The Consultant

by Little,Bentley

  At home, he swam laps to relax and de-stress. He’d had a pool room built next to the gym last year when they remodeled, promising Rachel that he’d swim twenty laps each day to keep his gut down, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually used the pool. The water felt soothing, however, the swim invigorating, and he decided that perhaps he should do this every evening when he got home. Or maybe early in the morning before he went to work.

  He got out, toweled off and found himself with an unprompted erection. When was the last time that had happened? Not bothering to put on clothes, he padded around the house looking for Rachel, but his erection was gone by the time he found her in the kitchen, and she just looked at him and said, “What are you doing? Get dressed.”

  They did make love that night, for the first time in over a month, and he didn’t even need any Viagra. He just wined her, dined her, sixty-nined her, as the old saying went, and though he wasn’t able to hold out that long, they both managed to have an orgasm.

  He fell asleep almost immediately afterward.

  It was still dark when he was awakened by the ringing of the phone next to his bed, and he answered with eyes still closed. “Yeah?” he managed to croak.

  “Hello, Mr. Matthews.”

  It was Patoff.

  “I know you forbade me from coming over to the fine house that you share with your lovely wife, but I had a few ideas I wanted to run by you, so I thought I’d give you a call.”

  “Do you know what time it is?” Matthews demanded.

  “It’s two-fourteen,” the consultant replied, and the preciseness of the answer made Matthews open his eyes. There was a hint of rebuke in the response, maybe even a threat. He wasn’t sure how that was possible, but it was.

  “I’m hanging up,” Matthews said. “You can tell me your ideas in the morning. During business hours.”

  “If you don’t want me to share with you the ideas that will save your company, that’s fine,” the consultant said smoothly. “I understand. Apparently, that’s not a priority for you, and you’d prefer to put it off to a later time that’s more convenient. But when CompWare is in Chapter Eleven, I want you to remember this phone call and the chance I gave you. I want you to realize that you could have saved your company if you weren’t so fucking lazy!”

  There was a click as the consultant hung up, and Matthews was gripped by a feeling of panic. The panic was unfocused—was he afraid that CompWare would go bankrupt? Was he afraid that the consultant, once angered, would somehow take revenge on him?— but it left him shaky and nervous. He placed the handset back in the cradle.

  “Who was it?” Rachel asked groggily.

  “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

  She was suddenly wide awake. “Was it that man?”

  He pretended he didn’t who she was talking about. “What man?”

  “The consultant. The one who came over. I had a dream about him. He was chopping off people’s heads and replacing them with those horrible snow globes.”

  Chopping off people’s heads?

  Matthews shivered. “No,” he lied, “it was a wrong number.”

  “But weren’t you talking to them?”

  “No. You must have been dreaming. Go back to sleep.”

  She did, easily and quickly, but he remained awake for some time, staring up into the darkness, muscles tense. When he finally drifted off, he ended up in a nightmare, and in the dream, it was his head the consultant was chopping off.

  The next morning, Matthews decided not to go into work. It was the first time he’d ever done anything like this—ordinarily, he went in even if he was sick as a dog—but he deserved to take a day off after years of such unrelenting dedication.

  Besides…he was afraid of seeing the consultant.

  That was ridiculous. The man worked for him. CompWare was BFG’s employer. But the fact remained that the consultant seemed to be the one calling all the shots lately. Patoff was the dominant one in their relationship. Especially after that phone call last night.

  If he didn’t go in today, though, it would make it that much harder to go to work tomorrow. He could feel his grip on Comp-Ware slipping, and if he had any hope of holding onto his company, he needed to fight for it. He needed to be there.

  Matthews forced himself to get out of bed. He couldn’t back off now; he couldn’t give up. And he couldn’t hide in his office the way he had yesterday. He had to remain engaged, and he decided to visit all of the departments on all of the floors, to get out there and talk to people. Maybe he’d call his own meeting, without the consultant present, and find out what his employees were thinking. He wasn’t by nature a democratic man, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and if he needed to let workers think that he was basing his decisions on their input instead of autocratically issuing edicts, then he would do so.

  He couldn’t let Patoff walk all over him.

  But as he looked at his face in the mirror while preparing to shave, he could see the truth in his own eyes.

  No matter how tough he might talk, he was still afraid of the consultant.

  SIXTEEN

  TO: All Employees RE: Proper Foot Attire

  Beginning this Monday, April 15, tennis shoes and other types of athletic footwear will no longer be considered acceptable attire at CompWare. Boots and sandals are likewise prohibited. This interdict applies not only to those employees who come in to work each day but also to those who have been temporarily granted permission to telecommute. If you are telecommuting and do not have a webcam on your communications device, you must install one at your own expense and submit a photograph of the shoes you are wearing each morning before you sign in.

  Brown or black dress shoes are the only proper foot attire for males.

  Closed-toed shoes with heels of less than a half-inch in height are the only proper attire for females.

