accomplice to any mischief, Annie cocked one eyebrow and grinned wickedly. She reigned supreme among the gaggle of PCS sales assistants, mostly women in their midtwenties en route to graduate schools. They worked hard, gabbed constantly, and punctuated every other sentence with the exclamation “Shut up!” It would not take long for Annie’s whisper campaign to coax Frank Kurtz from his office. Soon, he would start sniffing around Estrogen Alley to assess the rumors about Patty himself.
Chloe was still on the phone. More accurately, the phone was still on her. She sported a prodigious headset. Two massive bowls crowned her ears and obscured much of her short brown hair. The headphones belonged to a different time and place, perhaps the landing strips of World War II rather than the crazed commerce of Wall Street.
Would you wire seventy-five thousand dollars from my account to Sam Kelemen? I mouthed the words and handed her Sam’s voided check. The numbers at the bottom contained details necessary to route funds.
We communicated all the time like this, Chloe locked in deep conversation and me using hand signals to communicate instructions. I dared not speak aloud. Otherwise, the mouthpiece on her jutting boom would broadcast my words to someone else. Chloe had an uncanny ability to speak with several people at once. The skill made her invaluable.
Underneath the headset, Chloe’s forehead furrowed into long extended lines. Her eyes dilated. Her expression, a mix of gatekeeper and surrogate mother, challenged me. “Are you sure?”
I nodded yes with my most commanding face.
In all honesty the external conviction belied internal Ping-Pong. Spontaneity, the thought of wiring $75,000, was never my thing. Bucks had been sparse during childhood, hard to make as an adult. That was my left brain.
But this was Sam. She needed me. I owed Charlie. I had given my word and overpromised on the deliverables. “You can bank on it.” Neither of the Kelemens had blinked about my six-month stay in their town house. That was my right brain.
The phone interrupted the match. Three short bursts indicated an internal call. Ordinarily, we regarded this special tone as the frightful harbinger of incoming M-bombs.
Frank Kurtz’s name appeared on all three of our LCD displays, and I thought Annie would kick off her heels and dance. She swiveled round in her chair and stopped yakking into the receiver. She flashed a blinding mouthful of pearly whites, a shit-eating grin for the ages. “Mission accomplished.” Triumph rang in her words.
“Damn, you’re good,” I congratulated Annie while punching the talk button to greet Frank. Her gang had delivered.
“What’d you say?” Frank bellowed, his voice frothy, bold, and robust, a stein of good cheer.
Frank was not a large man at five-eight. He just seemed big. Thanks to a daily regimen of lifting weights and quaffing red wine, Frank had bulked his torso into oversized, almost comic proportions. His hard-packed belly, an uneasy détente between muscle and fat, dwarfed the skinny, spindly, spiderlike legs underneath. He exuded physical strength when he spoke, his thunderous voice jostling the thin office walls. His words were another matter. They never fit the physical presence. They regularly betrayed indecision underneath.
“Damn glad you called,” I replied, working quickly to mask the praise intended for Annie. “I need to ask you something.”
“Me first,” Frank objected. “Have you heard anything about Patty?”
“You mean about her leaving?” It was easy to bait Frank.
“Oh shit,” he snorted nervously. “I was afraid of that.” He was already fretting over his bonus.
“Forget it, Frank. It’s a cheesy rumor. She’s not going anywhere. You’ve been too good to her.”
“You think?” he asked. Puffed-up pride replaced his flaccid inflection. Come-and-go bravado superseded his fear.
“I’d bet your
Chloe was still on the phone. More accurately, the phone was still on her. She sported a prodigious headset. Two massive bowls crowned her ears and obscured much of her short brown hair. The headphones belonged to a different time and place, perhaps the landing strips of World War II rather than the crazed commerce of Wall Street.
Would you wire seventy-five thousand dollars from my account to Sam Kelemen? I mouthed the words and handed her Sam’s voided check. The numbers at the bottom contained details necessary to route funds.
We communicated all the time like this, Chloe locked in deep conversation and me using hand signals to communicate instructions. I dared not speak aloud. Otherwise, the mouthpiece on her jutting boom would broadcast my words to someone else. Chloe had an uncanny ability to speak with several people at once. The skill made her invaluable.
Underneath the headset, Chloe’s forehead furrowed into long extended lines. Her eyes dilated. Her expression, a mix of gatekeeper and surrogate mother, challenged me. “Are you sure?”
I nodded yes with my most commanding face.
In all honesty the external conviction belied internal Ping-Pong. Spontaneity, the thought of wiring $75,000, was never my thing. Bucks had been sparse during childhood, hard to make as an adult. That was my left brain.
But this was Sam. She needed me. I owed Charlie. I had given my word and overpromised on the deliverables. “You can bank on it.” Neither of the Kelemens had blinked about my six-month stay in their town house. That was my right brain.
The phone interrupted the match. Three short bursts indicated an internal call. Ordinarily, we regarded this special tone as the frightful harbinger of incoming M-bombs.
Frank Kurtz’s name appeared on all three of our LCD displays, and I thought Annie would kick off her heels and dance. She swiveled round in her chair and stopped yakking into the receiver. She flashed a blinding mouthful of pearly whites, a shit-eating grin for the ages. “Mission accomplished.” Triumph rang in her words.
“Damn, you’re good,” I congratulated Annie while punching the talk button to greet Frank. Her gang had delivered.
“What’d you say?” Frank bellowed, his voice frothy, bold, and robust, a stein of good cheer.
Frank was not a large man at five-eight. He just seemed big. Thanks to a daily regimen of lifting weights and quaffing red wine, Frank had bulked his torso into oversized, almost comic proportions. His hard-packed belly, an uneasy détente between muscle and fat, dwarfed the skinny, spindly, spiderlike legs underneath. He exuded physical strength when he spoke, his thunderous voice jostling the thin office walls. His words were another matter. They never fit the physical presence. They regularly betrayed indecision underneath.
“Damn glad you called,” I replied, working quickly to mask the praise intended for Annie. “I need to ask you something.”
“Me first,” Frank objected. “Have you heard anything about Patty?”
“You mean about her leaving?” It was easy to bait Frank.
“Oh shit,” he snorted nervously. “I was afraid of that.” He was already fretting over his bonus.
“Forget it, Frank. It’s a cheesy rumor. She’s not going anywhere. You’ve been too good to her.”
“You think?” he asked. Puffed-up pride replaced his flaccid inflection. Come-and-go bravado superseded his fear.
“I’d bet your
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