Killer Instinct

by Joseph Finder

  “I’m scared,” she said. “I’m terrified.”

  I came up to her and kissed her. “Sure you are. So am I. It’s like you’ve got this thing growing inside you that’s going to take us over when it pops out. Like Alien.”

  “I wish you hadn’t said that.”

  “Sorry. Maybe it’s like—it’s like you’re jumping out of a C-141 Starlifter over Iraq. You don’t know if your parachute’s going to malfunction or if you’re going to get shot at on the way down.”

  “Yep, that sounds like Kurt,” she said.

  I shrugged, embarrassed. “He’s got some great stories. He’s done some amazing stuff.”

  “Stuff you’d never want to do.”

  “That too. And…some stuff he shouldn’t do.”

  “Hmm?”

  “He reads people’s e-mail, for one thing.”

  “Whose? Yours?”

  “Gordy’s.”

  “Fine. Anyway, they say you really shouldn’t send anything in an e-mail that you wouldn’t put on a postcard. Isn’t Corporate Security supposed to monitor e-mail?”

  I nodded. “I guess.”

  “He’s really loyal to you, Jason. He’s a really good friend to you.”

  “Maybe too good a friend.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? He’d do anything for you.”

  I was quiet for several seconds. Yeah, “anything” is right. The “backgrounders”—the inside information he’d gotten me on Brian Borque of Lockwood Hotels and on Jim Letasky—that was borderline acceptable, as far as I was concerned. It made me uncomfortable. But what he’d done to all the Panasonic monitors: That was some kind of lunacy. A felony, probably, given the value of the equipment he’d destroyed. But worse, it was evidence of a strange violent streak, a brazenness. He was dangerous.

  And what about Gordy’s drunken tirade? Gordy had asked Kurt to get him the Talisker bottle. Did Kurt spike it with something?

  That broke dick’s not going to get away with screwing you over again, he’d said.

  Well, Kurt was right. That was the end of Gordy.

  Kurt had boosted me up the corporate ladder, a fact that I never wanted to tell Kate. But now he was out of control. He had to be stopped.

  Trevor was digging, and in time he’d unearth proof that Kurt had done some of these things. And I’d be implicated too. I’d go down. It would end my career.

  And that I couldn’t afford. Not with this house, this mortgage, car payments, and a baby on the way.

  I’d made a terrible mistake getting him a job in the first place. Now I’d have to make things right. I’d have to talk to Dennis Scanlon, Kurt’s boss, and lay it all out.

  Kurt had to be fired. There really was no choice.

  I took a deep breath, weighing how much to tell Kate.

  But then she cocked her head. “I think I hear the doorbell. Can you go down and let them in?”

  39

  In the morning I flew to Chicago with one of our junior sales reps, Wayne Fallon, for a quick morning meeting to try to nail down the big hospital contract. I met in a conference room of Chicago Presbyterian with the Assistant Vice President for Communications, a guy named Barry Ulasewicz. He was a top administrator who was in charge of the hospital’s media services—everything from photography to satellite teleconferencing to their TV studio. We’d been going back and forth on prices and delivery dates for months now. He wanted fifty-inch plasmas for their one hundred operating rooms, plasmas and projectors for more than a hundred conference rooms, and a bunch more for their waiting rooms and lobbies. Wayne was there to observe, mostly, and he watched the jousting match between me and Ulasewicz with fascination.

  I didn’t like the guy, but that wasn’t important. Just so long as he liked me. And he seemed to. We started at ten in the morning and met with a parade of administrators and techies. He even brought in the CEO of the hospital for a grip-and-grin.

  Around one in the afternoon, when I was feeling squeezed out like a lemon and was in desperate need of lunch and a caffeine fix, Ulasewicz suddenly pulled out a proposal he’d gotten from Royal Meister that was identical in every way except for the prices, which were about ten percent lower. I’d given him the lowest price I could get away with—really cut to the bone—and this pissed me off. He yanked the RFP out with a theatrical flourish, like some cheesy actor in a bad dinner theater doing Hercule Poirot or something.

