by Isabel Jolie
She points at my shirt. “Do you always dress like that?”
I glance down at my tee. It’s a white t-shirt with a Batman mask and black font below it that reads I’m not saying I’m Batman, I’m just saying no one has ever seen me and Batman in a room together. I think the black works well with the black sports jacket I’m wearing today. But I get it. She’s a conformist. She wants everyone to look the same and follow all the same rules. To her credit, my jacket covers part of the text, and therefore she can’t fully appreciate the humor.
“Not a DC Comics fan?” I ask, holding out hope she’s a huge Marvel fan.
“What is DC Comics?” she asks in a way that makes it clear she’s not flirting with that answer. She genuinely has no idea.
I don’t even answer because there’s no real reason to. If she’s reached adulthood and doesn’t know the basics, then there’s little that can be done. She’s one hundred percent professional, not a joke to be found, as I sit down behind her computer and type away.
Hotness level be damned, she’s coming across like an accounting stiff. It’s not looking like we’ll be hanging out after work drinking brewskies. This woman is not a PLU. I’ll inform Rhonda. PLU is our inside code for people like us. You gotta be a PLU if we’re including you in the after-work invite. That lust I felt Saturday night is shrinking the same way my favorite limb shrinks when thrown in Lake Michigan.
I show her around on the network, leave some notes for her, and jot down my office extension should she have any more questions.
I’m barely back in my office when my phone rings. No name shows up, but I hazard a guess that’s because HR hasn’t fully set her up yet.
“Hello.”
“I clicked to access the accounting reports, and it’s saying I don’t have access.”
Yeah, it seemed improbable she’d have full access on day one. Our IT department is competent, but far below outstanding.
“Tell you what, let me call my main man, Tommy, and send him your way to get you fully set up.”
“How long do you think that will take? Do you have any paper files I can look through?”
I actually do have a gazillion files, which she probably surmised when in my office, as one wall of my office is file cabinets. The entire area behind Rhonda is also file cabinets. I’m the only guy in the place who keeps printed records of everything. Rhonda’s nickname for me is tree killer. But it’s not a good idea to hand the files over to Frosty. They could be outdated, and she’d be spinning her wheels. And she’d only have access to my accounts. BB&E is a shit load bigger than the twenty-five accounts I oversee.
“I’ll get Tommy to make you priority number one. He’ll be at your office in five minutes.”
A brief huff crosses the phone line, making it clear five minutes does not meet her expectations.
After I dispatch Tommy, I call my good friend Anna to make lunch plans. If I’m going to end up spending more time today with little miss serious-as-can-be, all-work Frost, I’m going to need a relaxed, happy lunch.
As I chat on the phone with Anna, my desk calendar catches my attention. I’m in the office every day this week. That’s problematic. I shoot a text to Rhonda to see if she can schedule some tee time for later in the week.
After Anna and I agree to a lunch spot, I head to the twelfth-floor conference room for Monday morning status with my team. Rhonda passes me a fresh cup of joe as she steps in place beside me on the way to the elevator. The elevators slide to close until a notebook thrusts between them, activating the safety catch to open the doors. Sydney steps inside as she mumbles an apology, or maybe it’s thanks.
“What floor are you going to?” I ask, polite as ever.
“Twelfth? For your status meeting?”
“My status meeting? Why would you—”
“Evan suggested I attend all of the team status meetings today, or at least as many as I can. Several all happen at the same time, but he gave me a list of the ones he thought I should prioritize. You know, to get the lay of the land?”
What do I care if she attends my status meeting? She’s coming in here as an internal auditor. To some, that means she’s looking for screw-ups. But I know better than that. If she finds a mistake, she’s really saving my ass. I’d much rather a colleague find a mistake than it be splashed across the nightly news as an accounting scandal that’s tanking a client’s stock.
As a CIA, she may be used to people treating her like the IRS. Maybe that’s why she’s all business. That would suck to fall into a career where everyone thinks of you as the enemy.
