Pink Slips and Glass Slippers

by J. P. Hansen

  “Not any more. After my robotic boss canned me, Chase had the audacity to call me the next day and rub it in my face.”

  “How so?”

  “He told me he wanted to meet and hand over my pink slip.”

  “What?” Two and a half octaves this time.

  “He told me he wanted to give me the pink slip himself.”

  “The day after they let you go?”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s harassment too. That guy’s begging for a lawsuit. Have you told your father any of this?”

  “Oh, God no. He’s the last person I’d tell. Look, I’m not interested in suing them. I know what happens in that type of case—the victim gets trashed and leaves with a Scarlet Letter tattooed across her forehead. I’m not a victim, believe it or not. I’m a big girl who slept with a guy who turned out to be a Class A Creep—but not a criminal.”

  ***

  “You really fucked me up!”

  “Who is this?”

  “Who do ya think this is? For a friggin’ CEO, you’re not too bright, pullin’ a stunt like this.”

  “Max?”

  “Yeah, it’s Max, hotshot. I’m not the friggin’ tooth fairy—and I’m not your PI no more. I’m done.”

  “What are you talking about?” Chase rubbed his temples.

  “Your little girl’s flown the coop, thanks to you sending in the friggin’ cavalry. You still owe me for my wasted time.”

  “Max, speak English.”

  “I’ll spell it out for you. You used the address I gave you—without me knowing, and without my friggin’ blessing—and sent in three bozos from Minneapolis PD. Your girl Heather took off with her little boy toy.”

  Chase pulled on the hair above his ears. “Shit.”

  “You wanna tell me what the fuck you were thinkin’?”

  “My lawyer has been trying to serve Heather divorce papers for months. All they had to do was hand deliver an envelope. It’s my fault—I said to make sure they sent enough manpower—I didn’t want to take any chances…I didn’t think she’d escape from three cops.”

  “Well, she did, dumbass. If I was there, I’d kick your ass. She’s not hangin’ out with nice people. They spot those cop clowns a mile away. My guy was babysittin’ the front and could see the side door. When Barney Fife and his two side humps started waving badges, calling for Heather Ann Allman, she spooked and musta got out some other way. Now, she’s gone—and so is he.”

  “I…I don’t know what to say…”

  “Well, my guy’s pissed and wants his money—and then some. You’re lucky I’m level headed or you’d be missin’ too. You owe me big time.”

  Chase gulped, “I told you I’m sorry. Of course I’ll pay you. Can your guys find them? It should be easier to spot two of them.”

  “Nope, guess again. My guy’s out. I don’t even wanna tell you what he called me—be thankful I don’t have a big mouth like you and your friggin’ lawyer. If you expect me to make more calls, you gotta come up with double.”

  Chase bolted upright, eyes wide, “Done. I’ll wire the money into your account right after we hang up. Do you know anything about this guy she’s running around with?”

  “Of course. I thought you’d never ask. Name’s Douglas John, goes by ‘Rusty.’ He tells people his uncle’s Tommy John—the big league pitcher. Rusty’s no big leaguer, lemme tell ya. This guy’s a loser with a capital ‘L.’ He’s a minor league washout who’s been boozin’ and snortin’ away his whole crummy life. He’s forty, 6’2”, about 230, been convicted of small time stuff, did a little time. Basically, he’s a pretty boy punk. Your girl picked a real winner.”

  Chase’s pen ran out of ink. He leafed through his desk drawer, then grabbed a new pen and scribbled furiously in silence. Max tapped his fingers into the mouthpiece, then said, “You there?”

  After a pause, Chase said, “Yeah. I’m trying to write down everything you just said.”

  “Well, write this down. Before you pull another bonehead stunt, do me a favor—call me first. And make sure you don’t forget your little deposit. Oh, and one other thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The rent-a-cops got inside that crack house and found a bunch of stolen shit. The guys in there tossed your little girl and Rusty under da bus. So, on top of my guys, the cops are lookin’ for her too.”

