Hazardous Goods aatd-1

by John Mackie

  “That one’s in my office, bookshelf just inside the door.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  We chatted for a while longer, and Harper invited me to a barbeque she was hosting the following weekend. Sort of a welcome home party for Clay. It seemed like a good chance for me to meet some of Clay’s customers, colleagues and friends, so I promised to be there.

  Soon after that, Clay’s nephew Willis showed up, and Kara and I excused ourselves. On the way down to the main floor Kara confessed that she had taken the subway in, since she hated driving downtown. I offered her a ride home, through I was a little unsure about the whole employer/ employee/boyfriend thing, but figuring I would take things as they came for now. Odds were I would get nowhere, anyways.

  “Why thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” I eased the door closed behind her and rounded my car to the driver side.

  As I settled in and started the engine, I noticed Kara had a file folder in her hand, and was examining its contents under the car’s interior lights.

  “Hey! Little nosy, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe.” Didn’t stop her from reading. “This from your last company?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What, is it like a going away thing? ‘Donnie, We’ll miss ya. Donnie, Good luck. Call me once you find a job, so I can leave this hell hole.’”

  I snorted. God help me. Not a smile or a chuckle. A snort. I was such a catch for a chick.

  “Why would they sign an ad, instead of a card?”

  Oh boy. “Well, as it happens, that ad was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Or in this case, my boss’ back.”

  “Why? It looks fine. A little boring-.”

  “Hah. Thanks.” I pulled into traffic and accelerated before a cab climbed up my ass. “Well, there’s a little background first. See, I was with these guys for nine years, straight out of college. Started in a market research position, then worked my way up in Sales and Marketing until I was involved in RFP responses, pitch presentations, product specs, the whole shebang.”

  Stopping at a red light I glanced at her to make sure she wasn’t falling asleep, but she seemed genuinely interested.

  “So after a few years, I became the number two guy in Marketing, working with a lady I got along real well with. But two years ago, she was replaced by this complete idiot. Guy from San Jose, everyone claimed he was a marketing genius. Jim Hill. From day one, I couldn’t stand him. Drove a massive SUV, dressed to the nines, and treated everyone in the office like shit. Everything we did became a huge project.”

  “I put together a spec for our next software release, he tells me it’s unacceptable. So he expands the spec and five months later we cut it back because the development group can’t get the work done in time. I set up meetings with industry analysts for our CEO, and he decides to take the meetings instead, pissing off a bunch of my contacts. I put together a presentation for a sales meeting with a Fortune 500 company, he decides it needs to be completely reworked, and makes me work through Labor Day weekend to get it done. Sales guys hate it and cancel the meeting.”

  “What a tool.”

  “Oh yeah. And it started getting personal. He fired one of my staff, said they were incompetent despite the fact the guy was one of the best graphic designers I’ve ever worked with. Hill hires a lady who used to work for him, moves her up from Boston, pays her nearly twice the salary of my designer, then all she does is ship out all the work to firms.”

  The Gardiner was nice and quiet, so I slipped into the fast lane and ran it up to my customary 125 km per hour (that’s 80 miles per hour, for the metrically impaired).

  “I was pretty much on my way out the door by the time we put that campaign together,” I nodded at the file in her lap. “He would have me put together a presentation to the executive team, not bother to read it, then when I presented it he would say the whole thing was garbage. Prick even tried to get me to swallow a salary cut, due to ‘budget’ issues. This is the same budget that was paying for his wife’s car.”

  “I was ticked, and so were a lot of other senior people. Problem was, a few of us were doing all of the work. If we decided to stir things up, he was going to have a problem. So he started firing people, knocking them off one at a time. I saw the writing on the wall, so I offered myself up for a package. Would have been nice to see him get his, but I didn’t have the stomach to stay that long.”

  “Sounds like you did the right thing.”

