The Assistants (18 page)

I
WENT TO MEET
Margie because there's just no negotiating with a mouth-breather, and because Margie Fischer was partly responsible for this mess to begin with. If she hadn't blackmailed us into helping Lily, Emily and I would have stopped (I'm pretty sure we most likely would have probably stopped) fudging expenses before anyone noticed a thing.

Anyway, finding the statue of the giant sled dog took longer than I'd anticipated, but when I did, I wasn't sure how I could have missed it. Margie was sitting on top of the heroic bronze husky, straddling it like a horse.

She disembarked at the sight of me. “I'm getting a windburn out here,” she said. “Where the heck have you been?”

“I'm sorry, I got lost. I'm sorry.” I apologized more than necessary considering Central Park was literally a maze. We sat on the rock landing beneath the statue.

“Emily got arrested,” I said.

“Did you think me asking you here had nothing to do with that?” Margie was sweating gratuitously in spite of the cool evening air. Her short legs didn't reach the ground from the landing, so they just hung suspended, like two khaki'd hams.

I let my eyes wander in the direction of the prehistoric boulder where Kevin and I used to have lunch and I imagined I could still see us there now, laughing and eating, and him not hating my guts.

Margie tried to follow my line of vision, like she suspected I might have been followed, and it struck me how amusing it was, that this Humpty Dumpty of a woman was one of the few people on the planet Robert Barlow actually feared.

I'd managed to avoid her since our last, Rollerblade-themed encounter—she'd said she wanted to talk about the site, and I did not want to talk about the site—yet now here we were back in Central Park, together again, talking.

“I'll get right to the point.” Margie smacked her palms together in a way that startled me. “I asked you here to give you something. Something that'll save your pretty little asses from this pickle you've gotten yourselves into.”

She heaved herself back up to a standing position, wiped the dirt off the seat of her khakis, and reached for a knapsack she'd stuffed behind the bronze dog's posterior. It was the kind of knapsack you see high school kids wearing, JanSport or whatever, and there was a button pinned to its front that read
If You're Not Outraged You're Not Paying Attention
. Beside that was another button, a close-up of Dolly Parton's face from her
Best Little Whorehouse in Texas
era, or maybe
Nine to Five
.

Margie unzipped her fantastic knapsack and pulled out a thick manila envelope, which she tossed onto the landing beside me.

“There you have it,” she said. “The answer to your problems, right there in black and white.”

“You'll forgive me if I find that hard to believe,” I said, ignoring the envelope.

“You don't even know what's in there.”

“Whatever it is, I'm pretty sure it's not going to solve all my problems.”

“Right, I forgot. You've been brainwashed like all the men in that sausage-fest of an office into thinking Robert's the second coming. That he's just smarter than everyone else. What a load of BS.” Margie wiped her forehead sweat back onto her slicked ponytail and scanned the area for anyone in earshot, then lowered herself back down to a sitting position beside me on the landing.

“You're probably too young to remember this,” she said. “But twenty years back or so there was a major dustup when this big Swiss bank entered into a deferred prosecution agreement—” She paused. “Do you know what that means,
deferred prosecution agreement
? Of course you don't. Basically, this bank was charged with conspiring to defraud the United States by impeding the IRS. They were helping people open accounts using sham identities.”

“Um,” I said, raising my hand Lily Madsen style, “what?”

“Okay, try to stay with me here, buttercup.” Margie slowed her explanation down to a
Junior Scholastic
classroom-magazine comprehension level. “This Swiss bank was helping businessmen avoid paying their taxes. Then they got caught. So to save themselves, they made a deal to give up the identities of their shadiest clients—
the ones with undeclared accounts, doing cross-border business. You see where I'm going with this?”

I did, but I stopped Margie there. Didn't we already have this conversation on day one at Michael's?

“It's no secret that Robert has offshore accounts,” I said. “But they're all perfectly legal. He has an army of people making sure of that, starting with Glen Wiles.”

“Yes,” Margie said. “He does. Now. Because of this.” She nudged the envelope closer to me. “This was an early-career slipup, a rookie mistake, and that's what makes it so special.”

Margie scanned the surrounding area again. “When this bank got in trouble, they threw client confidentiality right out the window. They handed over a list to the US government and all the documentation needed to prove that these individuals had crossed that fine line of legality, of tax evasion versus tax avoidance. Do you understand what I'm telling you, Tina? It was beyond a shadow of doubt that the people on this list had filed false tax returns that omitted the income earned on their Swiss bank accounts, that they failed to disclose the existence of those accounts to the IRS. There were records, Tina, records.” She picked up the envelope, shook it at me, and threw it back down. “This might not sound like much to you, but at the time it was a milestone. The newspaper headlines were practically written in lights, because the good people of America needed this so badly back then. Hardworking, law-abiding taxpayers who always paid their fair share needed to know that those who didn't would pay the price. So the slimeballs on that list? They all got indicted; many of them went to prison. But here's the kicker. Guess whose name wasn't on the list?”