  And he expected me to cave. Because I’d put in months and months, and flown to Chicago, and I thought it was a lock. I’d almost caught the mechanical bunny rabbit. Ulasewicz figured that at this point I’d do anything to save the deal.

  But he didn’t realize that I had flow. I once read an article on the Internet by some guy with an unpronounceable name about something he called “flow.” It’s the way a painter gets so absorbed in his canvas that he loses track of time. The way a musician disappears into the piece she’s playing. Happens to athletes and surgeons and chess players. You’re in this state of ecstasy where everything comes together, you’ve got the juice, you’re in the zone. The good neurotransmitters are flooding your synapses.

  That’s what had happened to me. I was in the zone. I had flow.

  And I was doing it on my own, without Kurt’s poisoned candy.

  I calmly looked over the Royal Meister proposal. It was full of tangled and hidden clauses, all kinds of smoke and mirrors. The delivery dates were estimates. The prices could change due to fluctuations in the euro. I don’t know who wrote this contract, but it was brilliant.

  I pointed this out to Ulasewicz, and he began to argue.

  And then I stood up, shook his hand, and packed up my leather portfolio.

  “Barry,” I said, “we’re not going to waste any more of your time. I see where this is headed. Obviously you prefer the uncertainty of Meister’s terms, and you don’t mind their higher failure rate. You don’t mind the fact that you’ll probably end up paying more for an inferior product that you won’t get when you want it and that won’t get replaced if anything goes wrong. And that’s okay. So I want to thank you for considering Entronics, and I wish you the best of luck.”

  And I picked up our contracts and left the room. I was able to sneak a glimpse of Barry Ulasewicz’s stunned expression, which almost made it all worth it. Wayne grabbed me in the elevator, panic-stricken, and said, “We just lost it. We just lost the deal, Jason. Don’t you think you should have negotiated? That’s what he wanted to do, I think.”

  I shook my head. “Just be patient,” I said.

  By the time we got down to the parking garage, my cell phone was ringing. I looked at Wayne and smiled. His look of panic had changed to wide-eyed admiration.

  I flew back home with executed copies of the agreement.

  40

  I went straight from the airport to the office.

  There was a Hardygram waiting for me in my e-mail—“Great job in Chicago!” Dick Hardy wrote. Joan Tureck congratulated me, too, which was gracious of her, considering that I’d outsold her.

  A little too gracious, I thought. The graciousness of a victor, maybe.

  I considered, then rejected, e-mailing Dennis Scanlon. I knew Kurt was able to read my e-mail and everyone else’s. I didn’t want to take that chance. Instead, I called Scanlon. Got him on the second try. I asked him to come to my office.

  Dennis Scanlon always reminded me of Mr. Toad of Toad Hall. His shirt and tie were so tight around his neck that I worried he was going to lose circulation and pass out in front of me. He was sweaty and eager to please and had a funny sort of speech impediment.

  I told him I wanted to speak in absolute confidence, and then I told him that I had some concerns about one of his employees, Kurt Semko.

  “But—weren’t you the one who recommended him?” he said.

  “I think frankly I may have made a mistake,” I said. “I didn’t know him well enough.”

  He ran a hand over his damp face. “Can you give me any specifics? As to your conce
rns, I mean. Has he been causing problems of any sort?”

  I folded my hands and hunched forward. “I’ve been hearing complaints about Kurt from some of my employees. Little pranks he’s pulled. Harassment.”

  “Pranks? Not good-natured pranks, I’m assuming.”

  “Bad stuff. Destructive.”

  “Can you give me specifics?”

  I could give him all sorts of specifics. Many of them just allegations. But did I really want Scanlon investigating whether Kurt had tampered with Brett Gleason’s computer? How far did I want to go with this? Should I tell Scanlon about all the e-mails Kurt had accessed?

