Letting it sink in, Frank just stands there and says nothing. Logically, this is where he should start groveling, begging to keep his job, but he knows now that he’s not going to do that.
    After a moment, Mike says, “You have fifteen minutes to get your stuff and leave.”
    Frank looks at him. “Or else?”
    “No severance package. You’ll be deemed to have acted in contravention of the regulations as set down in the employee handbook.”
    “I see.”
    “And can basically go fuck yourself.”
    Frank nods, fighting a strong impulse here to lash out, with his fists.
    But he doesn’t.
    “Good for you, Mike,” he says eventually, his stomach still churning. “I was worried there for a moment that you’d left your balls back at head office.” Smiling, he turns and moves off in the direction of the storeroom.
    Ten minutes later, out in the parking lot, under a thin veil of rain, Frank calls Lizzie.
    He needs to hear her voice now. It’s a matter of priorities, of perspective.
    He waits.
    She doesn’t answer.
    He squeezes the phone in his hand and represses an urge to fling it to the ground.
    “I appear to be busy.” Her outgoing message. “But say something if you want, after the beep.”
    Languid and annoying maybe, but it’s all he’s getting, and as usual he’ll take it.
    “Lizzie, it’s Dad. Call me when you get a chance, will you?”
    It suddenly occurs to him that this is probably the fourth or fifth time since Saturday evening that he’s tried, without success, to contact his daughter. Which isn’t normal. So should he be panicking? He tries to keep any trace of this out of his voice.
    “Any time, sweetheart, okay?” He pauses. “Okay?”
    Not much success there either.
    “Just call me.” He gazes around, at the desolate parking lot, at the overcast sky. “I love you, Lizzie.”
    *   *   *
    The driver is leaning back against the car door, arms folded.
    Baxter catches his eye and holds up an outstretched hand.
    Five minutes .
    The driver nods an acknowledgment.
    Then Baxter looks left and right.
    Broadway.
    Torrents of people and traffic.
    Not exactly ideal working conditions, but he stands there anyway, under the Rygate awning next to a doorman and a couple of other drivers, and takes out his BlackBerry. He checks for e-mails. As expected there are dozens, so he tries to block out the noise and starts scrolling down through them. In a matter of minutes he manages to clear six or seven, sometimes using only a one- or two-word reply. He’s good at this kind of stuff, the guerrilla approach—not that Lebrecht would ever give him any credit for it, or thanks.
    Baxter glances around.
    It’s funny what Lebrecht said earlier, that some of the older guys up in the Melmotte Room think of him as the kid —because compared to them, that’s precisely what he is, a fucking kid. Baxter has worked for those guys, and they’re very serious, very focused, very conservative. Okay, Lebrecht is on a roll, making insane money, but none of it’s his, and it won’t last. He’s too volatile, too unstable, and too attached to this notion of taking Hollywood by storm.
    Which is just a fantasy.
    He thinks he can do it, but Hollywood will chew him up and spit out the seeds.
    Baxter’s seen it before.
    And he’s not sure he wants to be around when it happens this time. The abuse he can put up with, because at the