Tessa arrives at 7:50AM and heads to the ladies room and spends fifteen minutes fixing her face. Same ritual every stinking day. I don’t need fifteen minutes to be as suave and good-looking as I already am. But nature is rarely fair.
Tessa trots to her desk at 8:05AM breathless. She’s late again, and Ryan gives her a look that would freeze a solar flare.
At 8:30AM, I organize a quick catch-up with all security officers as they change from night- to day-shift. I remind them that everyone must display a valid security badge and I want spot-checks on those, as well. I reiterate my instructions to the security team that no fucker—other than the boss—is to get into his office, or even onto his floor. I’ll tattoo it on their fucking foreheads if I have to. And then give them mirrors.
All visitors, even if it’s the President, have to be vetted. Every visitor is to have their photo taken which is then checked against the FBI’s facial recognition software. Everyone goes through the scanner. No exceptions.
The rest of the morning passes quietly until Pam comes to figure out what’s up with Anderson.
“Come on, Trainer. Spill. Pleeease don’t tell me he’s still got woman trouble!”
“You’d know more about that than me, Pam.”
She growls something unprintable that rhymes with Lamar Hunt and stalks back to her office.
I’m sure glad she’s batting for the other team: it would be terrifying having her on the loose in New York. No man would feel safe. How does her girlfriend Sheila put up with her? I mean, she’s kinda nice. Nothing like old copper-drawers.
Yup, I do enjoy a bit of verbal sparring with Ms. Russo.
Next up for the Trainer treatment is Ryan. He’s also noticed a change of demeanor in the boss. For a start, Tessa isn’t the usual quivering wreck.
“I got a call from PR because they got a call from a newspaper about Devon dating. ‘Fess up, Trainer. What’s going on?”
Why do all these people come to me? I just live with the guy—it’s not like I’m having his babies.
“It’s all under control, Ryan. Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Yeah, and a flying pig just shit on your shoes, Trainer. What’s going on?”
He’s such a nice, sweet-tempered guy.
It’s a good thing I don’t approve of gambling, liquor or strong language, because my poker face would bankrupt me going up against the queen of mean.
“The ongoing security situation.”
“Bullshit! He looks like his best friend just died—except he hasn’t got any friends. Does this have something to do with the new intern, Maria Alvarez?”
Well, it’s the boss’s fault that Ryan is getting so close to the truth: he didn’t hire any dumb employees, that’s for sure.
“You know he ordered flowers. Two dozen white Lily of the Valley. Dictated a message and everything. Melanie from the florists phoned me to check it wasn’t a hoax and that it was really him. I guess he was apologizing for something, right? Guys like him only send flowers when they’ve done something they’re sorry for.”
I stare back, and his eyes widen.
“You’re shitting me! She dumped him? She dumped him?!”
Ryan doesn’t just leap to conclusions, he fucking triple salchows to them.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Wow! She dumped him! I bet that’s never happened before. Apart from the fact that I always thought he was a-sexual, possibly gay. Wow!”
“I didn’t say…”
But he’s already out the door.
I hold my head in my hands, then decide that as it’s going to be a long-ass day, I should find out what Game of Thrones is about after all.
Howard passes by just as I put my feet on the desk and look up HBO’s website, but it’s not my day for an introspective wallow.
“Hey, T!”
Howard wanders into my office. He could be looking for the meaning of life, or possibly the way to his desk. It’s hard to tell.
“Halo-carbon based agents are thirty-eight per cent more effective than our standard foam and water combo.”
He’s got my attention.
“Tell me more.”
I spend an interesting and informative half hour having the benefits of Halon explained to me. It’s a relief to have a normal conversation. I decide it’s worth the $4,200,000 cost to install at all Anderson’s commercial properties across the U.S. The boss will need to approve it, but I’m pretty certain he’ll like what he hears.
“Go ahead and prep a report for the boss. It looks like a sound investment.”