  Any questions regarding this change in policy must be submitted in writing to CompWare’s Human Resources department before the end of business hours today. Reading this email constitutes acknowledgement and acceptance of the policy change.

  Thank you.

  Regus Patoff

  Regus Patoff

  BFG Associates

  For Austin Matthews, CompWare CEO

  SEVENTEEN

  “So,” Phil said, looking down at Craig’s feet as they met on the outside steps, “are you wearing the right shoes?”

  “Very funny.”

  Phil laughed. “It is, actually. Can you believe how ridiculous this is getting? Next thing you know, they’ll be telling us what kind of hair styles we can have.” “I see that you’re wearing black shoes instead of your usual sneakers,” Craig noted dryly.

  “Yeah, well, you have to know when to pick your battles.”

  Walking into the CompWare building, Craig couldn’t help noticing everyone’s footwear. Male or female, all shoes were regulation, and he realized how easy it was for an employer to change and control the lives of its employees. Corporations were governed from the top down, and an autocrat didn’t have to contend with the messiness of democracy. Edicts were issued and obeyed, and people’s appearance and behavior were instantly altered. Companies were little fiefdoms, which explained why business owners were so relentlessly anti-regulation. They wanted to dictate everything under their jurisdiction, and they didn’t want the disorder of the real world intruding into their domains.

  Phil was right. CompWare really could tell them what type of hairstyle to have. There were employers who didn’t allow beards or mustaches or who regulated hair length—and no one blinked. Society had tacitly agreed that a company paying for work could determine the physical appearance of its workers, even away from the job. Their influence was insidious.

  “Look above the elevators,” Phil said, his head down and his voice low. “New cameras. They’re popping up everywhere, a few more each day.”

  “I’ve noticed that, too.”

  “Where do you think those feeds end up? What
system do they run on?”

  “You mean, can they be accessed?”

  Phil shrugged. “Well…”

  “I think I can get someone to find out.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Always am.”

  On the way up to his office, Craig stopped off on the programmers’ floor. After what had happened with Tyler, he wasn’t sure who he could trust—or if he could trust anyone—but Rusty had already expressed his displeasure with the consultants, blaming them for leaking Zombie Navy, and Craig thought if there was anyone who’d be willing to look into the new surveillance equipment for him, it was the technical writer.

  He was right, but, as he should have known, Rusty did not have the specialized expertise needed to conduct such an investigation. “Ang might be able to check it out,” Rusty said. They were both speaking low so as not to be overheard. “He used to work for AT&T, and he’s good with hardware and software. We’d need to trace those feeds back to their source but not let the trace be traced back to us. He can probably do that. Want me to ask him?”

  “No, I’ll do it,” Craig said. “No need for you to put your ass on the line.” He thought for a moment. “Do you think Ang…?

  “He hates the consultants, too. Everybody hates them.”

  That was a relief to hear. It had occurred to him that maybe some employees approved of hiring BFG, although with everyone’s jobs potentially on the line, he didn’t see how that was possible. It heartened him to know that they were all on the same page.

  “Is Ang in yet?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so.” Rusty stood and peered over the edge of his cubicle. “No. You want me to have him call you when he gets in?”

  “Tell him to come up to my office.”

  “You got it, chief.”

  Craig couldn’t be sure his office wasn’t bugged, but it was definitely safer to talk there than on the phone.

  Upstairs, Lupe was already at her desk. Alone.

  “Where’s Todd?” Craig asked, looking around.

  “I believe he’s in the bathroom.”

  “You should mark that down.”

  “Oh, I am. I’m keeping score. Yesterday, he arrived a minute later than me, and I was exactly on time. Which meant that he was late. I’m keeping track of everything.” She smiled. “Don’t mess with me.”

  At that moment, Todd returned. Craig saw him striding briskly toward them. Smiling slyly, Lupe met his eyes, then reached into her desk. As the consultant sat down, Lupe made a big show of staring at him and writing something down in the notebook she removed from her drawer, making sure he was aware that she was keeping track of him. Reddening, he looked down at his tablet. She put her notebook away and went back to whatever she’d been doing on her computer.

  Craig wanted to laugh, but he kept a straight face as he walked into his office, closing the door behind him.

  He sat down at his desk and turned on his own computer.

  There were forty-three email messages in his queue, all of them from the consultant.

  The first was an email about how to write and send emails, with six pages of attachments containing do-and-don’t examples. The second concerned phone etiquette within the company and without. This one also contained an attachment: audio clips of correctly and incorrectly conducted phone conversations. The third email involved new company-wide restrictions on the use of printer ink.

  Craig paused. This was ridiculous.

  And there were still forty more to go.

  He would have emailed Phil to see if his friend had received the same messages but was afraid that written communications were being monitored. Ditto for the phone.

  Quickly, he scanned through the rest of the messages, all of which were attempts to micromanage daily office routines, then told Lupe to hold his calls because he was going to Phil’s office for a few minutes.

