Middle Men (18 page)

The room went quiet, and then Mike, with his eyes closed, said, “Who's ‘them,' Dave?”

“Them is everyone. I know that sounds vague, but again, I'm not talking in specifics here.”

“Let Nora talk. I want to hear about the conference.”

“Who said that?”

“It's Gabe in Chicago. I want to hear about the conference.”

“Hi, Gabe! While I'm thinking about it, I have a question on the finance side of things. And I'm throwing this out there to everyone, but mainly finance. What is the process in the
event that cost basis information is not available when the action becomes effective? Do we get notified and reprocess internally or does the corporate action service prepare cancellation and rebook transactions to the blotter?”

“It goes both ways.”

“Is that still you, Gabe?”

“Yes, it's me. It goes both ways. The door swings both ways.”

Dave looked around the room. “What's so funny?”

“That's
Ghostbusters
,” said one of the sales guys. “He's talking about Gozer the Gozerian.”

“Who?” said Dave.

“John Belushi was supposed to be in that, but then he died,” said a mysterious voice in either Chicago or New York. “Bill Murray took his place.”

Another voice said, “Eddie Murphy was supposed to be in it, too. He was going to play the African-American guy.”

“Winston Zeddemore.”

Gabe's voice said, “So Nora was going to tell us about the conference.”

“Let Nora talk,” said several voices all at once.

“Listen,” said Dave. “I know things are a little . . . right now. But still. We're trying to create a go-forward scenario, so we have to get out in front on this. We need confirmation on how our brand is being structured. And if we're serious about sustaining an effective solution environment, then we need to create a strategy for platform leveraging that prioritizes integration. That's the reality.”

Nora's presentation didn't last long. She handed over a very small list of “promising potential prospects”—that's how she phrased it—and Mike and his sales team walked out in
disgust. Afterward, Jill followed Nora back to her office. The brick corridors were dim and quiet. There wasn't a single phone ringing anywhere in the world.

“Are you okay?” Jill asked.

“Please stop asking me that.”

“What's Mike's problem?”

“He needs prospects. That's our job.”

“What about Randers?”

“Who?”

“The guys who used to be Pinnacle.”

“I made that up. I wasn't going to let Mike ambush me like that.”

Jill leaned against the doorframe. “I'm not sure that was the best idea.”

“It doesn't matter. We're fucked.”

“What do you mean? Do you know something?”

“Go call your mom,” said Nora. “Tell her to fluff the pillows on your bed.”

Jill looked at Nora with a sudden and superior calm. “I know you're upset right now, and I know you don't like me. But there's no reason for you to talk to me like that. It's totally unprofessional.”

“Fuck off.”

Nora's screen saver was a picture she had taken last winter in Ireland at the Cliffs of Moher. She went late in the day and had them all to herself, except for a group of young Russians, who hopped over the safety rail and pranced right along the edge, goofing around with each other, daring the wind to blow them into the ocean. A seven-hundred-foot drop, jagged rocks and crashing waves, but these Russians carried on, brave and merry in the face of death. She checked her email and in the minute
that had passed since the meeting ended, Dave had managed to schedule another meeting with her at the end of the day.

There was a brief note from Bobby, saying he was excited to see her tonight. For a while she tried reading his previous email, the six-thousand-page epic. Parts of it made her laugh—what the hell was the Man Handle?—but most of it didn't make any sense. The worst part was that he seemed to know which parts didn't make any sense. She knew where this was going. The first time it happened, in college, campus security found him in the Life Sciences Building, throwing pine cones at the giant skeleton of the
Tyrannosaurus rex
. A couple of his fraternity brothers brought him to the emergency room. He told the doctors he couldn't sleep. His grades were terrible, his girlfriend had broken up with him, he didn't know what he wanted to do with his life . . . the same stuff everybody worries about, but he couldn't get a handle on it and everything snowballed. It happened again four years later, after he got fired from his hotel job. Nora saw this one coming. As his situation got worse, he became more and more cheerful, and his phone calls started coming later and later. She brought him to her apartment and got him to sleep, and later demanded that this time he get on some regular medications, or at least get some regular therapy. Bobby told her he was fine and for a couple years he was, but then he broke up with another girl, lost another job, and it happened all over again. He didn't have health insurance and Nora paid his emergency room bill. Three months ago, when he threw the champagne bottle out the window, she probably should've seen it coming, but even if she did she no longer felt any urgency to do anything about it.

