by J. P. Hansen
“What about it?”
“It starts with building rapport with our customers. That’s what ICS does. Our customers don’t want to be put on hold by some guy named Achmed.”
“Listen to yourself. You sound like a racist relic. We aren’t turning our business over to a bunch of illiterates. Outsourcing allows us to go global, to communicate in all languages, and extend beyond the U.S. market. Besides, ICS’s fill rate is not cutting it.”
“The division’s only five months old and isn’t even fully staffed.”
“Whose fault is that?”
“It’s nobody’s fault. Building a division takes time. Hell, our strat plan takes five years.”
“So?”
“So why cut it now?”
The waiter had been hovering with the tray in the air. Both men ignored his not-so-subtle tactics. He finally set both drinks on the table and decided not to ask for a food order until they asked.
“See the bigger picture. The only number that matters is our stock price. I don’t need Marvin to tell me Todd Hollis sold us a bill of goods with GenSense. Plus, I’m not a fan of that gal he duped us into taking.”
“You mean Brooke Hart?”
“The blonde with more T & A than brains?”
“No, the woman who’s been busting her butt ramping up a brand new division.”
“She doesn’t fit in at Pharmical.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“From what I’m hearing, she’s a lightweight.”
“Henry, I’ve observed Brooke Hart in action and I like what I see.” The moment the words left Chase’s lips, he winced.
“I’m not sure what you see beyond the obvious. Now that you mention it, I heard you were carrying her around the parking garage.” Henry pressed both fists against his temples and fixed a glare.
The words hit Chase hard. Though Henry had stepped out of the day to day operations, he obviously maintained his gossip mongers. He could only imagine what was said to the old man. “That’s absurd. I’m not sure what you heard, but she fell and injured her ankle—on company grounds. I was the only one around. What was I supposed to do, abandon her?”
Henry gulped his martini, then with an exaggerated swallow, glared into Chase’s eyes. Chase lifted his ginger ale and sipped while locking his gaze with Henry. The stare down looked like O.K. Corral to the fidgeting waiter perched tableside, pad in hand. “Excuse me gentlemen, are you ready to order or would you care for another cocktail?”
Henry held his stare until Chase glanced down at the menu. Neither man felt hungry, but Henry said, “I’ll have a Reuben.”
“Very well, sir. And you?”
“Huh? Oh, I’ll have a roast turkey on wheat and an iced tea.”
Henry flicked his finger above his long stemmed glass and the waiter nodded, then fled as if the table needed an exorcism.
“I’ve known you a long time and have always been able to count on you. I’m going to impart some advice and I want you to pay close attention.”
Chase gulped, but didn’t utter a word. He maintained eye contact, but with less intensity, like a student listening to a professor.
Henry said, “I need you on board with these changes, plain and simple. Trust me on this one. You don’t have to like it, but you have to stop fighting it. And, watch yourself with Marvin.”
Feeling bile in his throat, he swallowed hard. Chase paused, then, as if raising a white flag, replied, “You win.” Chase felt internal combustion. The pancakes burrowed inside like a flaming bowling ball and his temples pounded. For the first time since joining Pharmical, he felt paranoid.
The duration of lunch remained somber and tense. A series of questions rattled inside Chase’s head—he didn’t dare ask to spare Brooke Hart from the gallows right now. He still didn’t understand why she was on The Butcher’s block, but decided to approach Henry after things settled. His ally would agree with his proposition, just like always. Chase felt relieved Henry didn’t ask about Heather. He didn’t know how he’d handle that question.
Driving back to work, Chase was crestfallen—like his hot air balloon had an ice pack clinging to it. He hated battling Henry, whose diatribe bit like a rabid dog. Am I just overly sensitive because of the flu? No, something bugged him beyond his stomach. His paranoia intensified—did “The Butcher” now aim his cleaver at me? Recalling the board’s wish for an outsider, did Marvin Wixfeldt battle Henry’s recommendation?
The innuendo about Brooke Hart stung. Chase recalled All the President’s Men, wondering who played deep throat to Henry. He didn’t see “The Butcher” that day, but who knows.
