by C J West
“What choice have I got? Besides poking around in the database myself that is?”
“That’s a frightening thought.”
Erica stood and came around the desk.
Gregg hesitated. She was dismissing him, but he didn’t want the conversation to end. This was the recurring theme in all their interactions, but he couldn’t help himself. “How’s Simon these days?”
She almost seemed not to remember him. “He’s fine,” she said after a long hesitation. “I haven’t seen him much lately. This project’s killing me.”
Gregg took his cue, thanked her and left twenty-two with a spark of hope.
Chapter Six
The sun disappeared behind the buildings leaving the streets blanketed in long damp shadows. A few hours earlier, office workers had been penned up in row after row of ten-by-ten boxes, twenty, thirty, even forty stories high. The sidewalks that had brimmed with primped masses were mostly empty now. Moms and dads had scurried out to the suburbs to get the kids. The younger crowd that remained churned energetically in bars scattered every block or two throughout the financial district.
Erica rounded the corner carrying a warm box of veggie smothered pizza that would sustain her through the late hours and into the morning. Jovial voices drew her attention halfway down the block. A group of twenty revelers spilled out of the International and onto Pearl Street. She recognized two women in their early twenties that had worked for her in client services and she detoured over to say hello. Other familiar faces appeared in the group as she drew near. Soon Gregg pushed his way through the crowd and stopped a few feet from Erica.
The women moved along reluctantly as if they’d been given some secret signal to get lost, but didn’t want to. Erica and Gregg stood firm in the middle of the jostling, joking group that enveloped them as it moved along Pearl Street.
“You’re going the wrong way aren’t you?” Gregg asked.
“That depends where you’re headed.”
“It’s seven thirty on Friday night. You’re not going back?” Gregg indicated the gray concrete building across the street.
Two younger girls drifted back from the group to watch their conversation from a safe distance.
“Your fans are waiting.”
“This is the client services crew. We do this every couple months. Same as ever.”
“I know who they are. No one from Bob’s group though, shame.”
“Funny. We’re meeting Bob at The Rack. You should come.”
“You already have both hands full of twenty-somethings. How are you going to have time to talk to me?”
“I don’t date women from the office,” he choked.
“Really. I wasn’t sure that was a problem for you.”
“You know everyone here works in client services. If they worked in another department it might be different.”
“Convenient. Sounds plausible, but not too limiting.”
“You love making me suffer, don’t you?”
“You make it way too easy.”
“The Rack will be fun. You could let loose for a change. Whatever you’re going back for can wait.”
“Looks like you’re going to have plenty of fun without me.”
“Don’t you want to see all your old pals?”
“Yeah, but I want to keep my job more.” She raised a hand to her forehead in a mock salute. “I’ve got bugs up to here and I’m running out of time. Even working seven days a week I don’t think we’ll be ready for go-live.”
Gregg took a half step toward the office. “I am your number one beta user. We could talk systems stuff if that would make you feel better. You know how much I love veggie pizza.”
For a second Erica thought he was going to invite himself upstairs, and for a second she thought she wanted him to. He waited then took one tentative step back and then another. The girls behind him released a collective sigh.
“Sbarro’s only two blocks from The Rack,” she said.
Gregg wished her well, turned, and joined the group waiting for him near the corner.
Erica crossed the dark street and made her way up to her office. She found herself staring at the whiteboard holding a half-eaten slice of pizza, not quite seeing the neat handwritten tasks. She’d never been the life of the party, but before joining Brad’s team she wouldn’t have passed up an invitation to shoot pool and listen to a new band with her friends. The career she’d chosen left room for little else. Trading security for a bit of fun had never bothered her before. This was the first time she’d noticed. She shuddered, feeling a bit like she’d noticed a huge stain on the back of her outfit after wearing it all day. This was more than a day’s outfit; this was her life. She felt small sitting alone in the office.
Alert and back in the moment, Erica faced the identical laptops on her desk. With only eight days to go, the bug list was longer than ever and the testers kept finding new problems faster than her team could fix them. Erica worked her way down the list of completed items. She read through each problem report then connected into the test system and verified that the fix solved the problem completely. Checking everyone’s work was monotonous, but she couldn’t count on the QA person Brad assigned. Like many things on the project, Erica was doing this herself. She wasn’t neurotic. It was the pressure, Brad’s needless pressure and his fantasy that she could finish on time with half the resources identified in the initial project plan. She was project manager, lead developer, and quality assurance department all in one. That left little time for anything outside work except a couple hours sleep and a commute that was more about hygiene than spending time at home.
Heavy footsteps sounded in the hall shortly after nine o’clock. They stopped outside Erica’s door as Brad leaned a muscled shoulder against her door casing. There was only one person who came to her office this late. She knew it was Brad before she looked up and saw the fiendish look on his face. He had a way of studying her with a smile lurking beneath the surface, a grin he couldn’t let loose until he was out of view. His torment was intentional, but why her? She was driving his biggest project. If she quit or if she failed, he was in deep. Maybe he hated strong women. She posed little professional threat since he was Marty’s brother-in-law. No employee was going to supersede him. His cruelty made no sense unless it was purely for sport. He was the perverse type and she wouldn’t put it past him.