I looked down at the incriminating envelope, then back at Margie, and nodded.

“No,” Margie said. “I want to hear you guess, Tina.”

Now I was the one checking the surrounding area for anyone within earshot.

“Robert's?” I whispered.

“Robert's.” Margie folded her thick hands in her lap and smiled. “Because even among the slimeballs, Robert is the slimiest. His name and account information was surprisingly—shockingly!—not on that list. But it should have been. And right here is the proof.”

I remained dubious.

Margie crossed her arms over her chest and leaned slightly backward to better gauge my response. “What? You think I'm BS-ing you?”

“No, but—”

“But what then?”

I wanted to believe what Margie was telling me, but could Robert really have messed up so badly? He was Robert.

I shrugged. “This was twenty years ago. Does it even matter anymore?”

“Oh, it matters,” Margie snapped back. “Do you know how many people have devoted their careers to trying to nail Robert Barlow on tax evasion? There are men and women in the SEC and the DOJ who would sacrifice their firstborn sons for these documents.”

“Then why haven't you done anything with them before?”

“Because there's a reason no one's ever been able to catch Robert, Tina, come on!” The volume of Margie's voice increased
exponentially with her frustration. “You know how he owns everyone. I was scared it would blow up in my face if I went after him. Besides, I was waiting for the right moment. And it just arrived. Slow and steady wins the race, Tina. It always does.”

She pulled a thumb drive from deep inside her khaki pants pocket and tossed it on top of the envelope. “Digital or hard copy, take your pick. Either way, Emily is as good as free.”

I stared down at both but still wouldn't touch either. “So you want me to blackmail him?”

“You catch on real quick.”

“I can't blackmail Robert.”

“Why the hell not?”

“How do you even have all that?” I pointed accusingly at the forbidden hard- and soft-copy evidence sitting between us.

“I'm glad you asked, because you of all people can appreciate this.” Margie elbowed me in the arm. “I was only an assistant at the time; nobody was paying any attention to anything I was doing. They assumed I didn't understand anything.”

I could certainly appreciate that. So could Emily.

“Mind you, I wouldn't hand this off to just anyone,” Margie said. “But to be honest, I feel a little guilty for what happened to you girls. I feel a little responsible.”

“It wasn't your fault,” I said. “Things got out of hand.”

Margie chuckled and shook her head. “Yeah. You can say that again. Even I wouldn't have taken it this far. That took serious guts, man, I'm talking real cojones.” Her face had a sweetness to it that I'd refused to acknowledge earlier. “
Cojones
,” she said. “That's urban slang for ‘big balls.'”

“Yes,” I said. “I know.”

She chuckled again. Margie had the body build of a linebacker and the social skills of a construction worker, but underneath all that was a big soft sweetie pie. A heavy-beating heart.

“No hard feelings?” she said.

“None.” Finally, I picked up the envelope and thumb drive, and held them both in my lap. It was weird to realize it, but I really didn't have any ill will toward Margie. I was sort of glad she'd threatened and scared the hell out of Emily and me that day at Michael's. If she hadn't, there'd have been no website—and that was real. It was honest.

If someone had told me a year ago that I'd be sitting in Central Park with Margie Fischer thinking these thoughts, not feeling entirely sorry for what we'd done, I would have been sure they'd consumed ayahuasca. But it was the truth. What we'd accomplished with the site meant that much to me.

“Now, remember,” Margie said, “Robert has a lot more to lose than you do. And for what he's done, he could go to jail for a long time, maybe even longer than Emily. He'd have to be crazy not to cut you a deal.”

I shoved the envelope and thumb drive into my messenger bag. “I appreciate this,” I said. “But I'm still not sure if I could bring myself to blackmail Robert. He did spare me, you know?”

“Your daddy issues baffle me.” Margie checked her black Casio calculator watch from 1989 and climbed up to a standing position. “But I suppose it's your call.”

She wiggled each of her arms into the straps of her now-empty knapsack. “I will say one thing, though. I'm proud of you girls. I was so pleasantly wrong about you.”

She nuzzled the underside of the bronze husky's snout before leaving me alone with him.

—

B
ACK HOME
, I ordered delivery from Pies 'n' Thighs because, frankly, I needed all the comfort a greasy fried-chicken dinner could provide.