  ***

  Brooke merged onto the highway as a fog enveloped her car like a gray netherworld. She drew a deep breath, leaned forward, flipped on her lights, and switched the wipers on. The air conditioning worsened her visibility and the lights illuminated the eerie mist. She felt unsure both inside and out.

  The drive to Charlotte always brought out mixed emotions. Both her mother and Tanner were buried there, but in separate cemeteries. She feared she couldn’t stomach visiting either one this trip. This would be all about her father. She couldn’t imagine what she’d do without him. With Tanner and her mother gone, she never took her daddy for granted. She looked forward to seeing him and spending time doing nothing. He always wanted to offer fatherly advice and Brooke usually listened. Brooke figured she could never tell her father the same information about Chase.

  “Whenever I see your smiling face…” startled her. The familiar ringtone sounded foreign today. Her first instinct—Chase—made her stomach sink. She reached for her cell on the passenger seat buzzing on top of three dimes. That’s odd—I keep finding dimes in weird places. Not wanting to take her eyes off the already hard to see road, she answered without viewing caller ID, and cringed, “Hello, this is Brooke.”

  “Well hello stranger. You’re tougher to reach than the president.”

  The voice sounded vaguely familiar—definitely not Chase. She exhaled a sigh, and said, “Who’s this?”

  “Oh, I’m hurt. You never call, you never write…now you forget—”

  “Travis, is that you? I’m driving in a Carolina cloud right now and couldn’t see your number on caller ID.”

  “How are things?”

  “You have impeccable timing. I swear you’re psychic.”

  “I’ve been called psycho but never psychic…”

  Brooke laughed, then said, “Have any jobs?”

  “You know I always do. Why, you looking?”

  “You could say that. Pharmical just eliminated my entire division and let me go Monday.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. You’ve only been there a few months. What happened?”

  “Long story.” Brooke bit her lip, then said, “Basically, they brought me in to build a new division—which I did—then, they decided to dump everyone and outsource it to India.”

  “That’s messed up. Didn’t they offer you something else? Pharmical always has openings.”

  “Apparently not, and with what I saw from that place—good riddance.”

  “Have you updated your resume?”

  “Are you kidding? I didn’t even have one when you placed me at GenSense. I hate doing those things.”

  Travis inhaled, then said, “I don’t have anything now, but I can probably get you in front of Pfizer. With your background, they’re bound to find a place for you. I’m afraid you’ve gotta send me a resume first.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks, Travis. I’m not looking for a big drug company. I’m still stinging from Pharmical. Are you working on any more startups?”

  “Not right now, but that can change in one phone call. GenSense was a magical placement, wasn’t it?”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Well, I’ve gotta grab this call—somebody I paged—but, I’ll call you later. I have some ideas.”

  Travis Bodady had run Bodady Search Partners, a one-man recruiting firm out of Richmond, Virginia, for sixteen years. Brooke recalled the day he called her as if it just happened. He termed it magical, but words couldn’t describe how he affected her life. She marveled at his timing, half-wondering if he found her through the obituaries. He never did divulge his source, but it didn’t matte
r—she said “yes” right on the spot.

  Brooke noticed the fog clearing and sunshine ahead on the horizon. Shutting off her lights, she felt uplifted. Travis breathed new hope into her. She wished for another GenSense, thinking it would be funny if Travis worked his magic again.

  The ringtone sounded, this time warming her. She picked up on the first ring, “That was fast.”

  “Huh?”

  Brooke recognized that voice with just one syllable. “Oh, hey Melissa. I thought you were somebody else.”

  “Thanks a lot. Did you think I was Chase?”

  Brooke cringed—the mention of the word Chase sent shivers down her spine. “He’s the last person I want to talk to right now.”

  “Wait a minute. I thought you said he was this most amazing something or other?”

  “Not anymore. He turned into a real creep.”

  “What happened?”

  “How much time do we have?”

  “As long as you need. Talk to me.”

  Brooke glanced at the clock in her Lexus, then scratched the back of her neck. “I’m meeting my daddy for lunch. Almost there. Basically, that guy used me on Sunday, then had someone fire me on Monday, then called me and rubbed it in my face yesterday.”