“I’ve got bad news for you,” he said.
“It can’t be worse than this bug list.”
“Actually it can. I’ve reassigned Jenkins to the attribution project starting tomorrow.”
Erica’s face went slack in disbelief. “You can’t do that. Tomorrow’s Saturday. My whole team’s coming in.” She’d worked hours shuffling the workload so they could meet the deadline. Without Jenkins it was hopeless.
“He’ll be here, but he’ll be working on attribution.”
“How can you do that? What are you trying to do to me?”
“I had no choice. The PMs are screaming. This business is driven by the investment team not client services.”
“This isn’t some diddley project. This is mission critical. We’re revamping the way everyone looks at our investment history not just client services. There’s no way I can bring this in on time without Jenkins.”
“Don’t preach to me, Erica. I know how important every project is. What you fail to recognize on the other hand, is that there is other work going on here. It’s all interrelated and the schedule is set. If you can’t handle this, I’ll bring in Devlin to manage and you can go back to coding.”
“You can’t do that!”
“Nothing personal. We’re all tightening our belts. You’ve got to slog through one more week. I can’t push the schedule. Marty won’t have it. If you need Devlin’s help, I’ll get him on board Monday, just let me know.”
“No thanks.”
Brad turned and disappeared. Just like him to let her work on a project eighteen months and then try to give it to someone else whe
n it was time to hand out the credit.
Fuming, too angry to think about anything seriously except doing Brad bodily harm, Erica got up and paced around her office. Her eyes darted around her workspace, finally settling on the pages Gregg left with her. She laughed at them as if Gregg could hear then placed them on top of a pile where she could see them. No time for them in the next two weeks. No one else was going to have time for them either, but this might be the sword she could use to take a swipe at Brad. Gregg was going to have to fend off Mr. Johnson for awhile and there was nothing she could do about that. When things slowed down, she’d dig deep. If Brad had ignored a serious problem, she’d uncover every detail and she’d tell anyone who’d listen. Even Marty cared about the customers. They supported his lavish lifestyle after all.
Erica noticed the ever-blinking red light on her phone, clicked on the speaker and logged-in to check her voicemail. Half-listening, she angrily punched the delete button on the first six messages before any of them finished playing.
Impossible. She was never going to finish on time.
The next voice was Simon’s, “Erica, hey, where have you been? Dating is supposed to be a two person endeavor. A contact sport if it’s done right. I can’t get you anywhere. Call me.”
Erica deleted a few more messages.
Her mother’s voice came next, “Erica, I haven’t heard from you in a few weeks. Wanted to make sure everything’s ok. Call me. I miss you.”
Delete. Delete. Delete.
A young woman’s voice played from the speaker, “Erica, Kate. Eisenstein was ripped you blew it off again. He went postal about those students who never show up for class and think they’ll pass – meaning you. He says that doesn’t play in graduate school. Better come next Wednesday. See ya.”
Simon’s voice returned, angrier than before, “Erica, this is ridiculous. Call me.” She wondered how long it had been since they talked.
Erica laid her head on the desk and closed her eyes.
Chapter Seven
“One o’ five Marlborough.”
“One o’ five Marlborough, Mam.”
A blurry close-up of stitched blue vinyl appeared through Erica’s sore eyes. She pushed herself up. The windows of the cab were dark, the streetlights too pale for her to recognize her own block. She knew better than to let her guard down in public, especially at night in the city. Here she was in the car with a complete stranger, asleep, with no idea where she was. He could have driven her anywhere. She cursed herself for nodding off. She knew first hand what could happen and that knowledge kept her ever vigilant. She could take three guys like this scrawny cab driver, but her self defense training was worthless when she was asleep. Fortunately, she wouldn’t need her training tonight.
She poked a ten through the plexiglass and rambled into the lobby and up the stairs. Her body steered its own way home, her eyes so heavy she could barely see. She pushed the key in the lock, jammed her shoulder against the door, and stumbled inside when it jerked out of her way. The stark lights jarred her to a stop. Every one of them was on and she felt every watt through her thin eyelids. The blow dryer whined loudly in the bathroom. The light and the noise blocked her advance and she wanted to lay down right there on the carpet. Eyes closed, she marched zombie-like to the hall, her shoulder rubbing the wallpaper when she reached it, guiding her, keeping her upright.
One cracked eye spied Melanie pulling a fat round brush with one hand and waving the dryer with the other. The hair on one side hung down straight, the other waved with curls that would only become more pronounced if allowed to dry. Nine on Saturday night, Melanie was going out. Erica wouldn’t last another five minutes.
