Totally Killer

by Greg Olear

  It was a futile exercise—Taylor was not listening. How could she, with so much to process? How, after all of her recent excitement, could she be expected to gamely listen to some pretentious pseudo-intellectual pontificate about his boring book? Asher’d taken the Delta Shuttle to Washington early that morning—something to do with his handler. It was the first time she had been alone in the Dakota apartment, and she realized, much to her surprise, that she preferred it that way.

  Is it human nature to always want more? Or does satiety, as Aldous Huxley suggested, dispel excitement? Either way, one thing was crystal clear: compared to what she’d experienced with Asher Krug, the job that two weeks ago was worth killing for had lost its luster.

  “…and the fact that the protagonist also has a sexual awakening is significant,” Gale was saying, “because it is in stark contrast to the murders. There is creation and destruction, yin and yang. It’s a Victorian type of novel, so in the end Natasha is punished for her promiscuity…”

  “See, that’s the problem I’m having,” Taylor said.

  This was the first piece of editorial criticism she’d offered since they sat down. Its sudden delivery silenced the author, who fell over as if he’d been bitch-slapped. “I thought you liked the last draft.”

  “I did. It’s a really cool idea. It has a hook, you know? But the problem is that it sort of falls apart at the end. The third act is weak. Most novels have a weak third act, but yours is, like, Coors Light weak.”

  Gale was taken aback, so much so his entire body stilled. “Is it that bad,” he said, with just a touch of snark.

  “The heroine hires Madame Popova to kill her husband,” Taylor explained, “because her husband was a violent abuser. I mean, he just beheaded her cat; offing the guy is morally justified. What other choice does she have? It’s kill or be killed. Then she goes through a liberating period of sexual experimentation—which is nicely written, by the way—and for that, she gets killed? I don’t buy it.”

  Gale took a long swig of his wine, the prospect of yet another tedious rewrite deflating his already-shopworn ego. His leg resumed its furious activity. “Well, what do you recommend I do?”

  “I don’t know,” Taylor said. “That’s the challenge. That’s where the creativity comes in, right?”

  Gale took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I suppose.”

  “Maybe,” Taylor said, suddenly inspired, “maybe your heroine—”

  “Natasha.”

  “Maybe Natasha should kill the chick who killed the husband. You know, the assassin—”

  “Katja.”

  “—so she can take her job.”

  Gale stopped breathing for a full minute. It was the only way he could stop from freaking out. “Like Macbeth,” he said finally.

  “Exactly. Like Macbeth. See, this way, Natasha is punished for her choice—the choice to kill Katja—rather than doing what she has to do. Although I’m not so sure the book shouldn’t have a happy ending…”

  And just like that, Taylor knew what she had to do. Roger Gale’s book—his stupid, vapid book—had inspired at least one reader. “I’ve got to go,” she told him, rising. “I’m late for an appointment.”

  “But…”

  “Give it a whirl,” she said, throwing some bills on the table. “I’ll call you next week.”

  Taylor dashed outside, hopped in a cab, and fifteen minutes later was in the lobby of the Quid Pro Quo Employment Agency, demanding an audience with Lydia Murtomaki.

  “You should speak with Asher,” Mae-Yuan said. “He’s your case worker. And he’s not here right now, but I’ll be happy to…”

  “He’s in Washington. I know. I’m here to see Ms. Murtomaki.”

  “You’ll have to make an appointment.”

  “Like hell I do.”

  The waifish receptionist glanced over Taylor’s shoulder. An unkempt hipster was lounging on one of the divans, flipping through the latest New York Press. “You have to have an appointment, okay? She’s on a very tight schedule.”

  “Is she here? I need to see her. It’s urgent.”

  “I told you, you have to…”

  Taylor clutched Mae-Yuan’s twig-like arm, yanked her forward. “Listen to me, Mae-Yuan. If you don’t let me see her right this instant, so help me God I’ll tell him.” She gestured at the hipster on the couch. “I’ll tell him your little secret. I swear I will.”

  Mae-Yuan’s voice wavered ever so slightly. “That would not be wise.”