  After a silence, Melissa said, “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I wish I was. Hey, I’m pulling into the parking lot. You know how my daddy is about being punctual—I guarantee he’s pacing. I’ll call ya later.”

  Melissa said, “Don’t you dare—” as the phone line went dead.

  Though still a mile away from the Charlotte Country Club, Brooke needed to clear her head. The last thing she wanted was Melissa peppering her with questions as her father opened her car door.

  Brooke entered the historic Plaza-Midwood neighborhood, providing a nice diversion for her cluttered mind. Majestic trees lined the streets, guiding her toward the sprawling grounds at Charlotte CC. Though recently remodeled, the clubhouse still maintained its historic southern charm—with unique moldings and millwork, grandiose chandeliers, priceless murals, and antique furniture. Weston had said “wear something nice,” and she feared he was planning on parading her around to his network. Driving up the circular path to the great white clubhouse, Brooke felt uneasy. She craved BBQ, but figured she was in for a formal lunch.

  She didn’t spot her father, so she parked several yards away, near his car. As she trudged up the hill, she realized how well her ankle had healed—in spite of that tacky Doctor Dawg.

  Once inside the clubhouse, she spotted the distinguished Weston Ingram, Esq., already working the room. Even at age 62, he was debonair in his charcoal suit and red tie. Brooke snuck up behind him. Weston sensed she was near, and spun around. “Brooke, you made it...you look great.”

  “Hi daddy,” Brooke leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Let me introduce you to my friends.” He turned and extended an open hand, then said, “Gerald Wilton, this is my daughter Brooke.” They shook hands. “Ron Weller, Brooke.” Handshake and nod.

  Weston said, “Ron’s on some prestigious boards. I think the two of you should talk.”

  Brooke feigned a smile. Still mourning Monday’s events—even if it was Pharmical—she wasn’t ready to play the interview game. “It’s nice to meet both of you.” Ron smiled and inhaled deeply, then said, “I’ve gotta run, but here’s my card Brooke.” Digging in his suit coat, he handed her a shiny card, then said, “Let’s have lunch.”

  “Thank you. It’s nice to meet you.” Treading away and behind the maître d', she glared at her beaming father and lowered her voice, “Daddy. I wish you wouldn’t do that. Can we just have a normal lunch?”

  Weston frowned, “Ron Weller is on the board of a bunch of big companies here in Charlotte. He was once vice chairman of a major tobacco company.”

  “Great, maybe I can start smoking.”

  The grey-haired maître d' pulled the chair out for Brooke as Weston plopped down on his chair and said, “I’m only trying to help.”

  “I know. I know. Everybody’s trying to help. But, I’m not ready to even think about what I want to do next.”

  “Well, don’t wait too long. The economy’s still in rough shape. We’ve lost 3,000 jobs just in banking. There was a time when Charlotte gave Wall Street a run for their money in banking.”

  “That’s banking. I’d rather kill myself than work in a bank.”

  Weston raised his eyebrow and curled his lips down.

  After a long silence, Weston said, “Well, it looks like your ankle’s better?”

  “Much better thanks. I knew it wouldn’t take as long as that doctor said. I’ve been able to run again. I’m entered into the Race for the Cure in another month.”

  “Don’t push it. It may feel fully healed, but running a marathon will probably reinjure it.”

  “I know, I know. Believe it or not, I’m a big girl now.”

  “Do you have any job leads?”

  Brooke suppressed a shriek, thinking he won’t stop—I don’t want to talk about it. Instead, she drew a deep breath, and said, “As a matter of fact, I do. My recruiter called me this morning and said he had—”

  “Whenever I see your smiling face…” That’s probably him. I gotta take this daddy. Before allowing Weston the chance to voice his disproval for cell phones at the table, Brooke jumped up, turning away. Pressing the cell to her ear, “Hello, I was wondering when you’d call back.”

  “Brooke?”

