Ted had his opening, and he ran with it. “Thanks, Phil! I know it’ll grow on you.”
“You think?”
Ted grinned, feeling the part of a predator with his prey on the ropes. “I do. I really think so. I’m so glad we agree!”
Phil stared back hard, hoping for a way out, but they had to cut the conversation short as one of the newbie tours poured into the breakroom. An overenthusiastic human resources ‘stagehand’ lined them up along the far wall and wrapped the rest of them around the vending machines, then proceeded to belt out some dialogue right out of the standard script.
“And here is another one of our backstage relaxation stations,” she smiled, indicating all the paltry features of the drab space with a two-finger point, “where we’re able to recharge during our twice daily, fifteen-minute productivity respites.” She drew their attention to a few vending machines and a sink she’d left out the first time. “Next we’ll explore the main stage—as we like to call it—the nerve center of our complex. There we’ll enjoy a sneak peek at our two newest product lines, Sporting Sahara and Sahara Fashionista, along with all the classic product lines exclusive to Sahara that made our company famous around the world! This will also give us the perfect opportunity for us to examine our outstanding safety program, including emergency halt buttons located all along the conveyor system, company-provided stepstools and ladders for every...”
As the perky worker trailed off down the hallway, her scraggly band of new recruits trotting to keep up, Ted shook his head at the surreal nature of it all.
* * *
Thirteen cities in nine days, and Lucinda Littleton was just getting warmed up. The itinerary was hectic, but she didn’t mind. After laboring in obscurity for so many years, she’d taken to her sudden fame like the proverbial duck to water, though she fancied herself more the ugly duckling type, at last getting her due.
Bookstore signings were a personal highlight, if only for old times’ sake. But they were problematic. Difficult to arrange, harder still to advertise properly, drawing only handfuls of hardcore fans at best. Even the devoted cared little about getting a signed copy of a book anymore. Far more of them simply bought their printed material online at rock-bottom prices, or better still downloaded to their e-readers directly. Even the panache of meeting the author had waned considerably. Still, she insisted on one or more such appearances in every city.
A far more valuable use of her time came in networking with online influencers, and for that she needed a smaller, more private venue in which to impress. The largest gathering by far was hosted by none other than the CEO of Sahara himself, Dennis Hamm, and it was a full-on socialite party held in his swanky Manhattan townhouse. All the who’s who of the online world, as well as a decent representation of print and television media, surrounded Lucy and fawned over her as they always did when celebrity was fresh. They knew it was nothing but a honeymoon phase, but she did not, and so she took it all seriously.
Hamm made his appearance halfway through the affair, preferring to keep an air of mystery, a blasé sort of ownership over the whole thing. This was his way of putting one over on his underlings, outshining them in their moments of triumph, and in fact he had developed quite a knack for it. When he finally did make his appearance, he immediately began throwing out quotable soundbites to entice the media into his sphere. Every one of the hangers-on surrounding Lucy switched gears and raced over to him instead, leaving her looking foolish, in a corner by herself, and livid at her host for daring to upstage her so callously. She determined right there that she disliked him. No, she hated him. Thinking back over the day, even the five minutes of introduction with the man was conducted by the back door, where the staff gathered. As if she were the help. She realized that he’d been putting her in her place from the beginning, and she seared a mental note into her brain to get back at him.
* * *
Ted waited three days before emailing the girl. Someone had told him long ago that was the cool way to behave, although that was really more of a telephone thing, and assumed the fact the girl had handed over her number in the first place. In any case, even after the requisite waiting period he still felt off about the whole thing. Not that he didn’t want to approach her, he definitely wanted to, but she really hadn’t asked him to get in touch. And the email address, upon closer inspection, included the businesslike addendum, ‘For More Recordings, and Booking Opportunities’, a statement which hardly supported a ‘Call me if you’re looking to hook up’ invitation.
So he went back and forth, putting it off for two more days. Finally deciding now or never was more than applicable, he wrote a quick greeting on the third day. Then he re-read it four times. After hovering over delete for a good minute, he forced his finger over to send, lingering there for a moment longer, and finally punching it before he had a chance to change his mind.
Heya Hello There Hi Tilly Til Nune Til,
How are you? How’s it going? I don’t know if You probably don’t remember me but we met hung out met a couple weeks ago at your gig show. Ted Ward? Remember me (Ted)?
Just wanted to let you know I enjoyed am enjoying your CD nightly and really want to check out see your show again sometime. Could you let me know your schedule? Look forward to Hope to see you sometime!
Sincerely, Later,
Ted Ward
He breathed a sigh of relief for having actually sent it, which was immediately followed by a wave of nausea. He talked himself down without resorting to the worst-case finger method he used to use when he was younger and more awkward, but still his instinct was to call the whole thing off. He half-hoped she’d purposefully ignore the message, or if not, that she wouldn’t write back anything too scathing. Still, he checked his inbox several times during his online time. She was either out or ignoring, or maybe she just had a life and didn’t sit on the computer all night long. He couldn’t remember if she’s brandished a smart phone or not the night they’d met. He remembered the tight pockets but then again girls had all sorts of hiding places for their crap so there was no way of knowing, and that meant there was a chance she hadn’t read it. By end-of-week, though, he had given up hope, so it was a pleasant surprise to discover a reply two days later.