Erica stumbled on, but Melanie’s voice pulled her back, forcing her to remain standing longer than she thought possible. Her joints longed to sprawl out beneath the sheets. The dryer thankfully ceased.
“Where’ve you been?” Melanie asked.
“Work,” Erica said leaning against the wall for support.
“Let me get this straight. You worked all day Friday, Friday night and Saturday, a day most people take off, and you’re just getting home at nine o’clock. No wonder you look like Hell.”
“Thanks, you too.”
“But I’ll be glamorous in five minutes.”
“You get to it, I’ve got to crash.”
The voice followed her, but the words were too garbled to discern. At least the blow dryer was quiet. With luck she’d be asleep before it started again. Finally through the door and into the dark, her sneakers hit the floor, her jeans dropped in a lump beside the bed, her bra lofted toward the chair. She was beneath the chilly sheets, eyes blissfully closed. Even her thoughts were too tired to stir.
Erica didn’t bother to open her eyes when Melanie’s voice came from the doorway. The sliver of light she let in fell harmlessly on the comforter that covered her shoulder.
“Simon came by today.”
“Was he mad?” she mumbled from under the blankets.
“Beyond mad. He didn’t even ask for you.”
“What’d he want?”
“A couple of shirts and some sweatpants. They were too big for you, so I let him have them.”
“Not surprised. He seemed really–”
Melanie started talking before Erica finished, oddly rude for her. “He said to tell you he’s done; he can’t take it anymore. He said, and I quote: dating you is pointless. He was a nice guy. They all are.”
Erica tried to tell her how important the project was, but her voice was so weak she couldn’t hear her own mumbling.
Melanie kept on talking.
“You know what he said? He said he could never tell if you really liked him or not. After all that time. You were so focused on work that you tuned him out. That’s what guys do to us. It really sucks.”
Erica tried to tell her how much she tried with Simon. How she’d gone to dinners and movies, really spent time with him. How he should’ve known how she felt. None of it got past her heavy lips.
Melanie kept on.
“You keep pushing them away. You make yourself positively undateable. If I did that, I’d be alone forever. I swear all that running you do is to get away from them faster. It works, but someone’s got to tell them to stop lining up. What’s the point?”
What did Melanie know? She’d spend the next half hour straightening her hair so men would take her seriously. Then she’d go out with her friends to some sports bar, desperate to get noticed in spite of the televisions every six feet and the two dozen other women trolling the same waters.
Erica drifted off. Melanie might still have been talking, but she couldn’t hear her anymore.
Simon walked in and stood at the foot of the bed. Next came Derek, who took his place shoulder to shoulder with Simon. A procession of men formed a line that extended through the wall and into the blackness. None of them could lift his arms from his side. All wanted to come take hold of her, but none could. The line continued to a dark hall, where a man walked toward her. He was noticeably shorter than the others, about twenty, dressed in a shabby T-shirt stretched tightly over his muscles. He had a dirty, drunken look about him and he still had the scar Erica saw the morning he died.
Chapter Eight
The electronic buzz pulsed through Brad like an ice pick piercing his frontal lobe. He groped toward the bedside table, the stabbing pain behind his eyes intensified by the dim light that glowed through the blinds. Hours earlier he’d started the night with a string of Bass drafts in at least four different bars around Faneuil Hall. He drained a Bass with each woman he approached. Some lasted five or ten minutes, some only two. None resulted in a second shared drink. When he deemed the night an utter failure he veered sharply toward tequila shooters with an occasional Bass for taste.
He didn’t want to admit he was losing his touch; that the women he pursued recognized his motives almost on sight and that even he himself had become tired of the never ending quest for the next meaningless physical interlu
de. He was as muscled as ever. Mid-forties with a great job, he was a prime candidate for marriage-minded women of a certain age and he played the prospective husband and father routine well. Ending up alone night after night was devastating his ego.
Worse than the pain in his head and lonely pit in his chest was his dread of the man who’d be on the other end of this call. No one else dared call this early on Sunday morning. He’d always thought he was his own man; that he could walk away from anything if he didn’t like the course it was taking, but he didn’t have the luxury of such options now. He’d made a mistake and gotten in deep. The man on the other end of the phone was a pro of the worst kind. He could end this for Brad in a dozen ways, none of them pleasant. His only hope was to play along, do what he was told, and do it skillfully enough so the results never surfaced. So far, he’d done it, but keeping things quiet was getting more difficult by the day.
Brad picked up.
“You shouldn’t drink so much, Foster. With all the money you’re taking down you can afford a pro. It’d be much easier than hitting on half the women in Boston. More successful, too.”
Brad opened an eye, but he couldn’t focus on the tiny LED panel well enough to see the number. He groped for the record button and clicked it. The man was sending a message: he was close by and he knew everything Brad did no matter when or where. Brad was out of his league and if he defied orders, the end would be brutally swift.
“How are we doing?” the voice asked.