  No. Any or all of it could come back to bite me in the ass. Kurt would fight it. Might even say that I’d asked him to get me information—after all, it only benefited me, not him. I couldn’t take that chance.

  “I don’t know all the details,” I said. “But it’s my strong feeling—and, again, it’s of the utmost importance that this conversation remain strictly confidential—that Kurt should be let go.”

  Scanlon nodded for a long time. “Are you willing to file a complaint report?”

  I hesitated, but only for a second. “Not with my name on it, no. I think that would get too complicated. Especially given the fact that I mistakenly recommended him in the first place.”

  He nodded some more. “I can’t just let him go for no reason. You know that. You’ve got to paper the file. Would any of your employees be willing to file complaints with me, then?”

  “I’d rather not ask them. Plus, I don’t think anyone would want to stick their necks out. You understand, I’m sure.”

  “You sound like you know something.”

  “I’ve heard things, yes.”

  “He says you and he are good friends.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Listen, Jason. Kurt is one of the best hires I’ve ever made. The fellow can do anything.”

  “I understand.”

  “I don’t want to lose him. But I also don’t want any of my employees causing trouble up here. So I’ll look into this.”

  “That’s all I ask,” I said.

  I called Kate at work and was told she’d taken the day off. I called her at home, and woke her up.

  “You still have cramps?” I said.

  “Yeah. I thought I should stay home.”

  “What did DiMarco say?”

  “Just lie down until they pass.”

  “Is it—anything? Anything serious?”

  “No,” she said. “He says it’s normal. Just take it easy.”

  “Good idea. I wanted to remind you that I have a business dinner tonight.”

  “Oh, right. The hospital people?”

  “Airport. Atlanta airport. But whatever.”

  “Atlanta airport in Boston? I don’t understand.”

  “It’s boring,” I said. “Trade show.”

  It was the big Information Display trade show at the Bayside Expo Center. I didn’t have to work the show, thank God—I’m sure it would have been a regular laff riot—but some of my guys did. When I heard the Atlanta folks were going to be in town for the Information Display show, I invited them all out for dinner, told them it would be a great opportunity to “celebrate” our agreement. Translation: I wanted to try to nail down the huge Atlanta airport deal.

  A man can hope.

  “Where are you taking them?”

  “I don’t know the name of it. Some fancy restaurant in the South End that Franny likes. But if you need to reach me, I’ll have my cell with me.”

  “I’m not going to bother you.”

  “In case there’s a problem. Don’t hesitate, babe.”

  I hung up the phone, and then I noticed that Kurt was standing in the doorway to my office.

  “Missed you at the gym this morning,” Kurt said.

  “Had to fly to Chicago early.”

  “So, you were talking to Scanlon.”

  I nodded. “A background check that HR doesn’t seem to be able to do.”

  “You can always ask me, you know.”

  “Thought it might be better to separate the business from the personal.”

  “I think that’s a good idea,” he said, closing the door. “So if you have a problem with my work, you should take it up with me. Not with my boss.”

  I swallowed. “I don’t have a problem with your work.”

  “Really? Then why’re you trying to get me fired?”

  I looked at him for a few seconds. “What makes you say that?”

  He advanced into my office. Stood directly in front of my desk. “My suggestion to you—my strong feeling”—his eyebrows shot up, and he began speaking archly—“and, again, it’s of the utmost importance that this conversation remain strictly confidential…” He smiled. “…Is that if you have issues with me, you take them up with me. Mano a mano. But don’t sneak around. Don’t go behind my back. Because I will find out. And you will regret it.” His stare was icy. “Are we clear?”

  I was freaked out: He knew what I’d said to Scanlon, word for word.

  I didn’t know how, but it had to be some surveillance device he’d placed in my office. He sure had the technology.

  Now I wondered what else he’d heard me say in the office. I’d been concerned about Scanlon being indiscreet, saying something to Kurt. But I realized that Kurt didn’t need to hear it secondhand.