  “Yeah. Honestly, the whole situation was getting to me. I wasn’t sleeping, started getting headaches all the time. At first he told me I should quit. But I wasn’t going to leave without something. I didn’t have a job to move to. Then people started noticing I was in a bad mood all the time. Didn’t help morale. So he caved.”

  “The day after we settled on my package, we both signed off on the Version 3.0 campaign. Web ads, print, a small release party, two trade shows, all set for later in the year. I was gone the next week, and the ad ran the following month.”

  “Huh.” She opened the file and scanned the ad again. Then she turned to me, a quizzical look on her face. “I still don’t get it.”

  “It’s an inside joke. Read the first two paragraphs.”

  Kara examined the page again.

  The header indicated it was from the February issue of Software Solutions Magazine. Page 19, full page ad. The top of the page was a photo of several business folk facing a Gantt chart, some convoluted project plan. A diverse, well-dressed and good looking group of executives, all of whom were unemployed actors in real life. Below the image were a few paragraphs of text, followed by the tag line “TechnoSoft. Get a handle on your projects.”

  The rest was dull marketing speak. She read the first paragraph aloud, then silently mouthed the rest.

  When she finished reading, Kara glanced over at me.

  “I know, I know. Terrible. But it was the best I could do in the circumstances. OK, now read the first letter in every line, then the last letter in every line.”

  “Like a secret message? Cool. So, first letter in every line, then — J — i — m — h — i — l — l — i — s — a — n — Jim Hill is an asshole! Ohmigod!”

  She had a wonderful bawdy laugh. I loved the counterbalance to her innocent looks.

  “Did he figure it out?”

  “Not when he approved it. No one did. Not the agency he insisted we use, my staff, the product guys or Hill. But when the ad came out, one of our customers spotted it and called him. Hill called me at home, sounded like he was going to pop a blood vessel.”

  “What did he do?”

  “What could he do? I had already been paid. And I pointed out that it was the first time that particular customer had called him in nearly two years. I think I called it ‘subversive marketing’. He put his lawyers on it, but I heard they couldn’t come up with anything to hang me on.”

  “What on earth possessed you to do it?”

  “Well, a few of us in marketing used to fool around with acrostics. That’s where you build a code into text. We’d slip something into a presentation. You know, “Hi Ron” or “TGIF”. That kind of thing. See if we could make one of the others crack up in the middle of a pitch. This time, I guess I just got a bit pissed off.”

  “Wow. Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

  “Never going to happen.”

  We chatted all the way, not a single moment of uncomfortable silence. I dropped her off at her apartment building in the Annex, and watched as she passed through Reception and stepped into the elevator.

  Nice lady. Too bad about the boyfriend.

  CHAPTER 8

  It wasn’t until Friday that I had a quiet moment to think some more about the connection between Maxim Legenko and my new friend Niki the Bull. I had just delivered a package in Rosedale, and was heading down Yonge Street (longest street in the world!) to the Financial District, when I realized I was passing the headquarters for Ruscan Industries. Seemed like as good a time as a
ny to stop for lunch, so I turned onto St. Clair and slid the van into a 30 minute parking spot.

  A moment later I was seated on a park bench across the street from the Ruscan Building, munching a sausage on a bun and trying not to spill sauerkraut in my lap.

  Ruscan’s headquarters were housed in a pre-World War I five story structure. Nestled between a twenty story condo tower and a ten story office building, the Ruscan head office seemed the weak sister at first glance. But as I sat and looked, I noticed some of the fine detailing. Cornice molding framed the tops of the doors and windows. A number of ornamental sculptures, though I didn’t see any gargoyles. Decorative arches over the windows, which were made of that annoying reflective glass. But no cardboard silhouettes of falcons to scare away birds. They probably found a dead or dying bird lying outside the building once a week. Bastards.

  Not sure what I expected to see. However it was the lunch hour. Maybe I would get lucky and spot someone. Far as I could tell, they did not have an underground garage.