She closed her office door, thinking she was about to cry.
But she didn't. Something rattled in her chest, but she didn't cry.

At six o'clock, she walked down to Dave's office. When he saw her at the door, he stopped juggling and reached for his jacket.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

They went down the street to a sports bar. The Giants were playing, so they had to fight their way through crowds moving toward the waterfront stadium. Dave kept looking back, as if he might lose her, and Nora realized she had never been alone with him. Here, in public, the veneer of dynamism fell away and he seemed pensive and unsure of himself. When he brought over their pitcher, he spilled some on the table, and got flustered as he looked for napkins.

“I'm sorry,” he said, and carefully wiped down the table, sopping up every drop. He sat down, took a sip of beer, and Nora knew what he was going to say.

“At this point in time, Nora, we need to start thinking about migrating some of our resources to an outside vendor.”

“Do I still have a job?”

“Yes! God, I'm sorry!” He almost spit out his beer. “I mean, that's the good news. For you, I mean. I'm not explaining this very well. Listen. We've decided to make some major . . . in a couple weeks. Direct mail, prospect management, customer analytics—we can't justify those costs right now.”

“Are you leaving anything in-house?”

“Like I said, we can't justify—”

“Who's left?”

“You, mostly. The plan is to shift you into more of a liaison role with sales.”

Nora leaned forward slowly and rested her forehead on the edge of the table.

“I want you to know that I fought for you and your team. But mostly you. That's why I wanted to maximize our profile at the conference. I was hoping something good might happen.”

“That was a great plan, Dave. Thanks.”

“I know this isn't ideal for you, but I did—I really fought for you.”

“I heard you,” she said, lifting her head, “and I said thanks.”

“But you were being sarcastic. Which is okay. I understand. That's how some people cope with challenging situations. It's something I've always liked about you, the way you're kind of . . . everyone in the office enjoys your sense of humor. But listen. I fought for you and, going forward, I think you'll be in a good position. As Geneva evolves, you'll be right there with me, delivering the . . .” Dave stopped for a moment and stared at his beer. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Basically, the kind of mission-critical solutions that address the needs of our clients.”

Outside the window a scalper was yelling and waving tickets. Nora asked in a sour tone if Geneva was going to sacrifice their luxury box at the ball park. Dave looked hurt, as if she had failed to understand something obvious, and said, “I fought for you.”

Nora suddenly understood the evening's shape and direction. It was like floating on a river and hearing a waterfall in the distance. She signaled the waitress for another pitcher, and for the next hour she watched Dave get drunk. He couldn't handle his liquor, but that seemed part of whatever clumsy plan he had set in motion. By the time they got to the third pitcher, Dave was trying to pet Nora's arm. She lightly removed it and he looked ashamed. She got the feeling that he had
never tried anything like this before. It was almost touching. Eventually his seduction devolved into a series of whimpering confessions about his family life and the pressures he was under at Geneva. He and his wife were constantly at odds, and he got the feeling that if the next restructuring didn't work out, he might get the ax himself.

“It's been a difficult time for me,” he said.

Nora, still relatively sober, figured that if she offered him a choice, right now, between fucking her or crying like a little boy on her shoulder, he would choose to cry.

Dave paid the tab and they started walking toward Market, without any real destination in mind. At a crosswalk, he tried to kiss her, but she pushed him away. After effusive apologies, Dave reiterated that he was under a lot of pressure lately.

