of the purchasing VP, the door banging open against the wall.
“Chuck here?”
“Excuse me?”
“Chuck. Two-thirty.” Gil sucked in a lungful of air. “Couldn’t be helped.”
“Excuse me?”
“Being late. The traffic …”
The secretary had a little turned-up nose. Not Angie, Chuck’s usual secretary, Gil realized, and let his words trail off. She sniffed the air. “You’re?”
“Gil Renard. R. G. Renard Fine Knives. Chuckie and Ihad a two-thirty meeting, should be there on your schedule, but like I said—”
She held up her hand, a stubby hand with bitten nails. “He’s not here.”
“Shit.”
“Begging your pardon?”
“He’s gone already?”
“That’s what I said.”
“What flight’s he on?” Gil said, a backup plan forming in his mind.
“Flight?”
“To Chicago. Unless he’s not going anymore?”
“He’s going,” the secretary said. “But not till tonight.”
Gil went closer to her desk, his backup plan already revising itself. “Then maybe I could catch him somewhere before he heads for the airport.”
“I don’t think so,” the secretary said. “He’s going straight there from the ball game.”
“From where?” He was leaning over her desk now, plan forgotten. His damp socks slipped down around his ankles. “From where did you say?”
She rolled her chair back a little. “The ball game. But he left you this note,” she said, holding up a sealed envelope.
He snatched it from her hand, tore it open.
Gil—
A supplier laid a couple of Sox tickets on me this morning. Not a big fan, but it is Opening Day, and why not be a hero to my kid? Tried to get hold of you. Sorry.
But this is probably as good a time as any to inform you that, due to the current economic climate, management has opted for a reconfiguration of our purchasing strategy. One upshot is that we won’t be renewing the Renard contract at this time.
Always interested in new product, of course, so keep in touch. Been good doing business with you.
Chuck
Gil read the note twice. The first time the noise in his head made him miss some of the details. Then he balled it in his hand and squeezed hard. The secretary was watching him, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “He didn’t draw a smiley face, did he?”
“What?”
“The previous assistant got him in the habit of putting a smiley face instead of
sincerely
. I keep telling him it’s not always appropriate.”
Gil tried to think of something stinging to say, but couldn’t. All he could think of were targets for the tight paper ball in his hand: Chuck’s window, the photograph of Chuck and his family on the wall, Chuck’s secretary’s hard little face. He dropped it on the carpet instead, like dog shit, and walked out.
Out. The irony had already hit him, but it hit him again. It hit him on the elevator, and in the lobby. And again when he got to the street:
he’s going straight there from the ball game
. Gil knew about irony; he went to the movies. He almost laughed out loud, might have done so if he hadn’t suddenly thought of something, a strange quote that he couldn’t place or understand:
They kill us for their sport
. Didn’t understand: but knew that only an idiot would laugh.
They kill us for their sport: he could fax that to Garrity, by way of explanation. Gil, standing on the sidewalk outside Everest and Co., was just beginning to think of how he would handle Garrity, when he noticed the tow truck on the other side of the street. It had already hooked a car, and, as he watched, it lifted the front end off the pavement with a jerk. A 325i, just like his. That was Gil’s first thought.
Then he was racing across the street, tearing off his tie.
“That’s my car,” he shouted at the tow-truck driver, through the rolled-up window of the cab. The driver, wearing headphones, didn’t hear. Gil banged hard on his door. The driver turned, startled, yanked off the headphones.
“That’s my car.”
The driver snapped down the
“Chuck here?”
“Excuse me?”
“Chuck. Two-thirty.” Gil sucked in a lungful of air. “Couldn’t be helped.”
“Excuse me?”
“Being late. The traffic …”
The secretary had a little turned-up nose. Not Angie, Chuck’s usual secretary, Gil realized, and let his words trail off. She sniffed the air. “You’re?”
“Gil Renard. R. G. Renard Fine Knives. Chuckie and Ihad a two-thirty meeting, should be there on your schedule, but like I said—”
She held up her hand, a stubby hand with bitten nails. “He’s not here.”
“Shit.”
“Begging your pardon?”
“He’s gone already?”
“That’s what I said.”
“What flight’s he on?” Gil said, a backup plan forming in his mind.
“Flight?”
“To Chicago. Unless he’s not going anymore?”
“He’s going,” the secretary said. “But not till tonight.”
Gil went closer to her desk, his backup plan already revising itself. “Then maybe I could catch him somewhere before he heads for the airport.”
“I don’t think so,” the secretary said. “He’s going straight there from the ball game.”
“From where?” He was leaning over her desk now, plan forgotten. His damp socks slipped down around his ankles. “From where did you say?”
She rolled her chair back a little. “The ball game. But he left you this note,” she said, holding up a sealed envelope.
He snatched it from her hand, tore it open.
Gil—
A supplier laid a couple of Sox tickets on me this morning. Not a big fan, but it is Opening Day, and why not be a hero to my kid? Tried to get hold of you. Sorry.
But this is probably as good a time as any to inform you that, due to the current economic climate, management has opted for a reconfiguration of our purchasing strategy. One upshot is that we won’t be renewing the Renard contract at this time.
Always interested in new product, of course, so keep in touch. Been good doing business with you.
Chuck
Gil read the note twice. The first time the noise in his head made him miss some of the details. Then he balled it in his hand and squeezed hard. The secretary was watching him, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “He didn’t draw a smiley face, did he?”
“What?”
“The previous assistant got him in the habit of putting a smiley face instead of
sincerely
. I keep telling him it’s not always appropriate.”
Gil tried to think of something stinging to say, but couldn’t. All he could think of were targets for the tight paper ball in his hand: Chuck’s window, the photograph of Chuck and his family on the wall, Chuck’s secretary’s hard little face. He dropped it on the carpet instead, like dog shit, and walked out.
Out. The irony had already hit him, but it hit him again. It hit him on the elevator, and in the lobby. And again when he got to the street:
he’s going straight there from the ball game
. Gil knew about irony; he went to the movies. He almost laughed out loud, might have done so if he hadn’t suddenly thought of something, a strange quote that he couldn’t place or understand:
They kill us for their sport
. Didn’t understand: but knew that only an idiot would laugh.
They kill us for their sport: he could fax that to Garrity, by way of explanation. Gil, standing on the sidewalk outside Everest and Co., was just beginning to think of how he would handle Garrity, when he noticed the tow truck on the other side of the street. It had already hooked a car, and, as he watched, it lifted the front end off the pavement with a jerk. A 325i, just like his. That was Gil’s first thought.
Then he was racing across the street, tearing off his tie.
“That’s my car,” he shouted at the tow-truck driver, through the rolled-up window of the cab. The driver, wearing headphones, didn’t hear. Gil banged hard on his door. The driver turned, startled, yanked off the headphones.
“That’s my car.”
The driver snapped down the
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