  And now that he knew I was trying to have him terminated, there was going to be trouble between us. Things could never go back to the way they used to be.

  In the car on the way to South End, my phone rang. I was back to my bad habits, using the cell phone in the car, but I had no choice. I had to be reachable at all times.

  It was Dick Hardy. “What’s your take on the Atlanta airport?” he said.

  “I’m feeling good about it.”

  “Then I’m feeling good about it. If this comes through, this may do it. This may save the division.”

  “All I can do is my best.”

  “I’m counting on it, Jason. Everything’s riding on this. Everything.”

  I handed my keys to the valet and entered the restaurant with a nonchalant grin plastered on my face. Unfortunately, it was one of those restaurants with an open kitchen, which always made me nervous, maybe because I was subconsciously afraid I’d have to do the dishes after we ate.

  Jim Letasky was already at the table, studying a file. We were fifteen minutes early. I’d invited Jim Letasky to join me at dinner. I wanted to bring him in on the biggest deal I had going. I needed his wattage. He’d gotten us a table far away from other people, and he’d tipped the waiter to leave us alone as much as possible, because this was a business dinner.

  I had an ulterior motive, too, but he was a smart fellow, and he’d figured it out.

  “I know why you wanted me here,” he said.

  “Besides the fact that you’re great at what you do?”

  “Because you’re afraid that our main competition is NEC.”

  “Who, me?”

  “I’ve just spent nine years telling the world how much better NEC’s products are than anyone else’s, and now—”

  “Now you’ve found God.”

  “I feel bad about it, you know.”

  “Not too bad, I hope.”

  “Not too bad. It is war, after all.”

  “That’s the attitude.” I looked over the wine list, trying to figure out which wines to order. My Queeg Memo had instructed all Entronics salespeople to make sure they always ordered the wine at a customer dinner and not leave it to the customer.

  “But listen, Jason. I think you’re wrong about NEC.”

  “Don’t tell me we’re going head-to-head with Royal Meister again?”

  He shook his head, squeezed lime into his Pellegrino water. “I dug deep into the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport website. There’s a company called AirView Systems, based in Atlanta.”

  I nodded. “I met the CFO at TechComm. Guy named Stev
e Bingham.” I remembered the silver anchorman hair, the deep-set eyes.

  “Biggest provider of flight information display systems. They put in the system for Atlanta last time. So my big question is, how come the airport isn’t going with them again? Why change horses in midstream?”

  “Maybe that horse was too expensive.”

  “AirView just sold them a bunch of portable LED signs.”

  “News to me. All I know is, they’ve been negotiating hard.”

  “You’ve been negotiating directly with Duffy, right?”

  “You do your homework,” I said. Tom Duffy was the Aviation General Manager of the airport. Mister Big. Lorna Evers, our other dinner guest, was the Deputy Procurement Officer for the City of Atlanta in the Aviation Division.

  “The workday starts the night before.”

  I smiled. “Duffy’s the decision maker. Lorna I’ve never met, but she’s basically a rubber stamp.”

  “They’re not just in this for a free dinner, right?”

  “I think they want to close the deal.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “The power of negative thinking,” I said, and then I saw our two dinner guests enter the restaurant. “Let’s knock ’em dead, Letasky.”

  Lorna Evers was a buxom blonde of that indeterminate age that could have been early fifties or maybe hard-living forties. She’d also obviously had work done: Her eyes had a slight Asian tilt to them. She had big bee-stung, cosmetically enhanced lips—trout pout, I think it’s called. Her face was a deeply tanned mask. When she smiled, only her overstuffed lips moved. Someone had overdone the Botox and the collagen injections.

  “So you’re the new Gordy,” she said, adjusting the gold silk scarf around her neck.

  “You could say that.”

  “Don’t let this man have any Scotch,” she said, and she threw back her head and gave a raucous, openmouthed laugh. Her eyes didn’t move.