  I finished the sausage and missed on my attempted three pointer aimed at a nearby garbage bin when the first signs of activity started outside Ruscan headquarters. A group of secretaries strode out, intent on wasting no time getting to the local Starbucks. As I watched them move together, I mulled whether “group” was the right word. Should it be a flock of secretaries? Maybe a gaggle? Better yet, a gossip. Yes, a gossip of secretaries. It’s critical to spend time contemplating such important issues.

  A few stragglers followed in the next five minutes. Then I began to see suits. At that point I slouched down, figuring that I shouldn’t make myself too visible if my mugger friend did indeed happen to exit the building.

  I was kicking at a pigeon that had spotted a small piece of popcorn resting in front of the bench when out strolled Niki. No question about it, the greaseball himself.

  Still displaying that ridiculous pseudo-beard. How on earth did he manage to keep it trimmed to a millimeter in length every day?

  Today he wore a huge brown suede shirt with a seventies-length collar spread wide to display his chest. Standard thug black leather coat (though this one could have housed a family of three), and a cigarette that dangled from his lip. Right behind him followed Mr. Maxim Legenko. Lean bordering on thin, hair cut tight to the head in a military style.

  Niki stepped to the sidewalk and signaled a limo which had been idling just down the street. As I watched, the limo pulled up and Niki opened the door for his boss, if that’s what Legenko was.

  I watched as both men ducked into the car and the limo pulled into traffic.

  So it wasn’t my imagination. Our thuggish friend had some sort of connection with the Legenkos.

  I glanced back at the Ruscan building, the mirrored windows staring back like the eyes of a massive insect. I wasn’t done with this yet.

  I was heading back to the office when my personal cell went off. A number I didn’t recognize.

  “Pizza Weasel.”

  “Hello?”

  “Today’s special is deep fried weasel, with your selection of dipping sauce.”

  “Uh, may I speak to Donnie, please.”

  I can’t help it. I’m an idiot.

  “You’re talking to him.”

  “Oh! Donnie, it’s Amy Park.”

  “Hey. Sorry to be a goof.”

  “No problem. Jin told me of your situation.”

  “Yeah, listen, I don’t want to impose.”

  “No, no. I was going to say — do you have time for a coffee after work? I’m on the clock today, but I can take a few minutes, say around six? We can talk about it, see if I can help out in any way.”

  Seemed more than reasonable, so we made plans to get together at a coffee shop she knew in Cabbagetown.

  I had only met Amy Park once, five years ago. I couldn’t remember what she looked like, other than that she was attractive. Hopefully she would be the only Asian woman in the coffee shop. As it was, I got lucky.

  Then again, how I forgot what Amy Park looked like is a complete mystery to me, and frankly a bit worrying.

  Tall, at most an inch shorter than me, she wore an auburn suede jacket over a black blouse and slacks. No heels. Thick, midnight black hair, pulled back into a pony tail. Slim, with skin the color and texture of caramel.

  I love caramel.

  “Donnie?”

  “Hey Amy.”

  We sat in comfy chairs nestled in a corner of the shop. The place smelled great — roast beans with a hint of sweet pastries. She reminded me of the first time we had met, at a party at her cousin’s house, and I was secretly delighted I had made a lasting and not negative impression.

  “So Jin was saying you were mugged?”

  “Yeah, well-,” I shrugged, a bit embarrassed and a little concerned about speaking to a police officer, on the record or off.

  “Listen, it’s OK. He mentioned you were leery of filing a report. Why don’t you tell me about it, and maybe I can come up with some suggestions for you.”

  So I told her. About Clay and Niki, the gun, the package, and my discovery that Niki was somehow tied into Maxim Legenko. But not about the magic. I was still getting my own head around that.

  “Really? Legenko?” That got her attention.

  “I wouldn’t have believed it either, but I’m positive it’s him. I even have a picture.” I passed her a copy of the article and photo from the Daily Times. I had circled Niki’s face in pen.

  “This him?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You sure? You must have been pretty startled on the elevator. Memory is a funny thing.”