  Brooke froze, and her knees buckled. She recognized that voice. “What do you want?”

  “Brooke, don’t hang up,” Chase gulped, then said, “I really need to tell you something.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got a nice big package I wanna give you…”

  After Brooke heard big package, a sea of red overtook her. “What? I can’t believe you just said that. You’re no different than Dixie-dawg. Oh my God…what an asshole!” Brooke nearly broke her cell as she slammed it shut. Cheeks flushed, eyelids fluttering, and her heart raced faster than a king’s cook beating eggs. Brooke pressed the off button as if strangling her cell to death, then after it shut down, she glanced up—all eyes glowered at her. Oh shit. Brooke felt like she was standing in front of a Pharmical boardroom meeting, naked.

  Brooke caught her father’s scowl and decided against heading into that furnace. She wheeled around, lowered her head, and dashed to the ladies room.

  After ten long minutes, Brooke peered around the corner. No eyes, except her father, now perched like a wooden tennis backboard.

  Brooke moseyed over to the table. Weston had an empty martini glass in front of him. He didn’t stand as his daughter slithered into the chair across from him. After a silence, Weston said, “Well, that was a fine show for the entire club. I’m guessing that wasn’t your recruiter. If so, you can kiss that job goodbye.”

  “I don’t want to get into it.”

  “I’m glad, neither do I, but the rest of the restaurant might. I’ve never felt so many stares.”

  The waiter appeared, causing a truce, asking, “Would you care for another cocktail, sir?”

  “Yes, and make it a double.”

  He scribbled on his notepad, then said, “Would the lady care for anything to drink?”

  “Sure. I’ll have a cosmo.”

  Weston’s eyes bulged, Brooke turned away.

  “Very well, can I take your food order?”

  Brooke ordered a cup of soup and a small Caesar salad. Weston frowned and said, “You need to eat more.”

  “I had a big breakfast,” she lied.

  Weston ordered a steak sandwich, and raised his eyebrows at Brooke, who mouthed I’m not hungry. The waiter hovered for a moment, then scurried away.

  Weston cleared his throat, then asked, “Did you bring the severance for me to take a look-see?”

  “It’s not much. I could’ve written it on this drink napkin.” Brooke reached into her purse, then unfolded an envelope and handed
it to her father.

  Weston pulled his reading glasses out of his front pocket, then scanned the crinkled paper. He grimaced, then fixed his gaze on Brooke. “I hope you didn’t sign this.” It sounded more like a command than a question.

  “No.”

  “Don’t. This is absurd. I’ve never seen anything like this in all my years.”

  “It is what it is.”

  “You can’t really mean that. They have to expect you to fight this. Let me blast them a nasty memo on my letterhead. I’ll get you a real severance package.”

  Brooke fidgeted, then said, “No. I just want to be done with them. It’s time to move on. I don’t care about the money—I have plenty from the buyout.”

  “Honey, you’re not thinking clearly. I know this company—they play dirty. I fought ‘em and won, even with that shark Chase Allman.”

  Chase Allman. Hearing the name—especially out of her daddy’s mouth—sliced through her. Brooke sighed, if he only knew the rest of the story. As much as she would have loved to dump on Chase, she decided against it. Weston was perceptive and she felt susceptible after her outburst heard round the club. Her father was understanding—to a point—Brooke’s little tryst could never reach her daddy’s ears. She feared he’d sue Pharmical with glee and disown her with disdain.

  Brooke gulped her cosmo as Weston inhaled his second martini, then gobbled his two olives. Thankfully, lunch kept her from ordering another round. Brooke remembered the last time she had two cosmos and where it landed her.

  Weston said, “I have a surprise for you back at the house.”

  Brooke smiled, then said, “Don’t you have to work?”

  “Not today—I get to spend the day with my beautiful little girl. Besides, after those martinis, I’d probably sue Pharmical and watch that All-shark squirm.”

  Brooke hoped her daddy wasn’t psychic. “No lawsuits daddy. Promise me.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. C’mon, let’s go home before I order another drink.”

  “Can you drive?”