* * *
They were in the pocket with their system now, able to process multiple new accounts at once and manipulate the charts at will. More cash was flowing in all the time, carefully laundered and placed in accounts throughout the company, then on to outside banks where Phil or Ted could easily get their hands on it. Ted handled the PR stuff, and dealt with the clients for the most part, freeing up Phil to handle all the coding and algorithms—which is what he wanted to do anyways so Ted just let him have at it. They got together a couple times a day to touch base and make sure there were no fires to put out, but they had their roles set well enough, and could get on with the business without any help. The peripheral staff, too, was getting into the swing of things, and needed little guidance now that they knew their stuff. They were purposefully kept at arm’s length, and knew nothing of the big picture. Even so they were working their tails off, putting far more effort into their little business on the side than whatever else they were supposed to be doing, all thanks to the lure of cash and prizes.
The award system was effective in its simplicity, and relied on the benefit structure already in place at Sahara Corp, with a few twists to make it more interesting. The more work they churned out, the more chances they had to win something, and they could opt-up to the next level by simply rolling over their already-won prizes, like a yankee swap without the hurt feelings. Part merit-based, part lottery, at only a fraction of the cost of actual bonus money, Ted only wished he’d come up with the idea himself. But it was the brainchild of a colleague, Marjorie Klein. Phil had asked her for input, being a creative sort who understood people better than either of them. Remind me to send flowers to Ms. Klein, Ted thought, sending out the weekly winnings to some sure-to-be-pleased associates.
It was Ted who took the call, though in retrospect he should’ve handed it off to someone less important. He’d been thrown off by the fact that she was name-dropping like crazy, even going as far as claiming to have spoken with the CEO, which scared the hell out of him.
The caller took control immediately, knowing just who she was dealing with. She recognized Ted’s name from the signature on her paperwork, way back in the very beginning. Cursing inwardly, Ted made a mental note to stop using his name for official business, but the damage was done. She knew she had the right man, and was demanding the royal treatment just as soon as they knocked the pleasantries out of the way.
“So Ted,” Lucy Littleton said, “I know you saw that adorable Cuba Gooding in Jerry Maguire, didn’t you? I just loved that scene, you know? The one where he says ‘show me the money’? Isn’t that just a hoot?”—she laughed, the sound fading away with a sigh—“So, I just have to ask. Are you going to show me the money, Mr. Ward? Or will I have to find someone who can?”
“Lucy, hang on a second,” Ted said, “back up just a second now—”
“Oh, I’m not going to hang on, not even for one little second, Teddy Bear. I’m just getting started with you, Mr. Agent Man.” She laughed again, this time with a hint of sarcasm behind it.
He winced. Nobody was allowed to call him ‘Teddy Bear’ her private pet name for him only sounded right coming from her lips, from anyone else it was childish and crass. Still, he couldn’t very well lash out at their most valuable client, so he bit his tongue and allowed her to rant on.
~ 9 ~
Modes
Phil’s half of the conversation consisted of staccato bursts: ‘it’s’, ‘I’d’, ‘I didn’t’, ‘It’s not’. It was plain the person on the other end was having their way with him. Ted put his chin down and focused on a dust mote floating around nearby. It was fast becoming obvious that Phil’s talents did not extend to human relations.
Phil had spent hours setting up Ted’s phone with I.D. blockers and a voice scrambler, so they could both communicate anonymously. Theoretically, anyway, but everyone zeroed in on Target Phil like hounds on a scent. ‘The nervous one’ was on the line, which gave them free license for abuse. This not only defeated the purpose of the safeguards, it was giving poor Phil panic attacks every time the phone rang.
Ted was smooth enough when things were going well, but as soon as the subject of compensation or fairness or any other complaint came up, he got tongue-tied. Having learned all this, the clients had begun playing both ends against the middle, forcing concessions out of Ted by using Phil as a chew-toy.
Staff relations weren’t much better. They’d agreed from the outset that Phil shouldn’t deal with outsiders under any circumstances, but it turned out he couldn’t handle colleagues either. Ted was stuck juggling everyone single-handedly, and he wound up giving away the farm to his own people just the same as he did with clients.
* * *
Even with all the difficulties Ted was having, trying to manage people and expectations and numbers all at the same time, at least he was handling routine matters more deftly than his partner. Phil had no head for numbers, unless they were stuck inside some code, he was blind to the big picture, and his interpersonal skills were pathetic. If it weren’t for his savant-like qualities, the guy would probably be homeless by now.