“Will do, Mr. T. By the way, what’s up with the boss? He hasn’t yelled at me even once today.”
Nope. The boss didn’t hire any turkeys.
“Princess Daenerys is hot,” he says, casually. “She sounds like purple.”
“She sounds like purple?”
He shrugs.
“I’m a synesthete.”
“Is that some weird fanboy thing? You scare me sometimes.”
“It means I experience sound as color.”
I never know where the hell Howard gets half this stuff.
“What’s up with Warpath? He looks like Luke Skywalker when he found out that Darth Vader was his father.”
“Can’t tell you, Howard.”
“I know, T.” He stares at the ceiling. “I kinda liked it when he was, you know, connected.”
This guy has a PhD in talking riddles. I decide to play along.
“What do you mean ‘connected’?”
“Well,” he says, seriously, “the boss operates in the top quantile of mathematical reasoning and logic: abstractions, numbers and critical thinking. Fluid intelligence, ya know.”
“Bear with me, Howard, when I say, huh?”
He continues staring at the ceiling, like the answer to life, the universe and everything is stenciled onto the fire-resistant tiles.
“It’s the capacity to understand the underlying principles of some kind of causal system. I mean, the boss is a legitimate genius, and speaking as a fellow genius, I know what I’m talking about. But seeing him with Mrs. Anderson, it made me feel like if he could have a normal life, then there was hope for the rest of us.”
I stare at Howard, slightly shocked that he’s speaking in whole sentences.
“Seriously, MENSA doesn’t have a category for people like us. No one does.”
He shrugs and I know he’s not trying to be funny, he means it.
“The boss is off the chart smart, but he’s a dumbass, too. Like Raymond the Rain Man, you know what I’m saying, T? And it’s no fun being the one who never makes connections with other people.” He sighs. “Later, T. Look out for the Sith.”
I have no idea what the hell just happened. Did I fall asleep? Slip through the cracks into an alternate reality? Or did Howard just tell me that the boss gives him hope?
Two episodes later, Daenerys has been married to Khal Drogo and I’m so confused, I think my brain has been shit out through my ass. My eyes are burning and gave up trying to work two hours ago.
Then Rachel calls.
“Justin! The meditation room! Oh my goodness! This is wonderful!”
“Yeah, baby. Learning has taken place.”
I don’t bother to tell her I helped the boss paint the walls—she’ll have us going to spin classes together.
But I have to agree. Things are looking up.
I WAS WRONG.
I feel like I’m living in Groundhog Day. Rachel is worried, the boss is showing Hugo Wolf the real meaning of insanity, putting the misery in Misericordia, and in between that and screaming through his nightmares, I’m about ready to start foaming at the mouth.
But for the first time in several days, the boss wants to go for a run. Rachel thinks that’s a good sign—that, and the fact that he seems to be eating normally again. I’m not so sure: what if he runs under a truck? What if I push him under one? I think that could affect my end-of-year bonus.
He spent yesterday
evening pacing up and down the main room at Wolf Point. I saw him check his phone a dozen times. I got the impression that he was hoping, expecting even, that Ms. Alvarez would call him.
I know he hasn’t been into the whole ‘girlfriend’ thing that long—and I’m not counting the orgies—but if he really thinks sending some flowers is going to bring her running back after telling her that masochism is his favorite hobby after fucking, he’s got a lot to learn. But I reckon that’s exactly what he thought. And he doesn’t understand why it hasn’t worked. Join the club, Romeo.
Chapter 16
Miss Congeniality
“YOU’RE GOING TO have to talk to him, Justin.”
Rachel’s lips are moving and sound is coming out but it makes no sense. I had been looking forward to good old fashioned eggs and bacon with a quiet coffee for breakfast, but now I sense that we’ll be having a conversation.
“Talk to who about what?”
Rachel shakes her head and looks at me as if I’ve forgotten how to tie my shoelaces or zip my fly. I look down: nope, everything’s in place.
“About Ms. Alvarez!”