Beyond the constant job pressures—which included making the tough calls—Chase Allman was being asked to go against his instincts. To rip up his plan, toss it in the air, and expect it to land with a better picture. It felt rotten.
***
With three new hires in tow like ducklings, Brooke ventured to the company’s cafeteria. Though the menu reminded her of dorm food, she thought lunching there would make a positive impression. Plus, the deep employee discount would keep Greenberg off her tail. She hoped her invisible boss wouldn’t be upset she didn’t invite him. Brooke thought of her expense report hound as a diaper—always on her and full of you know what. Surveying the choices on the wall made her draw a similar conclusion.
The newbies didn’t seem to mind. Brooke’s three hand-picked client service representatives beamed, flashing enthusiasm that only new hires could. They all followed in their new boss’s footsteps, ordering salad bar and diet sodas. A good sign, Brooke thought.
Though salad bar wasn’t a dream lunch, all four women seemed to savor every bite. Brooke led upbeat conversation, hoping to offset the boredom of filling out all the forms on day one. She still remembered that day, though it seemed longer than five months. As they finished, Brooke felt a twinge in her stomach—that time of the month or bad hard-boiled eggs. Or both. She said, “I know you have plenty of paperwork to sift through, so I won’t keep you any longer. Good luck and try not to get too many paper cuts.”
After a chorus of thank you’s, Brooke excused herself, and bee-lined to the nearby bathroom. She slinked into the handicapped stall at the end, deciding the leg room was worth the risk. Relieved she made it in time, she relaxed, and started marveling at how much she was enjoying her job. She no longer stared out her window, feeling emptiness; she finally felt like a contributor. New hires always rejuvenated her. Going to the employee cafeteria provided a boost of company pride, even though the salad dressing left a sour taste that lingered like stale coffee.
Coffee? Her mind wandered…I wonder when Chase made his pit stop at Starbucks. I hope Marcus didn’t tell A-Man I ordered his coffee. Or, that he saw me the other day. Would Chase care?
The door to the bathroom whooshed open, startling Brooke. She heard two women giggling, and waited until they entered their stalls. Standing to exit, Brooke heard the voice and froze. “C’mon give me a break, he’s my boss.”
The other woman replied, “Ruthie, don’t tell me you don’t drool all day. He’s got to be the most eligible bachelor in Carolina.”
Ruthie? Eligible bachelor?
“Oh stop it—someone’ll hear you.”
Brooke held her breath like Houdini under water.
“Relax, I don’t think Chase Allman is coming in here anytime soon.”
While both women cackled, Brooke released her breath one molecule at a time. With eyes wider than the toilet seat, Brooke feared she sat in a danger zone, but guessed they didn’t see her feet. As far as they knew, judging from their carefree banter, she was invisible. But, she couldn’t take any chances. Brooke did what any grown woman would have done: she plopped back down, lifted her legs up and out of sight, and cupped her ear. Brooke then covered her chest, hoping they wouldn’t hear her heart pound off the tiles.
Ruth’s turn, “Well, he’s not a bachelor.” Brooke nearly gasped.
“Oh come on, Ruthie, his wife�
�s completely out of the picture and you know it.”
“Lucy, you’re not supposed to know that. You’re the only one I’ve told.”
“Why does he still wear a ring?”
“With this company—are you kidding?”
“True. I feel bad for him though. He’s such a nice guy—he deserves better,” Lucy said.
“I do too. I know he blames himself, but he shouldn’t. I wish that gold-digger would go away for good and let him get on with his life.”
“Aren’t you dying to find out what really happened?”
“I know enough already. I also know not to ask too many questions—he asks me for advice all the time. He trusts me.” Giggles.
The door slid open, and both women suspended their booth chat. Brooke felt like Janet Leigh in the shower, hoping the footsteps wouldn’t land in front of her stall door. Maybe the handicapped sign would divert the new visitor. Through blinking eyes, Brooke gasped as she viewed the lady’s shoes clicking below. Oh, God, no! She closed her eyes and clenched her teeth. Then, she heard the door next to hers open and swing shut. Her eyes popped open and fluttered like a hummingbird’s wings as she exhaled and mouthed thank you.