I exhale loudly, call on my inner camp guy, the one who reaches out to every loner, just as the elevator door opens.
“Ms. Frost, it will be our honor to have you attend our Monday morning status meeting.”
Rhonda heads on into the conference room, saying hellos on the way in, as Sydney stops right outside the door, blocking my entrance. She looks me directly in the eye, but there’s a soft blush to her cheeks that undermines her confident stance.
“I’m sorry if I was a bit brash this morning. Sometimes I can be a little abrasive.”
Frosty, abrasive, tomato, tomatah. I smile and hold out my arm, directing her into the conference room. My team awaits.
“No problem. You’ve been fine.” Really, she’s been beyond uptight, but I knew I’d wear her down eventually. Everybody’s got a soft side, some you just gotta work a little harder to soften ’em up. And, these days, I suppose I could stand to take a page from Ms. Frost and be a tad more professional.
Status passes issue-free. Sydney’s pen writes down almost every word spoken. Something tells me she was the student who filled up multiple notebooks for each subject.
It takes forever and a day for lunchtime to arrive. The end of the quarter is coming up, and my phone has been ringing off the hook. Several of my clients want extensions or are calling with questions.
One account, an account I haven’t yet really figured out, wants to go out Thursday night. It should be a pretty straightforward business, but the guy doesn’t seem to have any office employees. I only deal with Joe, the owner. The guy disposes of biohazard waste, so I guess he hasn’t felt the need to hire anyone to help with the accounting. I have this vision of his employees wearing rubber gloves and face masks as they dump chemicals somewhere in the dark of night, possibly in a river. I try not to think about it. He’s this gold-chain-wearing guy straight out of Scarface, lives in Chicago, and whenever he comes into town, he handles the plans. My week is looking up.
When I step up to Osteria Delbianca, the small Italian restaurant we favor, Anna greets me with her signature, “Hey you!” and I pick her up and whirl her around. Anna’s one of my oldest friends from Chapel Hill, and now she’s chained down my good friend and grad school roommate, Jackson. Not to brag, but I was their yente. Yep. When he moved to New York, I set him up with a place in her building and orchestrated a few meet and greets to rekindle the old college flame. I’ve mentioned to Jackson more than once that I should be his firstborn’s namesake. Seems fair. Or…maybe godfather.
We’re seated in our normal table by the back window, but I see a better table out on the coveted terrace—or, well, roped-off sidewalk. It’s the end of summer, and I’m not sure how much more time we have for outdoor seating, so I ask. The hostess loves me, so of course, she smiles as she leads the way to the only available al fresco table.
As Anna holds the menu, I do my habitual scan of her fingers. No engagement ring yet. I know Jackson’s bought the damn thing. I was with him when he did it. And I wish I hadn’t been because the guy’s been waiting forever, and it might shock some people to learn this about me, but I don’t really like having to keep secrets. Especially big-ass secrets.
“So, are you ready for this Saturday?”
I’m torn between going healthy-ish with a Venetian salad or going all out and getting a chicken parm sub. “What are you getting?” I ask, because if she’s ordering a salad, that means she’s
planning on eating half my order. We’ve been doing the lunch thing for years.
“I think I might be bad and order the lasagna.”
The waitress comes up, and I order the chicken parm. My hour run this morning, plus some evening weight time, and I’ll earn it.
When Leigh Ann, our waitress, leaves, Anna kicks my ankle.
“So, this weekend? You’re in, right?”
“Oh, yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” We have this cheesy bachelor-slash-bachelorette party that our friends are throwing. I don’t know the couple well. Not a surprise, since any close friend of mine would not agree to have his bachelor party combined with the ladies. If that isn’t a recipe for lame, I don’t know what is. I hope Jackson doesn’t get any crazy ideas from this shindig, because when it’s his turn, I’ll be the one planning his party, and it’s going to rock the motherfucking casbah.
“Sam said you didn’t RSVP. I told him I’d check in and make sure you’re coming.”
“What was I supposed to RSVP to?”