Ted was unaware of what he’d done until the client called. The next hour was spent in the throes of a complete meltdown, as the livid client tried to find someone in Sahara to complain to and Ted and Phil threw out roadblocks to keep him contained and calm him down. The staffer Phil had farmed it out to, a pretty young receptionist way out of her depth, was also on the hook, since Phil had given her direct extension to the client.. She tried to help at first, but as the calls kept coming and the abuse piled up, she gave up and threatened to go to her own boss about what was fast turning into harassment. It was a first class mess, and neither Ted nor Phil had any idea of how to clean it up.
After patching things up temporarily with both aggrieved parties, they came to the inescapable conclusion that someone else would need to fix this. So their next order of business was locating said person. It was time to expand the management team from pair to trio, before the two of them caused irreparable harm to the enterprise.
* * *
The original handful of active clients had grown into a dozen, and soon they were juggling close to fifty. Additional staff helped to even out the load, but a new problem was arising. Ted was signing up newbies faster than the used ones could inconspicuously sink into obscurity. Since club members were being selected from just a handful of categories, they were starting to take up significant space on the charts, with legitimately famous vartists feeling the crunch. Most chalked it up to the vagaries of the market. But an influential few, accustomed to never moving so much as two spots up or down in a month, made their displeasure known to the V.I.P. concierge desk directly. Phil was able to track down most of those complaints, but a few got through. Then there were the direct calls, which they had no method for intercepting at all.
They needed to start running interference within the VIP center itself, which meant bringing on another associate. If some executive were to realize something was amiss with the ranking systems—they were in charge of placating the talent, there was no way they would stay quiet about it, and they couldn’t be bought. An insider was needed, not only for information, but also to keep an eye on the executives and cut clients off at the pass.
Being a self-sufficient branch of the company with the ability to monitor other departments, they ran their own database, had their own tech staff, and ran their own hardware independent of the data center in order to ensure proper oversight. All this made infiltration next to impossible without help on the inside, which wouldn’t be easy to obtain.
Phil knew of one guy—it seemed he always knew ‘one guy’ or ‘one girl’ everywhere they went—they weren’t very familiar with each other, but they were on reasonably good terms. A techie, useless for their infiltrative purposes, but a personable enough guy who was friendly with most of the staff. He came up with a few names, and Ted made excuses to meet with them in order to get a feel for which one might be turned.
He met with each candidate under the guise of technical survey work, but not one of them stood out. Then he had to figure out a new excuse for a follow-up, giving them each a second chance, but the results were the same. Too loyal, too weird, too stupid; every one of them had issues too detrimental to ignore. He felt like he would be picking the best of a bad lot no matter which way he leaned, and he was getting depressed with the whole enterprise.
“You’re waiting for Linda, I take it?” It was Marge again. Appearing out of nowhere, she actually startled him, but the casual nature of her question put him right back at ease.
“Linda?” He’d not even bothered to remember her name, that was the kind of impression she’d given off. “Oh, right. Linda. Yes, I’ve a meeting scheduled for,” he glanced at his watch, “oh, for twenty minutes ago, apparently.”
The woman smiled, “I know. She’s always running late, that one. I’m awfully sorry. Coffee?”
“Yes, please. That’d be great.”
She busied herself at the coffee station for a while, putting his drink together and fixing a plate of cookies to go with. She called back once, asking ‘how’d you take yours?’, but otherwise focused on her task. When she got back with the steaming mug, he’d just about decided to blow off this interview entirely,
but the smell of java enticed him to stay. While he was occupied with sipping and munching on cookies that were surprisingly tasty, she began asking questions.
“Like the cookies?”
“Oh, yes,” he answered, “delicious.”
Thanks. I made them myself. One of my little projects.”
He smiled, holding one of them up to show approval, then setting it down while he took a drink.
“You know, I really shouldn’t say this Mr...?”
“Ward. Ted Ward.” Then he added, “But everyone calls me Ted,” It came out in a rush, and it felt odd since he never said anything like that. There was something about this woman, a disarming nature, almost genteel. Like a southern belle, though she wasn’t remotely southern. It was easy to let your guard down around her.
“Ted. I shouldn’t say this,”—she leaned in conspiratorially—“but I’m afraid Linda isn’t going to be very helpful on your survey.”
“You know about the survey?”
“Oh, yes Ted. I know everything she knows,”—she moved even closer and gave Ted a wry smirk—“and a lot more than that, too.” He chuckled politely while she continued low in low tones, “Honestly, you’d probably be better off talking to me, if you’re looking for information on what goes on around here.”
Ted’s ears perked up. Did she realize what she was saying? Was she implying she could see past the ruse?
He must have looked taken aback, as she put up a hand to slow his thought process and said, “Don’t worry, Ted. Nobody around here pays me any mind anyway. Whatever you’re after, it’s safe with me.”
They continued on for a while, Ted finishing his coffee and having another, listening to her complain about everything that was wrong with her department and everyone in it. Before Linda Whatshername had even shown up, she’d been officially struck from the list in favor of Marge, the newest member of team gold.
The Gold Club: A White Collar Crime Thriller Page 6