Brooke heard two flushes within seconds of each other and heard the clacking. This was too much excitement for one bathroom break. Brooke shook and feared she’d fall. She gripped the handles tightly, mouthing another thank you to the ceiling. Even though her backside tingled like a funny bone, she didn’t dare move.
Once the coast finally cleared, Brooke escaped. Her head never felt cloudier.
***
“T.G.I.F.” The words from the radio announcer hung in the air like Carolina humidity. Chase had forgotten what day it was, and considered ordering three quad espressos. Usually, Friday meant high day, but today, his head spun like a broken top. Scanning for parking, a car pulled out from the curb. Chase hit the brakes, and ended his daze. Front spots always brought a smile to his lips. After a hurried parallel park, he exited while peering inside the tinted windows.
Chase was early. He wanted to see Brooke, but he didn’t want to see her. Glancing at the line inside, coast clear. Standing by Marcus? Nope. He sighed while wiping his brow. He hadn’t seen her all week and definitely didn’t want to run into her today. Still unable to connect with Henry, the whole mess made him queasy.
Chase ordered his usual, and Tonya and Marcus both thought he looked tired. Chase said he looked forward to relaxing this weekend, which brought, “Amen to that, A-Man,” from Marcus.
Back at the office, he dialed Henry’s line again. Lucy answered and said, “He’s in another meeting, but I’ve given him your messages. I’ll remind him you called again,” with a little too much enthusiasm.
“Chase, Dixon’s been holding on line one.”
Dixon? “Oh, thanks Ruth. Send it in.”
After one ring, “Dixie-dawg, what’s up?”
“You are, Boa. I landed the usual prime tee time with your name on it.”
Chase rubbed his temples, glancing at his calendar, then said, “You know, dawg, you’re timing’s perfect. You’re on. See you then.”
“Bring your wallet this time.”
“Whatever. Later, dawg.”
After the week from hell, Chase needed an escape. His best friend possessed uncanny intuitive abilities today. He still had a call to make, hoping she’d meet him for lunch.
***
“Yes.” Brooke’s voice broke through the office silence like a shout in a library. The cubicle heads shot frowns at her. “Finally, full strength,” she said with a lowered decibel. Brooke couldn’t wait to inform Shane that she nailed her goal—and with two weeks to spare. He’ll be so proud.
She sipped her espresso and grimaced. How does he like this stuff? I put in extra Splenda and cinnamon, but it still tastes like mud. She couldn’t believe she missed him again this morning, even though she arrived a half hour earlier.
As Brooke reached for her cell, her ringtone exploded in her hand. This would be weird, she thought, as she checked for Shane’s name on the screen. Oh shit.
“Melissa, uh, hi. I’ve been meaning to call you.” It was partially true.
“I’m freaking out! The wedding cake’s destroyed.”
“What?”
“I knew we shouldn’t have used that place. Was it up to me? Nooooo, I’m only the freaking bride—what do I know? Once again, we had to do what Eddie’s mother wanted. I’m so pissed.”
Brooke grinned and strangled her laughter. Melissa’s voice sounded like an auctioneer on espresso. She expected her friend to be wound up with one day to go. But, Melissa sounded so upset, Brooke considered calling a zookeeper for a tranquilizer gun. Instead, Brooke made the mistake of asking, “What happened?”
***
Chase fidgeted all morning; paranoia coursed through his veins. The question haunted him—is Henry avoiding me? He glanced at his watch and grimaced. With the meter running at $500 per hour, he didn’t want to be one second late for his meeting.
Pam Moliere was recommended by all the local judges—many of whom she knew from Duke Law School. She graduated five years earlier than Chase and, from day one, built her reputation as one tough cookie. Though Chase considered divorce lawyers the dregs of the profession—tied with ambulance chasers—he respected Pam. Brilliant, engaging, tough on opponents, and bottom line: successful. The stakes were high and he had to hire the best. Recognizing the mother had the upper hand in custody battles, and sympathy from judges in high income settlements, he needed to act fast. He couldn’t risk losing Parker.
