three…”
All my main guys in the field. All understandably worried about whether they still had a job.
“I’ll talk to Sirio. Tell the others I’ll call them right back.”
“You got it, Mr. Allen. One last thing: Should I start looking in the want ads?”
“Put it this way, Lily: I’m not worried.”
“I hear ya, Mr. Allen.”
I punched button two on my phone.
“Yo, Phil,” I said.
“Sorry to keep you dangling like that.”
“Fugedaboudit, Ned. Sounds like it’s some kind of screwed-up day there.”
Good old Phil. Mr. Laconic. And a rock-solid good guy. Of all my sales team, Phil was, without question, the easiest to deal with. Early forties, unapologetically fleshy, Queens born and bred, still a resident of the ‘hood (Ozone Park, to be exact), a snappy dresser who liked mother-of-pearl-gray double-breasted suits, and had zero tolerance for bullshit. Ever since Ivan Dolinsky’s eclipse, Phil had been our number-one man. I’d never seen a smoother operator in my life. All the guy had to do was pick up a phone, and he closed. His client list was watertight-no sudden jumping ship to the opposition (I often wondered if it was Phil’s “Mr. Big” demeanor that kept his customers in line). And, unlike my other guys in the field, he never groaned, wept, or wailed about business. He got on with the job.
“So you heard the news?” I asked.
“Yeah. I heard. Germans. They gonna work with us?”
“That’s what they say.”
“Then that’s okay. I heard about the bonus biz as well. Not exactly my idea of a good time.”
“Nor mine.”
“They gonna deliver the goods?”
“They’ve given me assurances…”
“Then that’s okay, too.”
I loved this guy. No angst. No crap.
“Listen, Phil. I’ve got to ask you a favor.”
“Tell me.”
So I explained about the GBS crisis-and how we were now looking at six blank pages in the April issue.
“That pig fucker Peterson pulled this stunt?” Phil asked.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Guys like that, I wanna castrate ‘em with a chain saw. You want me to talk to him?”
“He’s not taking any phone calls. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
“Yeah, but Peterson would take my call.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I know stuff.”
“What sort of stuff?”
“Stuff about Peterson.”
“Such as … ?”
“Remember last year’s winter sales event at Grand Cayman? Well, the final night we’re there, I’m leaving the hotel, thinking about taking a little stroll down the beach, when all of a sudden Joan Glaston comes tearing down the street, looking spooked as shit, totally shook up. You know Joan, don’t you?”
“Telesales Chicago?”
“Yeah, that’s her. Hell of a sharp operator, and great legs. Anyway, she runs right into me outside the hotel, hysterical. I lead her inside, bring her to a quiet table in the bar, feed her a whiskey, calm her down a little. Turns out she had been at this GBS reception down the beach at the Grand Hyatt, and she got talking to Peterson. When she decided to leave, Ted, being such a nice guy, offered to escort her back to her hotel. Halfway there, they stopped to look at the water. Next thing Joan knew, Peterson was all over her. But when she told Mr. Family Values to back off, instead of taking the hint, Peterson pulled her down onto the sand and tried to spread her legs.
“That’s when Joan caught him between his legs with her knee, and managed to hightail it outta there-which is when she ran into me.”
“Jesus Christ,” I said.
“Did she report him to the police?”
“I wanted to march her down to the nearest precinct-but she was scared about Peterson inventing some bullshit story for the cops. So I said, “Okay, to hell with the Cayman cops. Go directly to his superiors at GBS, tell them exactly what happened, and force them to sack the sick fuck.” But again, she got all frightened about how, even if GBS believed her, they would never deal with her again. And since she was dependent
All my main guys in the field. All understandably worried about whether they still had a job.
“I’ll talk to Sirio. Tell the others I’ll call them right back.”
“You got it, Mr. Allen. One last thing: Should I start looking in the want ads?”
“Put it this way, Lily: I’m not worried.”
“I hear ya, Mr. Allen.”
I punched button two on my phone.
“Yo, Phil,” I said.
“Sorry to keep you dangling like that.”
“Fugedaboudit, Ned. Sounds like it’s some kind of screwed-up day there.”
Good old Phil. Mr. Laconic. And a rock-solid good guy. Of all my sales team, Phil was, without question, the easiest to deal with. Early forties, unapologetically fleshy, Queens born and bred, still a resident of the ‘hood (Ozone Park, to be exact), a snappy dresser who liked mother-of-pearl-gray double-breasted suits, and had zero tolerance for bullshit. Ever since Ivan Dolinsky’s eclipse, Phil had been our number-one man. I’d never seen a smoother operator in my life. All the guy had to do was pick up a phone, and he closed. His client list was watertight-no sudden jumping ship to the opposition (I often wondered if it was Phil’s “Mr. Big” demeanor that kept his customers in line). And, unlike my other guys in the field, he never groaned, wept, or wailed about business. He got on with the job.
“So you heard the news?” I asked.
“Yeah. I heard. Germans. They gonna work with us?”
“That’s what they say.”
“Then that’s okay. I heard about the bonus biz as well. Not exactly my idea of a good time.”
“Nor mine.”
“They gonna deliver the goods?”
“They’ve given me assurances…”
“Then that’s okay, too.”
I loved this guy. No angst. No crap.
“Listen, Phil. I’ve got to ask you a favor.”
“Tell me.”
So I explained about the GBS crisis-and how we were now looking at six blank pages in the April issue.
“That pig fucker Peterson pulled this stunt?” Phil asked.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Guys like that, I wanna castrate ‘em with a chain saw. You want me to talk to him?”
“He’s not taking any phone calls. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
“Yeah, but Peterson would take my call.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I know stuff.”
“What sort of stuff?”
“Stuff about Peterson.”
“Such as … ?”
“Remember last year’s winter sales event at Grand Cayman? Well, the final night we’re there, I’m leaving the hotel, thinking about taking a little stroll down the beach, when all of a sudden Joan Glaston comes tearing down the street, looking spooked as shit, totally shook up. You know Joan, don’t you?”
“Telesales Chicago?”
“Yeah, that’s her. Hell of a sharp operator, and great legs. Anyway, she runs right into me outside the hotel, hysterical. I lead her inside, bring her to a quiet table in the bar, feed her a whiskey, calm her down a little. Turns out she had been at this GBS reception down the beach at the Grand Hyatt, and she got talking to Peterson. When she decided to leave, Ted, being such a nice guy, offered to escort her back to her hotel. Halfway there, they stopped to look at the water. Next thing Joan knew, Peterson was all over her. But when she told Mr. Family Values to back off, instead of taking the hint, Peterson pulled her down onto the sand and tried to spread her legs.
“That’s when Joan caught him between his legs with her knee, and managed to hightail it outta there-which is when she ran into me.”
“Jesus Christ,” I said.
“Did she report him to the police?”
“I wanted to march her down to the nearest precinct-but she was scared about Peterson inventing some bullshit story for the cops. So I said, “Okay, to hell with the Cayman cops. Go directly to his superiors at GBS, tell them exactly what happened, and force them to sack the sick fuck.” But again, she got all frightened about how, even if GBS believed her, they would never deal with her again. And since she was dependent
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