  “Don’t think I won’t.”

  “Please. If you’ll just…”

  “It’s okay, Mae-Yuan,” came a voice from the intercom. “Send her in.”

  Once Taylor had found her seat—and once the door, somewhat ominously, had locked behind her—she said, “I’m sorry to burst in unannounced.”

  “We try our best to be flexible,” said the older woman, twisting a cigarette onto her trademark onyx holder. “What can I do for you?”

  Both sat in the same chairs they had occupied a month earlier. This time, though, Taylor was not nervous. She was on autopilot, as sure of herself as Eddie Murphy at the first MTV Music Awards. “One of the stipulations of my agreement was that if I didn’t like my job I could get a new one.”

  “But you like Braithwaite Ross.”

  “I’ve had a change of heart.”

  “Fine. Asher will show you the list, and you can have your pick of jobs. Now that you have more experience, in fact, you might get a sizeable increase in salary.”

  “I don’t want to work in publishing anymore.”

  “Can’t say that I blame you. Terrible business. The shit they print these days.” Lydia blew a perfect smoke ring. “There are plenty of jobs to choose from, Taylor. The list is comprehensive.”

  “The job that I want, it’s not on the list.”

  “What can you be you driving at, I wonder.” Spoken as a statement, not a question.

  Outside, police sirens shrieked. The sun went behind a cloud, and the room grew darker.

  “I want to work for you. Here. At Quid Pro Quo.”

  The Director said nothing. Her face betrayed no hint of what she was thinking.

  “All day I read these awful crime books,” Taylor went on. “Books that are so obviously invented by people who have never even fired a gun, let alone shot and killed someone. How can you expect me to be satisfied editing fiction, when this place is real? The only job worth killing for, Ms. Murtomaki, is an executive position at Quid Pro Quo. Give me a chance. Take me on a probationary basis. Make me an intern. Anything.”

  “Our internship program,” said the Director wryly, “is still in the planning stages. But I must admit, your ardor intrigues me. None of our other charges has ever evinced the slightest interest in joining our little family. Quite the contrary. Most of them want nothing to do with us ever again.”

  “All the more reason to take me on. This is where I want to be. This is the job to kill for. Take me on. I’ll be the best executive you’ve ever had.”

  The Director’s eyes were as wide as the giant Man Ray one behind her. “This isn’t a nine-to-five job, Taylor. This is a marriage. More than a marriage. Quid Pro Quo becomes your life—your husband, your children, your family and friends, and any other ambitions you might have had. And there is no turning back. Once you’re in, you’re in forever. Like the Hotel California. There is no getting out. Ever.”

  “I don’t want a nine-to-five job, Ms. Murtomaki. I don’t want a husband, I don’t want children, I don’t like my family, and I don’t have that many friends. This is what I want, right here. Just this.”

  Lydia leaned back in her chair, holding her cigarette holder like a magic wand. “Quite unprecedented.”

  They had traded volleys long enough. Time to deploy the overhand smash. “Another thing,” Taylor said. She wanted to make damn sure Lydia knew she was talking about Asher Krug, without invoking his name. “If you take me on, Quid Pro Quo will be my number-one priority. Forever and
always. You won’t find me freelancing, that’s for sure. I won’t be part-time assassin, part-time revolutionary, part-time sociology lecturer, like certain people. No. I’ll be totally killer.”

  “You have pluck, I’ll give you that.” There was a twinkle in the Director’s eye and a broad smile on her face—just the reaction Taylor was hoping for. “But all of this is academic, because the fact is, there are no permanent openings at this time.”

  Holding the older woman’s gaze: “And if something were to open up?”

  “There are no permanent openings at this time.”

  Taylor stood up, smoothed her skirt, extended her hand. “Thank you, Ms. Murtomaki. I appreciate you seeing me.”

  Lydia Murtomaki studied her carefully. “Wait a minute, Taylor.”

  “Yes?”

  “How far would you be willing to go for us?”

  “You say jump, I ask how high.”

  “This particular mission would require…a woman’s touch.”