“I saw something the other day,” he said, as they kept walking. “We took the boys to Golden Gate Park for a picnic. We're sitting there and a kid walks out of the bushes. She's a punk-looking kid. She could've been twelve years old or nineteen. I have no idea. But she's in ratty clothes and I swear to God she's got a homemade bow and arrow slung over one shoulder and a dead cat over the other. She walked right past us, like we weren't even there.”

“I want another drink,” said Nora.

Dave stepped away and made a phone call. They walked down Kearny and into North Beach. On the way, Nora's phone rang. It was Bobby. She let it go to voice mail and then listened to the message.

“What's so funny?” Dave asked.

“Nothing,” she said, and when they finished their second round of cocktails at nine o'clock, she turned off her phone and said, “Let's get dinner.”

•  •  •

“Next time Nora's in, she'll take care of it. I swear.”

“It's fine. Do you want your credit card back?”

“No, keep it. As a token of my affection.”

The barbacks were wiping down counters and turning off the lights. A fat Beatle was onstage, whistling to himself and unplugging his amps. Bobby picked up his bag and followed the bartender out the front door, where a few other Beatles were smoking. Ringo smiled and waved to Bobby.

Geary Boulevard was a cold, misty hollow, tilting toward the ocean. Bobby saw the bartender getting in a cab and ran after her.

“Where are you going?” he said.

“Home.”

“You should stick around.”

“Let go the door, you fuck!”

He heard voices behind him. A pair of John Lennons were moving toward him saying, “Hey, hey, hey . . .”

“Hold on,” he said, turning back to her. “I want to show you my Man Handle.”

He reached into his bag and she started to scream. Before he could show it to her, someone grabbed him around the waist. Bobby tumbled to the sidewalk. He watched the cab's red taillights disappear down the street. Slowly, the Fabs dispersed. Ringo helped him up.

“What the hell?” said Bobby.

“They thought you were about to do something.”

“Do what?”

“Hit her.”

“I'd never hit a pretty girl.”

Bobby grabbed his bag and started walking down the sidewalk. Ringo caught up with him and asked if he was all right.

“Which way is the ocean?” Bobby asked. “I'm freezing out here.”

“Do you want a ride?”

“Can you take me to Nora's house? It's around here somewhere.”

As they turned and walked past the bar, one of Ringo's bandmates said, “What are you doing, man?”

“I'm giving him a ride.”

“Tell him to take a cab.”

“He bought us drinks all night.”

Ringo had somehow packed his drum kit into the trunk of his Honda Civic. The trunk didn't close all the way, but he had everything secured with bungee chord.

“I'm glad Nora flaked,” said Bobby, as they drove off. “I had a blast tonight. You guys are unbelievable. Where'd you get the wig?”

“It's not a wig.”

“Bullshit!”

“It's not. I swear.”

“Do you go to work like that?”

“I teach music. No one cares what I look like.”

“That's lucky.”

The avenues were washed out in an orange, syrupy light. It was like driving around inside a pharmacy bottle. All the houses looked the same. Bobby told Ringo to stop.

“I think this is it.”

He rang the bell several times. Inside a dog started to bark, which was a bad sign, because Nora didn't have a dog. He heard footsteps in the hall and the door opened. Behind the
metal security screen, an old woman in a bathrobe was looking at him.

“Who are you?” she said.

Bobby turned around and was glad to see Ringo still there, with the engine running. He ran down the steps and got back in the car.

“I thought that was it,” Bobby said. He tried calling her with Ringo's cell phone. She didn't answer. They drove around some more, but Bobby had no idea where to go. BART had stopped running and so, without any other choice, he asked Ringo if he would mind driving him downtown, so he could catch the Transbay bus.

“I took it once a few years ago,” said Bobby. “It was full of freaks.”

Ringo puffed out his ruddy cheeks and tapped a beat on his steering wheel. Finally, he offered to let Bobby crash on his couch.