  Yeah, I thought of that. Even wondered whether I made up the connection in my mind. But when I saw him on TV, during coverage of the trial, he was walking with Legenko, and I recognized the whole package. Not just his looks, but his clothes and the way he walked.

  “I don’t think so. This guy’s pretty distinctive.”

  “Hm.” She studied the photo. “You know, I think I’ve seen this guy before. Big guy, right? Six five or so?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I know I’ve seen him somewhere around town. One of the clubs, maybe. Listen, I’m going to check if he’s got a record. Do you mind if I keep this?”

  “Go ahead. I know what he looks like.”

  “I may also call the Ruscan Taskforce, see if he has come up in their investigation.”

  “That would be great.”

  “No problem. But listen — you’ve got to be careful. Guys like this don’t fool around.”

  It was nice of her to care. Between her and Kara, I had two attractive women being nice to me on a daily basis, which left me very suspicious. Anyone who knows us realizes the Elder brothers never have good luck with women. It’s a basic law of nature.

  My luck couldn’t last.

  CHAPTER 9

  Monday of Week Two began with an incident I will treasure for the remainder of my days. Unfortunately, it also put a damper on my erotic fantasy life, at least as it involved Amy, Kara, me and a tub full of strawberry jam. Sticky but sweet.

  I had arrived early again, having resolved to clean the parcel racks before heading out in the morning. Not the biggest challenge, but I was beginning to feel proprietarial about the office. I also felt like I had to get to know every nook and cranny of the place. Eventually I could let others just do their jobs, but this was a great chance for me to delve through the innards without pissing anyone off.

  One at a time I removed the parcels from each rack, wiped the metal bars clean with a rag, then replacing the parcels. I was replacing the items for Airport and Area when I happened to knock a small box off the edge of the rack.

  I cringed and dove to grab the box. No luck.

  “Shit.”

  The box had fallen on its side between two columns of racks. I had to lie down and extend to my fullest to reach the damned thing, physical exertion which I did not appreciate this early in the day. But moments later I had recovered the item. Unfortuna
tely, it seemed to be leaking, and a quick glance confirmed that there was also a small stain on the floor.

  It took me a good five minutes to clean the liquid off the rack, the box and the floor, most of it spent lying stretched out on my side, squirming to reach the damned puddle at the bottom. Once I was finished, I managed to locate a plastic zipper bag for the package, wiped off the guck I had managed to get on my hand and wrist, and headed out front to look for Kara.

  She was chatting with Jamar in the reception area, the two of them standing and sipping coffee.

  “Hi guys.”

  “Hey man.”

  “Hi Donnie.”

  Jamar looked his usual self this morning. Maybe the curse on his ring was wearing off or something. Kara, on the other hand — I don’t know whether she was wearing more mascara or had changed her eyeliner, but she was looking even hotter than usual. Her eyes had a definite ‘come hither and thou shall have a glorious time’ look about them. I paused, waiting for her to speak, but she just stared at me.

  “Um. Can you check with a customer for me? I knocked over this package, and something leaked through the wrapping.”

  “Sure.” I held out the package, but she put her coffee down and stepped towards me, closing the gap between us to paper thin.

  I have to say, standing a few inches away from a hot babe is not something I should complain about. God knows it seldom happens to me. But we Elders have our issues with personal space, and Kara had invaded mine. I tried to lean back without causing any offense, but found myself bumping into the reception desk.

  “Here you go.”

  She ignored the package in my hand, now trapped between us. I could feel a hot flush rising up the back of my neck and my ears.

  “Kara?”

  “You are so hot.”

  I snorted and looked to Jamar. I will admit to being gullible, but the quizzical look on his face suggested he was not in on the joke. So I looked back to Kara.

  Problem was, I could feel the heat coming off of her. Her cheeks were red, eyes wild, nostrils flared, lips engorged. Jesus. I pressed back into the reception counter, now worried that she would notice how my slacks were beginning to bulge below the waist. However, that was the last thing I needed to worry about.