“The email that went out?” Anna sounds exasperated, which is hardly needed. It’s our friends. Of course I’m going to show.
I snag a piece of bread from the basket, dip it in olive oil, sprinkle some salt and pepper, look up, and she’s staring at me.
“What? Yes, I’m going. Jeez. I didn’t realize Sam was being all girlie about it. I’ll text the guy.”
“It’s not that big of a deal. I’ll let him know. It’s just Olivia is throwing this together last minute. She found out they were coming into town like a week ago, so she’s stressed.”
“Okay. Fine. I got it. Aren’t we just meeting at Sam and Olivia’s apartment?” I really do not see how anyone is stressed about this.
“We’re meeting there, and then they have a whole night planned. It’ll be fun.”
Yeah, whatevs.
“Are you bringing a date?”
“Do I ever?” I snag another piece of bread as a loud bus rides by and a plume of exhaust floats out across the sidewalk. Oh, yeah, that’s the reason I don’t always sit outside.
“What about the wedding? You did RSVP for the wedding, right?”
“I wasn’t raised in a barn. Of course I mailed back the RSVP card.” I think. Pretty sure I did. Maybe. “I booked the hotel you said you and Jackson are staying at. In Iowa. I’ve never been there. You?”
Anna breaks down and reaches for a piece of bread. It was only a matter of time.
“No. But it looks lovely. Maggie is such a sweetheart. I’m really happy for her.” She pauses. “You know, you should consider bringing a date to the wedding.”
“Are you out of your mind? Out of town? No fucking way. Nothing says I’m serious like come with me to an out of town wedding.”
“Well, bring a friend. I know you have tons of them.”
“You tired of me being third wheel?”
“No. Not at all. But it’s gonna be a long weekend of couples. I want to make sure you have fun.”
“Are Delilah and Mason bringing pipsqueak?” All our friends have coupled off recently at the speed of light. Mason has a daughter from a previous relationship, and a lot of times when we all get together, she and I end up hanging. I’m the fun uncle. Every kid’s gotta have one.
“No. She’s staying with Mason’s mom. Delilah’s pretty psyched about an adult weekend away.”
Yeah, I know what that’s code for. So, it’s gonna be me with three lovey-dovey couples. Seventh wheel in the middle of Bum Fuck. Fabulous.
Four
Sadie
* * *
Chase Maitlin’s desk sits empty. Most everyone has stepped out for lunch, possibly down to the cafeteria, or they’re behind closed doors in meetings. The top of Rhonda’s head can be seen over the cubicle wall, and I can faintly hear the hum of her phone conversation. Unseen, I step inside his office.
Tall file cabinets line the back wall. A collection of signed baseballs, basketballs, and one soccer ball sits on top. To the side of his desk is a bulletin board packed with mementos. I step around his desk, curious.
Given the Mets schedule on the bulletin board, I’d assume he’s a Mets fan, but I look back and see Yankees crap mixed in with the sports memorabilia on the top of his file cabinets. Upon closer inspection, Mets junk is mixed in too. There’s no clear allegiance. There are a few New York Giants ticket stubs sticking out from the edge of a bulletin board, and on further examination, I discover those tickets aren’t used. They’re for an upcoming game. I count the tickets, and there are six of them.
Everything on his bulletin board appears personal, and other than a photo of a dog, everything is sports-related. He has a desk calendar, and I’m about to pull out my phone and snap a photo of it when Rhonda calls out to me.
“Are you looking for Chase? He’s at lunch.”
I point at his bulletin board. “He’s got quite the collection of interesting stuff.”
With a fond smile, Rhonda surveys all the stuff crowding Chase’s office. “Yeah, glancing around, you’d think he’s a big sports guy. And, don’t get me wrong, he likes his sports. But, for Chase, it’s about the people he’s with. He doesn’t really care what team he’s watching. He’s not one of those guys who’s in a bad mood after his team loses. He doesn’t really care. He just likes being around people.”
