Читать книгу Indiscretion - M.G. Crisci - Страница 6

Enter the perennially nosy Alexandria Plummet.

Alexandria Plummet was the whole package: smart, sexy, street-savvy, and insecure.

She also knew information was king. Before Pete’s death, the rumor was she had made a point of befriending Jolene, using the trials and tribulations of being a single mom as their common bond. Much to her chagrin, after Pete died and Jolene fled, Alexandria’s flow of insider information vaporized.

For reasons unknown to me at the time, she had decided I was going to be her new source of insider information. First, she began to casually drop by my office to chit-chat, beginning each conversation with a disarming “Hey, you.” Before long, I noticed we were playing twenty questions. “As a single mom, should I be looking elsewhere? Who’s going to own the company? Are commission rates going to be reduced?”

“Why do you think I know the answers to those questions?” I responded.

Alexandria crossed her legs, smiled her mischievous smile, stared into my light blue eyes with her bright blue ones, and said, “As a member of the buy-out group, I want you to remember that Mommy deserves her fair share. I want to be treated as an equal, not just as a woman.”

“What buy-out group?”

“Mommy’s not stupid; I can read between the lines. Dawson told me Pete’s death could be a huge income opportunity.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Dawson told me to schmooze my top producers into believing that closing a few new cases a month would be the best tribute we could give to Pete. As you can see from my production numbers, the guilt pitch is working like a charm.”

As we talked, three things became clear:

1 She was confident that the eight male account managers always received higher commissions than the two females.

1 She was financially insatiable. Whatever she earned was never enough.

1 She drove my testosterone level through the roof when she crossed her legs and revealed her shapely thighs.

“Gotta get going,” she said. ”Have a producer in town for dinner.”

I had one last question. “Who’s the head of your buy-out rumor committee, in case we need some professional advice?”

Alexandria smiled coyly. “No investigative reporter worth their salt reveals sources.”

~

Enter brash, razor-sharp Courtney Street.

Courtney and I were like the original odd couple. When I arrived at AFA, she was an eighteen-year-old part-time clerk who was going to NYU full time. She was also Julia Maroney’s best friend. I remember Pete laughing, “It’s your turn in the box. Figure out what to do with her. She’s pissed off everybody else in the company, but she’s super smart.” I spent about thirty days doing Courtney trial and error. Creative writing, marketing, accounts receivable, recruitment telemarketing, etc. There were peaks of excellence followed by valleys of highly vocal dissatisfaction – for Courtney and for her immediate supervisor.

Like Pete, I enjoyed her spunk and respected her intelligence. Hence, an unorthodox solution — I’d make Courtney my executive assistant! People thought I was completely nuts. Craft laughed, “ Buddy, can’t wait to see this rodeo. It will be like trying to tame a wild stallion.”

When I informed Courtney of my decision, she went bonkers, “Me, work for you! Not a chance. You’re too demanding. Too undisciplined. You try to do too many things at once. You…”

I asked her to shut up for a moment so that I could explain her options. I told her she could work for me and get a forty percent raise, or she would get fired. She decided to “try” option number one. To everyone’s surprise, she became my loyal eyes and ears. Lauren became her second mom, polishing her rough edges and sharing my little quirks, woman-to-woman, providing Courtney with insights on how to work most effectively with me while bonding the two of them together forever. “Men,” I overheard Courtney commiserating with Lauren one afternoon. “It doesn’t matter what age. They need to be led around by the nose.”

Whenever Alexandria “accidentally” happened by, Courtney smelled the testosterone percolating and made it abundantly clear she didn’t approve. At the five-minute mark, Courtney would storm through the doorway brusquely. “Time’s up! You’ve got your next meeting with so and so…. right now!” Then Courtney would stare at Alexandria until she left.

~

As I was to learn, Alexandria had a patented information collection and distribution system. When she felt her questions had unearthed worthy tidbits, she’d pass them on to her two closest cronies, Sam Cameron and Bill Johnson. They, in turn, would redistribute their version of what they heard to the rest of the account managers, who would then create their own versions of the truth.

In the end, what Alexandria initially understood and passed on bore little resemblance to the rumors that would resurface in my office days later. It was like the children’s game of “telephone.” They were so obvious that it was comical. My biggest concern, however, was not the rumor-mongering. In many ways, that was harmless, mainly since I was able to manage the content that went into the Alexandria newswire. The more significant concern was the wasted time that could have been put to more productive use.

Initially, I thought Alexandria and her trusted communications team were odd bedfellows. Cameron, a late-sixties conservative retired insurance trainer, collected a full-time paycheck while spending half his time enhancing digital photographs with Adobe Photoshop. Johnson, Alexandria's arrogant mid-fifties direct supervisor, was an average coach with a hushed past — two broken marriages laced with spousal abuse, a touch of alcoholism, and some unstated drug rehabilitation. As time went on, I would learn they had more in common with Alexandria than I initially imagined.

~

After Pete’s death, I made it my business to stop by Julia Maroney’s office every day, ostensibly to check on some business issues. But she and I knew it was about more than that. From time to time, we’d close the door and shed a few tears together.

One day, she seemed noticeably upset. I tried to cheer her up. “Young lady, you keep frowning like that and I’ll have to buy you some Estée Lauder night wrinkle repair.”

“Maybe there’s a reason,” frowned Julia. “This battle with my stepmother is driving me crazy. You know, she emptied Dad’s bank accounts. Mom didn’t even get her monthly child support and alimony payments this past month. I’ve been trying to help,” she sighed. And then, all at once, she burst out, “I hate that woman!”

“Julia, you’ve got to stay calm. Things have a way of working out. How can I help?”

As I leaned back in the chair, Craft wandered in. He saw the tears in Julia’s eyes. “Is this guy making you cry?”

She smiled. “Uncle Dawson, Martin and I were just talking about the situation.”

He looked at me pensively. “No problem; just don’t forget about the agreement.”

She nodded.

“Gotta go,” he said.

“Martin,” said Julia, “I hope you realize I have no problem working for you. Dad wanted that anyway.”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I’m sorry; I should have realized. We’re all under the same gag order until the negotiations are completed. Sorry.”

I didn’t let on, but I had no idea what the hell was going on. But my absence of a full deck of cards was starting to become apparent. The partners were trying to work a deal to buy the company without me, then maybe dribble out bits and pieces via stock options to the peons, like me.

I’d been screwed before, and now AFA was starting to feel like Martin Ruff, Wall Street Redux.