it….”
“You’ve been doing fine, Ivan,” I lied.
“Like I said: It’s a bum deal, not Armageddon. Now go close NMI. And remember: You’re good at this.”
He nodded and headed out the door. As soon as it closed behind him, I put my head in my hands. Shit. Shit. Shit. This was Armageddon. My Armagedon. Unless … Rule Number One in a crisis: Be systematic. Explore every option for burrowing your way out of the dead end into which you’ve been dropped. I picked up the phone and called Joel Schmidt, CompuWorld’s production manager. When I asked him if I could have a couple of extra days’ grace on the GBS copy, he went ballistic.
“You nuts, Ned? Ten minutes ago some German ice maiden walks into the office, introduces herself as Utte something, says she’s the production supervisor for all Kiang-Sanderling titles, and wants to know everything about the way we work. She also said she knew the magazine was going to bed on Friday-which, according to her calculations, was four days behind schedule. Which, in turn, was costing the company, blah, blah, blah. Get the picture?”
“Kind of a chilly customer?”
“Chilly? This babe was without heat. And I can already tell that she s determined to supervise me into the ground. So there is absolutely no way I can cut you any slack. Final ad copy Friday, or it’s your cojones.”
So much for buying myself some more time. I picked up the Phone and called Ted Peterson’s office at GBS. His secretary was a real charmer. As soon as she heard the name CompuWorld, she informed me that Mr. Peterson was in a meeting and would probably remain in said meeting for the next five years. Or, at least, that’s the sort of brush-off vibe I was getting from her.
“If I could just have five minutes of his time.”
“He doesn’t have five minutes today, Mr. Allen,” she said crisply.
“Everyone has five minutes.”
“I will tell him you called. I can do no more.” And she hung up.
Ted Peterson. I’d met him last year at one of Getz-Braun’s big sales shows. Your typical corporate stain. Age thirty-two and determined to snag that executive vice presidency by the time birthday number thirty-five rolls around. A real play-to-win type.
“I heard you’re a helluva tennis player,” he said at a cocktail party thrown by Brighton Technology Inc. (“Data storaging you can trust.”) “I played a little in college. But now… I’m just a serious amateur.”
“What school you play for?”
“U. Maine, Presque Isle.”
I could see his lips twitching into a little smile.
“Don’t think we ever played you.”
“Where’d you go?”
“Princeton.”
Having won that point, the conversation somehow drifted on to the subject of our all-time favorite players.
“Stefan Edberg, hands down,” I said.
“A gentleman on the court-but with a real deadly sting. And you?”
“Ivan Lendl. The living embodiment of ruthless efficiency.”
No doubt Peterson thought he was being ruthlessly efficient when he dumped Ivan overboard… even though the bastard surely knew all about Ivan’s ongoing series of tragedies. I love a Samaritan.
The five lights on my phone were flashing madly. I hit the speakerphone
“A few messages, Lily?” I asked.
“You must have two dozen messages here, Mr. Allen.”
“Great. Give me the big ones.”
“All the outside sales reps. The media sales guys from AdTel, Icom, InfoCom, Microcom… It’s a really long list.”
Worse and worse. The word about the takeover had evidently spread through the industry like cancer-and every major CompuWorld advertiser had phoned in, obviously to find out if we were still in business.
“Would you mind e-mailing me the entire list of calls, Lily?”
“No problem, Mr. Allen. Oh-one last thing-your wife called, said she’d heard the news. She wanted to talk to you right away.”
“Is she holding right now?”
“No-you got Mr. Maduro on line one, Mr. Sirio on line two, Mr. Bluehorn on line
“You’ve been doing fine, Ivan,” I lied.
“Like I said: It’s a bum deal, not Armageddon. Now go close NMI. And remember: You’re good at this.”
He nodded and headed out the door. As soon as it closed behind him, I put my head in my hands. Shit. Shit. Shit. This was Armageddon. My Armagedon. Unless … Rule Number One in a crisis: Be systematic. Explore every option for burrowing your way out of the dead end into which you’ve been dropped. I picked up the phone and called Joel Schmidt, CompuWorld’s production manager. When I asked him if I could have a couple of extra days’ grace on the GBS copy, he went ballistic.
“You nuts, Ned? Ten minutes ago some German ice maiden walks into the office, introduces herself as Utte something, says she’s the production supervisor for all Kiang-Sanderling titles, and wants to know everything about the way we work. She also said she knew the magazine was going to bed on Friday-which, according to her calculations, was four days behind schedule. Which, in turn, was costing the company, blah, blah, blah. Get the picture?”
“Kind of a chilly customer?”
“Chilly? This babe was without heat. And I can already tell that she s determined to supervise me into the ground. So there is absolutely no way I can cut you any slack. Final ad copy Friday, or it’s your cojones.”
So much for buying myself some more time. I picked up the Phone and called Ted Peterson’s office at GBS. His secretary was a real charmer. As soon as she heard the name CompuWorld, she informed me that Mr. Peterson was in a meeting and would probably remain in said meeting for the next five years. Or, at least, that’s the sort of brush-off vibe I was getting from her.
“If I could just have five minutes of his time.”
“He doesn’t have five minutes today, Mr. Allen,” she said crisply.
“Everyone has five minutes.”
“I will tell him you called. I can do no more.” And she hung up.
Ted Peterson. I’d met him last year at one of Getz-Braun’s big sales shows. Your typical corporate stain. Age thirty-two and determined to snag that executive vice presidency by the time birthday number thirty-five rolls around. A real play-to-win type.
“I heard you’re a helluva tennis player,” he said at a cocktail party thrown by Brighton Technology Inc. (“Data storaging you can trust.”) “I played a little in college. But now… I’m just a serious amateur.”
“What school you play for?”
“U. Maine, Presque Isle.”
I could see his lips twitching into a little smile.
“Don’t think we ever played you.”
“Where’d you go?”
“Princeton.”
Having won that point, the conversation somehow drifted on to the subject of our all-time favorite players.
“Stefan Edberg, hands down,” I said.
“A gentleman on the court-but with a real deadly sting. And you?”
“Ivan Lendl. The living embodiment of ruthless efficiency.”
No doubt Peterson thought he was being ruthlessly efficient when he dumped Ivan overboard… even though the bastard surely knew all about Ivan’s ongoing series of tragedies. I love a Samaritan.
The five lights on my phone were flashing madly. I hit the speakerphone
“A few messages, Lily?” I asked.
“You must have two dozen messages here, Mr. Allen.”
“Great. Give me the big ones.”
“All the outside sales reps. The media sales guys from AdTel, Icom, InfoCom, Microcom… It’s a really long list.”
Worse and worse. The word about the takeover had evidently spread through the industry like cancer-and every major CompuWorld advertiser had phoned in, obviously to find out if we were still in business.
“Would you mind e-mailing me the entire list of calls, Lily?”
“No problem, Mr. Allen. Oh-one last thing-your wife called, said she’d heard the news. She wanted to talk to you right away.”
“Is she holding right now?”
“No-you got Mr. Maduro on line one, Mr. Sirio on line two, Mr. Bluehorn on line
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