I used to be so good at eating alone—truly, it was perhaps my best skill. But tonight the apartment felt mortally empty, and it was really getting to me. Gone were Emily's shrouded insults and sarcastic jibes at my every fashion choice and facial feature, gone were her Jimmy Choos left in the middle of the floor for me to trip over and the drawers she left open for me to slam into. I missed her. I had to dip my chicken leg into my macaroni and cheese just to keep myself from crying into it.

I asked myself: could I blackmail Robert to rescue Emily?

This was
Robert
. He was the first man to give me a shot, to take a chance on me. There were worse jobs out there than a full-time position at the Titan Corporation. It wasn't his fault I didn't have the drive to angle my way into a better job title in six years. Robert had treated me with nothing but respect for all the years I'd worked for him; he'd never said an unkind word to me. Which was more than most assistants could say about their bosses. The man taught me how to shoot a gun, for heaven's sake. Plus, I just liked him, plain and simple.
And you can't beat that with a stick.

But Emily was Emily. Sure, she could be a real pain, and if anyone actually deserved to go to jail for what had occurred, it was probably her. But truthfully, when you looked at the big picture,
the amount of money Titan lost to us was so minuscule compared to what it had—to what Robert had.

And this new development was no minor detail. Robert was technically, beyond the shadow of a doubt, guilty of criminal activity. Just like Emily was. Just like I was.

Pot calling the kettle black?
Maybe. We were all blackened with guilt.

I
T WAS NINE A
.
M
. the next day, Thursday, and Emily could have been anywhere. She could have been carted off to Rikers Island or the Tombs; I had no idea. But I knew exactly where to find Robert. Like I said, it was nine a.m. on a Thursday morning—he was at the rich people's gym on East Fifty-Fifth.

So that's where I went.

Luckily, the desk clerk at the rich people's gym and I had a three-year-long phone relationship—scheduling workouts for Robert, canceling training sessions for Robert, reserving machines for Robert. Her name was Kimberly and she looked exactly like she sounded. Effervescent, always. Tan. Blond. Pretty, if you like that kind of thing.

I marched right up to her and introduced myself.

“We finally meet in person!” she said with the overzealousness
of someone required to sit in one place all day while other people got exercise.

She could have passed for nineteen, but I'd have put money on her already having a bachelor's degree in one of the fine arts.

“I need to speak to Robert right away,” I said. “It's a private matter. An emergency.”

She didn't hesitate. “You go on in, honey. I hope it's nothing too serious!”

That's how easy it was to cross the threshold of the gym Madonna sometimes twerked out at.

I'd always wondered what the inside of this gym might look like. Would the equipment be constructed of pure gold? Would the air not contain that sweaty-foot undertone of other gyms? Would there be a selection of muscular Oompa Loompas you could hire to do the actual exercising while you enjoyed a manicure and sipped an organic vegetable juice?

I scanned the beautifully sunlit space, noticing how cushiony the matted floor was beneath my rubber-soled Converse One Stars. The gym was mostly empty—only a handful of people in the whole city could afford a membership there—so I had no problem locating Robert. He was climbing in place on an elliptical machine like it was Machu Picchu, wearing gray sweats, a black T-shirt, and pristine white sneakers.

It sort of melted my heart to see him this way. Sweatpants could deteriorate a man's dignity like that. It was like seeing someone with their fly open or a fleck of spinach in their teeth—it somehow raised your affection for them alongside your pity.

I held Margie's envelope close to my hip, concealed securely in my messenger bag, but seeing Robert in the flesh only confirmed
what I already knew: I couldn't use the documents against him. I wouldn't expect anyone to understand this. Unless you've been the assistant to a great man—or even a man who's not so great, but was great to you—it's difficult to comprehend the sacred relationship between bosses and assistants.

Robert had only fired me, while Emily ended up behind bars—this was the sacredness of our relationship at work. So I couldn't turn up now and blackmail him. There was etiquette to be observed, and Robert was big on etiquette.

If he would just hear me out, allow me to explain, I knew we could work out a compromise. Robert was a pragmatist above all else. He didn't want to deal with the messy public fallout of a rogue Titan employee. The negative PR alone made it worth his while to end this briskly and quietly. And he never even needed to know the documents in my bag existed.

I padded across the cushiony matted floor toward him, but he was so focused on the window, on a distant point on the horizon, that he didn't notice me.

Rather than startle him, I mounted the unused elliptical beside his and started climbing.

I waited a few seconds and then said, “Hi, Robert.”

He turned to me with a neutral expression at first, and then he looked aghast. “How did you get in here?”