Now I’m really confused. That one brain cell is feeling pretty lonely up there. At least, that’s how Rachel is making me feel.
Then the light dawns. Holy fuck!
“Let me get this right, Rachel. You want me to talk to the boss about Ms. Alvarez?!”
She nods.
“And then after he fires me and kicks my sweet ass through the door, then what?”
She rolls her eyes.
“And what would I say to him anyway? Hey, bud, you know if you want girls to like you, it’s not a good idea to do kinky shit that includes orgies, whips and canes, after fucking them till they can’t cross their legs.”
“Justin!”
“Well, come on! First, it’s none of my business; second, it’s none of your business; and third, what makes you think he’d listen to me anyway?”
I think I might have gone too far because she gets a look on her face that would scare my old platoon sergeant into shitting his shorts.
“Well, first,” she says, all sarcastic, like she’s ticking it off on her fingers, “it is your business because you’re the closest thing he’s got to a friend; second, it is my business because I’ve worked for him for over a year, I like him and believe he’s a good man; and third, actually, I can’t think of a third reason, but you really should talk to him.”
“First,” I say, smirking back at her, “the only person he listens to is Ms. Alvarez and sometimes his mother; second, he’s having lunch with his mom today; and third, his mom scares me.”
“Aw, Justin, honey. Are you trying to tell me that a big, badass ex-Marine is scared of a lil ole mom from the Bronx?”
“Yup.”
She sighs.
“Look, babe, I know you mean well and that you want to fix this for the boss, but you’ve got to accept that you can’t. You can’t fix him and you can’t fix Ms. Alvarez. He’s sent her flowers—she hasn’t responded. You know how stubborn women … um … some women can be.”
I grind to a halt, aware that I’m just opening my mouth to change feet.
Rachel raises an eyebrow, but she doesn’t leave me wriggling on the hook.
“So he’s seeing his mom?”
“Yep.”
“Well, I’m relieved to hear that. At least he’s talking to someone. I half expected that dreadful man to be around fixing him up with a new friend.”
“He tried.”
“No! Really? When was that? What happened?”
“Landon phoned on Saturday. The boss was on speakerphone so I heard it all. He sounded like he was pleased that Maria had done a runner. Couldn’t wait to set up the boss with a new fix at the Farm.”
I really don’t want to dwell on that image. That cold-hearted troll gives me the shivers.
“Ugh! I can’t bear that man! He’s just so … ugh!”
Words fail her, which is really saying something. I happen to know Rachel was a straight-A student.
We’re interrupted when the boss taps on our door. I hope he didn’t overhear that conversation. But he looks so deep in thought, I’m not sure he’d notice a grizzly bear dancing the polka on Broadway. Then again, polkas are a bit cheerful for the boss.
We head out across town on our run. The boss’s pace is slower than usual and his gait isn’t as loose as it should be. He’s obviously not into the exercise because generally he gets pretty competitive with me, but today he’s some other place, and from the expression on his face, I’m guessing it’s not somewhere happy.
Part of me wonders if maybe another woman or man—another orgy—would help him get over Maria Alvarez. But then again, does anyone ever get over their first love? Sure, we move on because we have to, because life forces us to carry on; but most of us get abused by love while we’re still in our teens and we’re young enough to believe that life will be a bed of roses now we’ve got enough manure to do a good job. But the boss is thirty-one—and I’m pretty fucking certain that he’s never been in love before. That’s from a year of too close observation, along with the Cadillac-size hints that Abigail Anderson dropped.
Ms. Alvarez certainly wasn’t his first fuck, but she was his first love.
We make it back to Wolf Point with only minimal damage (the boss ran into the path of a bread van: it was parked at the time).
Then time to get suited, booted and beautiful, take three meetings with different members of the management team, a Skype call from Taiwan and possibly recalibrate NASDAQ before a visit to mommy at Le Bernier.