  Taylor smiled. “Nothing I haven’t done before.”

  Lydia lit up a fresh cigarette. “If I say jump, you jump, period. You don’t waste time asking questions.”

  CHAPTER 17

  I

  n the first half of the century in which our story takes place, America’s was an industrial economy. The lion’s share of the labor force still worked in factories. Most of the universal work standards that we now take for granted—the eight-hour day, the nine-to-five shift, lunch hour, coffee breaks, the punching of timecards—date from this period. See, in order for assembly lines to function, every worker had to be physically present at the plant for the same number of hours. Pay was docked and jobs were lost for tardiness, because tardiness cost money; if one cog in the machine ran ten minutes late, the entire apparatus stalled for those ten minutes. But that was then, and this is now. In 2009, as I write this, white-collar jobs predominate—as they did well before 1991. Why, then, do so many companies cling to an antiquated business model designed for the industrial, and not the information, age? Yes, there will always be jobs that require a physical presence for a set duration of time—cooks, surgeons, receptionists, shortstops—but many more that do not. Nowadays, with the advent of the Internet and BlackBerries and cellular phones and video teleconferencing, lots of jobs are so portable that they can be—and are—performed not just out of the office, but out of the country. (In the Bush recession of 1991, there were no good jobs; in the current Bush recession, there are plenty of good jobs—in Bangalore.) Why, one wonders, does this dinosaurian business model endure?

  The answer, I think, lies in the megalomania of the average CEO. Have you seen how much dough these fuckers make? In 1991, Stephen Wolf, the chairman of United Airlines, took home $18.3 million in total compensation. This raised eyebrows at the time, but now, the number seems quaint; Reese Witherspoon was paid about as much for her bimbonic work in Legally Blonde 2: Red, White & Blonde. With big money comes big attitude. Chief executives demand kingly treatment. And if there are still kings, there must also be serfs. This, I believe, is why people who, say, edit mass-market thrillers are forced to appear in an office for forty hours a week, even though they could more efficaciously labor from home. Their presence feeds the CEO’s ego.

  If corporate head honchos actually gave a crap about productivity, they would—get ready for this—treat their workers with respect. I’m no psychologist, but it seems obvious that people don’t like to feel like slaves. They work harder for bosses they like, not fear. Machiavelli was well and good for despots, but he’d be a workplace hazard. CEOs who behave like Louis XVI should be beheaded.

  Nathan Ross, the new publisher at Braithwaite Ross, understood this. Before text messaging and AIM and wireless Internet, he was a visionary. He treated his employees with dignity, provided them with enviable amenities, established flexible hours, and trusted them to get the job done. And what do you know? They did. In fact, they worked harder under his velvet glove than Walter Bledsoe’s iron fist, even if they spent less time in the office.

  Not that said office was deserted. Charles, Mike, Brady, Chris, Angie, and everyone else continued to show up pretty much every day, even though they weren’t required to. For one thing, most of them wanted out of their cramped New York apartments. For another, there were video games in the break room. And free soda.

  It was in this break room, on the day before Halloween, where Chris the Pirate, greasy hair pulled back in an Axl Rose bandana, found Taylor Schmidt curled up on an armchair with Roger Gale’s manuscript revisions and a busy red pen.

  “There you are,” said Chris.

  “Here I am.”

  “The boss wants to see you.”

  “Angie?”

  “Nathan.”

  The pen froze. “Why would Nathan want to see me?”

  “He didn’t say why. Just that it was urgent.”

  Taylor put down the manuscript and made for the new publisher’s corner office. The white heat of anxiety burned in her veins. She was sure he was going to reprimand her for her brusque treatment of Roger Gale. She could think of no other reason why Nathan might want to talk to her, and certainly no urgent one. She was in trouble, plain and simple.

  Taylor found the publisher in front of his desk, putter in hand, attempting to knock golf balls into an overturned coffee mug from twenty feet away.

  “Close the door,” Nathan said, without looking up.

  She did as she was told, trembling all the while.

  “Are you dressing up for Halloween?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Me neither. Know why? Because I’m not seven.”