He stopped climbing, looked left, then right.

“I wanted to say thank you,” I said, knowing that would calm him and keep him from calling out for security. “In person. For sparing me.”

Robert turned his head forward, pretending I was no longer there, and resumed climbing.

“And I wanted to explain a few things,” I said.

This was the hardest thing I'd ever had to do. I stood still on my climber to conserve my energy.

“Emily doesn't deserve to be in jail,” I said. “She really doesn't. I take full responsibility for what happened, even though I swear to you it was all sort of an accident.”

Robert refused to acknowledge me. I watched a sweat tear run down from his dark and sopping sideburn.

“What happened wasn't Emily's fault,” I continued. “She shouldn't be the one who gets punished.”

“You want me to send you to prison instead of her?” He still wouldn't look at me, but at least I'd gotten him talking.

“Well, no, not particularly,” I said. “Not if we can avoid that as a resolution.”

Robert's silhouette smirked.

“Tina.” There. He finally turned to face me. He paused his climbing and gripped the elliptical's handlebars tight. “You couldn't have been responsible for that scheme. I know that. She's the one who signed every one of those false expense reports. I don't know why you're trying to cover for her. Maybe you like her a little too much? If that's it, I don't want to hear about it.”

He reached for the towel draped over the machine's frame and dried off his face. “I know you well enough to know you don't have it in you to be the mastermind behind anything. I can only imagine how she bullied you.”

This surprised me.

“So wait,” I said. “You went after Emily and not me because you think she's smarter than I am?”

Robert squinted his eyes to avoid responding right away.

I could see that's what he meant but he didn't want to be insulting.

“I've seen her,” he said. “I'm aware of who she is. She went to Harvard, you know.”

Sweet Jesus.

“She can be very persuasive,” he went on. “You're not the only one she's managed to trick.”

Robert was explaining what an excellent con artist Emily was, but more than that, he was explaining how ineffectual
I
was, how incapable. How lost and aimless.

He hadn't seen me in action these past months, being the boss and, when necessary, being the bitch. He didn't know that I used to be Tina Fontana, a thirty-year-old assistant making forty thousand dollars a year with zero options of upward mobility—but that I wasn't anymore.

I dismounted my elliptical. “So you think I'm just some gullible girl who got exploited by the sneaky Harvard grad?”

I could feel the girth of Margie's fat envelope in my messenger bag.

Robert laughed. He
laughed
. The bastard.

And then the words just came out. “How do you know I didn't come here to threaten you?” I said. “To blackmail you?”

“Tina, I recognize you've been through a lot, so I'm going to excuse you your tone, but I'm beginning to lose my patience, so I suggest you move along now.”

Little girl. He didn't say,
Move along now, little girl
, but that's what he meant.

“Well, I hate to break it to you, Robert.” I put my hands on my hips. “But I came here to tell you that I've got it all on paper. And
on disk. Hard copy or digital, which do you think the Feds would prefer?”

Robert stepped off his machine and we stood face-to-face—well, as close as we could get to face-to-face considering our height difference. “Now what in the hell are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about the dustup twenty years ago, when that big Swiss bank entered into a deferred prosecution agreement—” I paused, astonished by myself and my recall ability. “You remember that, don't you? That list of tax evaders you were supposed to be on? I've got the proof you should have been on that list.”

Robert was unsuccessfully trying to hide his panting. This man whose daily prescription medications I knew by heart, whose daughters' birthday presents I always picked out, whose salads I laced with quinoa because of its phytonutrient benefits.

“I know,” I said. “You were younger back then, less wise. Maybe it was the first and only time you screwed up, made a bad decision, drifted just slightly over the line. Believe me, I get it.”

Robert put his hands on his hips, like I had mine, and bored his eyes into my eyes. He brought his body in so close that I thought he might literally be sniffing me out, like a lion would do before pouncing.

I stood very still. There was no way I was going to be the first to break eye contact this time.

“You don't have shit,” he said finally.

I was impressed by how he said it. His tone. He was no longer speaking to me as his assistant, or even as a woman. But as an unexpected adversary.

“I promise you, Robert, I am not bluffing. Let Emily go and you won't have to find out for sure.”

He remained stunned for a few seconds and then laughed again. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“I am not kidding you,” I said, and turned to go, praying my shaky legs wouldn't give out on me.

“Who do you think you are,” he said to my back, “coming in here and making demands like this?”

Who did I think I was?

I stopped, considered turning back around, but then thought better of it. Let him think I was bluffing.

“Go ahead and underestimate me some more,” I said while walking away. “I dare you.”