This is a woman who clearly likes her boss. She’s probably in her mid-forties, and her wedding band and kid photos indicate their relationship is completely platonic, even if outside the bounds of a strictly professional one.
“I can call you when he’s back from lunch?” she offers, hovering by the door.
I glance at my watch to check the time.
“His lunch meeting is probably running a little late. I can have him come by your office later this afternoon? I think he has an opening after three p.m.?”
I’d love to be able to continue looking through his office, and I glance wistfully at the day calendar left out openly on his desk. But Rhonda shows no sign of leaving me in here, so I thank her and leave.
When I make it back to my office, I pull out my phone and type into my notes app.
Chase Maitlin - long lunches, everyone’s buddy. Takes clients to sporting events. Only employee in a t-shirt, no tie. How?
It’s clear to me, if Maitlin is our guy, he’s not stressed. Probably because someone up top is covering for him. He’s the client relationship manager. I could tell from the status meeting that he has accountants on his team who do all the real work.
This morning’s status meeting ran smoothly. One thing I’ll give Maitlin, he has happy employees who know the drill. They ran through updates without any tension or drama. There was only one guy on his team who didn’t joke around much. I even caught him rolling his eyes at one of Maitlin’s jokes.
I flip through my file from the status meetings this morning. Garrick Carlson. He’s the accountant who handles the pro bono work for the McLoughlin Charity, plus he handles four other business accounts, all based in Chicago. And two of those four accounts are the reason I’m undercover at BB&E Accounting.
I add one more note to my app.
Garrick Carlson - not too friendly. Didn’t joke around with others.
There’s a knock on my doorframe, and I swipe up to close out of the app.
“I heard you missed me.” At five foot eight or nine, Chase is about my height in heels, but he somehow fills the doorframe with his smile and persona. He spreads his arms out wide, and as he does so, his t-shirt tightens across his chest, revealing muscular lines. As an FBI agent, I’ve spent a fair amount of time around gym rats, and looking him over, I realize he must be one.
“Long lunch meeting?”
“Nah. Met up with a friend. She’s in advertising, though, and tends to eat lunch on the later side. Most of the folks at BB&E are heading out the door for lunch at noon sharp.” He pulls out a chair and sits. “You know, it’s your first day. We should have taken you out to lunch. I always do that for my team.”
“Yeah, you’re not on my team, but I’m the one who’s supposed to be welcoming you. Tomorrow?”
More time to get to know him? “Sure.”
“I’ll text Rhonda and ask her to schedule with my team. We’ll go around the corner. You can get to know everybody.” His fingers fly across his phone.
Perfect. “I’d love that.”
“So, I know you're replacing Tad. But I’m not entirely sure what his objectives were. Are you simply double-checking to ensure our work is correct? Or are you evaluating resource needs as well?”
All traces of the friendly jokester are gone.
“Resource needs? You mean, personnel?”
He nods, lips in a straight line.
“Ahm, yes, technically, that is a part of the job description posted on the human resources board.” His right eyebrow lifts, and I add, “The job I applied for. But, no, Evan hasn’t highlighted that as a pressing priority right now.”
He crosses an ankle over his knee and leans into the corner of the office chair. In a flash, jovial Chase returns. Interesting.
“Good to know. It’s usually in the fourth quarter when BB&E identifies poor performers and layoffs happen.”
“You have annual layoffs?”
His shoulders lift slightly as he considers my question. “BB&E isn’t a strict Six Sigma firm, but they do adopt the approach to some degree. Are you familiar with it?”
“A bit.”
“Well, the theory is you can trim about ten percent of your weakest performers each year, and bring in new blood, to build the most effective and efficient team.”
“And yet you’re still employed here.” The snark slips out of my mouth before I can stop it. He grins.
“Yes, I am. It may surprise you, but I’m good at my job.”
“That’s what I’ve been told.” The question is, Maitlin, are you gonna land yourself in prison for being too good at your job?
He taps the armrest. “So, what did you need to see me for?”