  She felt like there was a small animal in her chest cavity, her heart was pounding so hard. It was weird—she was more nervous now than she had been when she shot Andrew Borden.

  “The Director wants to see you,” he said, as he shot a ball into the cup. “Oh, yeah! Did you see that? I’m getting really good at this.”

  Taylor was nonplussed. “Angie’s at lunch with Jean Naggar.”

  “Not the editorial director. The Director. You know. Lydia Murtomaki.”

  All the tension in her body released at once, and she guffawed, like some sort of animal. “So it was you who hired Quid Pro Quo! I knew it.”

  “Aren’t you Little Miss Marple.” Nathan fetched the balls from the coffee cup. “It was my father, if you want to get technical. But I fully supported his decision.” He looked up at her for the first time and winked. “Union Square, two o’clock. Enter on Fifteenth Street, on the east side of the park. Take the first available bench on your left and wait. Bring a magazine or something. And Taylor?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t tell Asher.”

  Taylor did a double take. “How do you know Asher?”

  “We were both Saybrugians.”

  “Say what?”

  “Saybrook.” And he burst out laughing. “Sorry. Yale humor.”

  For the first time in her life, Taylor felt relieved that she hadn’t been accepted at Geek U. “Is that what they call it there.”

  “Saybrook was our residential college,” Nathan said, after nodding his head to acknowledge her quip, “so I know him from the dorms. Interesting guy, Asher, and smart as a whip, but I’ve never been big on ideologues—especially Republican ideologues.”

  “Asher is a Republican?”

  “How can you live with a guy like that and not know which way he votes?” Nathan said. “Maybe you’re not so Miss Marple after all.”

  “I don’t live with him,” she said. “I just stay over a lot.”

  “You say tomato…” Nathan squatted down to line up the golf balls. “You’d better go. Don’t want to keep Lydia waiting.”

  By 1991, the transition of Union Square from druggie wasteland to yuppie nirvana was well underway. The mighty Zeckendorf Towers, crowned by their hunter-green pyramids, presided over the southeast quadrant with pharaoic majesty. The Coffee Shop, an ironically named bar owned and frequented b
y models, had recently opened (one of the principal financiers, rumor has it, was the songstress Mariah Carey, whose hit single “Can’t Let Go” was released that autumn). Still, Union Square was more outpost than omphalos, an ugly mess of broken cement with not much to recommend it save McDonald’s, Bradlees, and a rundown place on the corner that sold textiles wholesale. The battleship-sized Barnes & Noble, the Virgin Megastore, the W Hotel, Diesel Jeans, and the upscale eateries that now line its western flank were still twinkles in some developer’s eye. Who knew what lurked in the park’s murk when the sun went down? Crackheads, hookers, crackheaded hookers…anything was possible. Union Square was cool, but it was sketchy.

  No, Union Square was cool because it was sketchy. Ah, the good old days.

  Taylor entered at the Fifteenth Street ingress, on the east side of the park, as per her instructions. She stopped at the newsstand by the subway entrance and bought the latest issue of Rolling Stone, which had a pouting Shannen Doherty on the cover. She found an empty park bench, took a seat, and waited. It was five to two.

  Exactly five minutes later, Lydia Murtomaki emerged from the subway in a Yankees cap, a blue trench coat, and huge Jackie O sunglasses. Flung over one shoulder was one of those canvas bags from the Strand, black with red ovular logo, fat with books. She looked nothing like the chic dragon lady from the Quid Pro Quo offices; if Taylor wasn’t looking for her, she never would have recognized her. As it was, the aspiring assassin had to do a triple take, and could only get a positive ID when the Director sat down on the bench beside her.

  “Look straight ahead,” said Lydia out of the side of her mouth.

  “Thank you so much for…”

  “Save it. You might not want to thank me when all is said and done.” Lydia put the canvas bag on the ground, and then, with her foot, pushed it closer to Taylor. “Take the bag when you leave. Inside is the dossier and the ID cards. Your name is Roberta Anderson, and you’re from Saskatchewan. But your code name is Delilah.”