  Todd, seated behind Lupe, duly typed something onto his tablet.

  “I thought you were supposed to be watching her, not me,” Craig said.

  “I am,” the consultant said.

  “Then what were you entering there?”

  “You gave her a specific duty, and I noted it.”

  Not wanting to get into an argument and already feeling irritated, Craig shared a glance with Lupe, then headed down the corridor toward the elevators.

  Upstairs, Phil’s secretary, Shelley, was sitting stiffly at her desk, an observer seated to the right watching every move and typing on the electronic tablet in his lap.

  “Is Phil in?” Craig asked.

  Shelley’s greeting was uncharacteristically formal, but he understood why and did not fault her for it. In a single smooth move, she picked up the handset of her phone and pressed one of the buttons on the console. “Who may I say is calling?”

  “Craig Horne.”

  She relayed the message, then informed him that he was approved to enter Phil’s office. Getting up from her seat, she led him the five feet to Phil’s doorway, stepping aside to allow him entrance. “Sorry,” she whispered.

  Phil rolled his eyes. “Close that door, will you?” he asked Shelley. “Thanks.”

  Craig motioned toward the door and the observer beyond. “I see you guys have one, too.”

  “What a pain in the ass this is turning out to be.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Do you have any idea how long they’re going to be disrupting our lives?”

  He shook his head. “No one’s confiding in me.”

  “Well, I hope it’s quick.”

  “Don’t hold your breath. Hey, the reason I’m here is that when I came in this morning I found forty-something emails from Patoff telling me how to write email messages, and how to make professional phone calls, and how to save money on printer ink, and a whole host of helpful hints. I was wondering if you’d gotten anything like that.”

  “Oh, indeed I have.” Motioning Craig closer, Phil swiveled his monitor and typed something on his keyboard. Up popped an Inbox filled from top to bottom with messages. “I guess my skill set deficiencies are somewhat different than yours. Look! Now I can learn how to describe a product to a prospective buyer in the most positive manner possible. Something I’ve been doing for half my goddamn life!”

  Craig shook his head, scanning the subject lines. “These are all completely different than mine. How can he write so many? Where does he find the time?”

  Phil waved his hand. “They’re probably generic. Every client they have probably gets the same emails. I get the Sales ones, you get the Programming ones…”

  “Maybe,” Craig said doubtfully.

  Phil sighed. “Well, as if that weren’t enough, I’m down one man.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I got here this morning and found out that Isaac Morales had been fired for cause.”

  “They wanted you to fire Isaac, didn’t they? After the interviews?”

  “Indeed they did.”

  “So what’d he do?”

  “Apparently, he’d been charging personal items to our department account. And not just an occasional flash drive or ink cartridge but …a flat screen TV…a new laptop…clothes…”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Except…”

  “Except you don’t think he did it.”

  “The evidence is there. In black and white. He’s not only been fired, he’s being criminally charged, and I’m told the case is airtight.”

  “But you don’t think he did it.”

  Phil shook his head. “No. I don’t think he did it. I know Isaac. He’s not that kind of guy. Sales is sometimes a shady business, and we get all types here. But he’s an anomaly, like a virgin in a whorehouse. He’s an honest sales rep. That’s why his numbers are so good. Clients trust him because they know he won’t steer them wrong. Besides, some of those purchases…a flat screen TV? Isaac doesn’t even watch TV.”

  “Maybe his wife—”

  “His boyfriend doesn’t, either.”

&
nbsp; “Oh.”

  “There’s just a lot of shit that doesn’t add up.”

  “So he was framed?”

  “That’s my guess. I have no way to prove it, but I hope he finds a smart lawyer who can.”

  Craig believed him. It made no logical sense to sideline a good employee, not from a consulting firm supposedly trying to shore up CompWare’s business, but there seemed nothing logical in the decisions that had been made recently, no method to BFG’s madness.

  He thought about the weekend retreat, Tyler’s freak accident, Anderson’s and Cibriano’s suicides.

  Maybe he and Phil were reading undeserved import into unrelated events, seeing malevolent conspiracies where none existed.

  But he didn’t think that was the case.

  “So what’s the plan?” Craig asked.

  “I don’t know.” His friend sounded tired, his usual fight in abeyance. “Keep our heads down and wait it out? They’re not going to be here forever. I don’t know what the time frame is, but for all we know, they could be halfway through already. It’s probably easier and faster to wait them out than try to go against them.”

  “Matthews—”

  “If he really wanted to, he could get rid of them today. He might be having second thoughts, but he’s obviously not willing to scrap this consulting thing completely.”

  Craig was silent for a minute. “I’m not sure there is a time frame. Those new cameras don’t make it seem like they’re leaving anytime soon. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was an open-ended contract and the consultants are here for as long as they want to be here, for as long as they say it’s going to take them.”

  Phil nodded soberly. “Highly probable.”

  Craig stood. “Well, it’s been fun. Thanks for the pep talk.”