Though steadfast in his decision to divorce, it still gnawed at him. Why did it have to come to this? He had moved beyond the initial shock, then the sadness, and most of the anger, but he knew the mother of his child less now than he did when he met her. Hearing Max describe the life she had chosen versus being there for Parker—and for him—still stung. And, probably would for the rest of his life.
Unbeknownst to Pam, he tilted the deck in his favor. Chase had paid a retainer to each of the top-rated divorce firms in Durham, blocking Heather’s chance to even hire a competent opponent to Pam. He guessed she’d file a motion for legal fees; if Heather used his own money against him, it may as well be a win-win for him. Some would call it playing dirty, but he was just playing smart; he didn’t care at this point. Chase wanted the whole mess over as quickly and quietly as possible. So far, he had impressed Pam with his media connections—it wasn’t easy to keep a story this juicy out of the headlines.
Though confident in Pam, he noticed she did the thing he despised—procrastinate. Why are divorce lawyers slower than a romance novel in finishing? So far, Pam had dragged her feet enough to unnerve her even keel client. He understood the squeaky wheel got the grease in business, but that it backfired in divorce law. Applying unruly force broke the chain. But, Chase had an intangible on his side: Pam truly admired Chase—she empathized with him.
Pam’s admiration for Chase stemmed from her own childhood. Raised by her mother, after the father she never knew abandoned his three young children, she respected Chase’s undying devotion. His love for Parker contradicted her pessimistic paradigm. In a world where so many kids didn’t know their fathers, she appreciated her client’s commitment to break the cycle, to never waver on what mattered most—his own flesh and blood—even when his wife went AWOL. Pam sensed Chase hurt inside. She understood all the destructive phases and behaviors of divorce; her client fell in the middle of the uphill emotional battle. Stress revealed character and, in a selfish world of cut and run parenting, Chase was truly a good guy.
Pam realized the pre-nuptial agreement would hold up—lawyers understood how to do contracts—and though his differed from her template, it worked. Heather had signed all the dotted lines. Most divorce cases settled anyway—usually just before the scheduled court date. The procrastination strategy billed maximum hours, then it ended with a slice down the middle—unless there was a pre-nupe. When Chase handed Pam hi
s financial spread-sheet, her eyes widened. For such a young guy, he’d done well. She thought, those corporate lawyers earned so much more. Hoping to avoid a public spectacle, Chase was willing to offer Heather double the amount of the pre-nuptial. Also, Chase was open to allowing Heather visitation rights with the son she deserted—if it came to that. Pam wished all her clients were like Chase.
Chase prayed to close the divorce loop without more heartache, especially for his young son. Right now, Chase handed Pam a no-brainer case to win—Heather had violated at least three of North Carolina’s grounds for divorce:
1. Abandonment of family. Easy to prove.
2. Becomes an excessive user of alcohol or drugs. Hazelden’s notes and finding her bags of legal and illegal drugs—including cocaine and pot.
3. Commits adultery. Tricky to prove, but Max promised to snap the right photos.
The only thing working against the divorce was Father Time. The court dockets were packed thanks to the skyrocketing divorce rate and post-divorce squabbles that overburdened the fragile system. Unable to serve Heather since her last known address was Chase’s house, and officially file the divorce, they turned to Hazelden, but Heather wasn’t there long enough. Pam mentioned other ways to commence, but, when pressed further, went into ambiguous divorce lawyer speak. But, now that Max found her—with ninety-nine percent certainty, Chase wanted a swat team to serve her divorce notice, taking no chances. Once that simple document was delivered—even if she refused to sign it—Chase and Parker could move on with their lives.
Chase arrived five minutes late, but still beat Pam to the same restaurant. Once she was settled, Chase covered his entire checklist with Pam before their meals arrived. He handed her the most important piece of information—confirmed with Max during the ride over—Heather’s whereabouts. The whole meeting lasted just under an hour. At five hundred dollars an hour, it was the most expensive burger he’d ever eaten. He didn’t worry though. If Pam could deliver him a happy ending to this unhappy story, it was priceless. Leaving Pam, he hoped she’d act fast; he applied enough of his own grease to the wheel.