They’re in there a fucking long time. I’ve watched penicillin grow at a faster speed. I trawl through every magazine in the bar. Who knew ‘Horse and Hound’ was such a racy read?
When the boss comes out he looks calm. I don’t know what his mom said to him, but the woman is a witchdoctor. I’m definitely going to her when working for Anderson turns me into a complete fucking basket case. In fact, I could do with a session right now. I wonder how much she charges and whether it’s included in my medical coverage?
At DMA Tower, my ass is barely in my office chair when I get a call from Mason.
“Anything new on Landon?”
“Oh yeah.”
He draws out the word like it’s going to bite him.
“And?”
“I’m still digging. Nothing concrete, just some rumors that his financing isn’t as squeaky clean as it seems.”
“In what way?”
“Let’s just say that not all his seed money came from Anderson.”
Interesting.
“Who then?”
“I’m looking into ties with Consolidated Iron, a shipbuilding company on the West Coast and possible mob ties.”
“Dirty money.”
Mason pauses.
“Couldn’t say, but since Anderson is looking to expand into shipping, possibly partnering with that company in Taiwan he’s been sniffing around…”
Light dawns…
“It would put him into direct competition with Landon’s other backer.”
“Yup.”
“Shit.”
“Yup.”
“And Anderson has no idea?”
“Unlikely, not impossible,” and I can hear the frustration in Mason’s voice.
“Fuck’s sake. He has a real blind spot when it comes to that shithead.”
“Yup. I’ll leave it to you to tell Anderson.”
“Gee, thanks, Mason. All the best jobs.”
“Kiss my ass, Trainer.”
“I’d rather chew off a badger’s scrotum.”
I’m really not looking forward to giving the boss all this good news: the poor bastard is on a fucking Titanic of misery—and I just can’t face being the one to tell him that there are icebergs ahead.
THE NEXT EVENING, I’m ready to kick back and relax for the evening, when Gomez Addams gets a surprise visitor.
Well, I’m surprised—I have no i
dea how Anderson feels … shocked to the tips of his shiny shoes.
On the CCTV, I can see Maria’s grandfather standing at the front door, leaning on a walking cane, a very serious expression on his face. But then again at his age, life is a serious business since you’ve already lived more of it than you’ve got left.
I text the boss with a heads up before I jog down to the front door.
“Mr. Alvarez, good to see you again, sir.”
“Ah, Justin, bueno. How are you and Rachel?”
“We’re good. Please, come on in. Mr. Anderson is waiting for you.”
He gives a tired smile and hobbles inside.
“So he’s not really your friend? You call him mister?”
“Ms. Alvarez thought for the purposes of her cousin’s wedding that it would be best to keep things casual. How is she?”
He sighs, shaking his head.
“She is sad. I don’t know what happened, she won’t tell me. So I’ve come to ask Devon.”
Ooh, this isn’t going to go well, especially if the boss tells him the truth.
Just then, the man of the moment walks into the lobby.
“Mr. Alvarez, this is a welcome surprise.”
“Is it?” the old man asks sincerely. “Hmm, we’ll see.”
The boss isn’t fazed at all. Attempts at a hostile takeover are second nature to him; pushy relatives, also a breeze.
“May I offer you some refreshments while we talk?”
“Do you got beer in a place like this?”
Mr. Alvarez asks, staring at the enormous lobby area and the elevator doors on one side.
The boss inclines his head to one side.
“I believe I do.”
That’s my cue to leave.
I head back to the lower floor and find Rachel waiting in the kitchen.
“Is everything okay?” she asks.
I shrug.
“They’re having a beer together.”
“Perhaps I should offer Mr. Alvarez something to eat?”
“Leave them to it, babe. If Gomez wants something, he’ll tell us.”
“I thought Mr. Alvarez’s name was Javier?”
“It is.”
“Oh? Oh!” and she gives a quiet laugh. “Is that what you call Mr. Anderson behind his back?”
Jane Harvey-Berrick Saving The Billionaire Page 12