Morgan squeezed the cell phone-thought he’d felt it vibrate.
“Mr. Isaacs?”
Morgan turned around to see where the voice came from.
Standing directly behind him, almost inappropriately close, was a tall, well-built man with close-cropped blond hair. He had on a pair of rimless Cartier sunglasses, must have run at least five hundred bucks. Not too shabby. His gray suit was stretched over a lean frame, and Morgan could tell the guy had enough strength in those biceps to crush a tin can.
Morgan didn’t blink. Never show weakness, never show admiration. He was never rude, but on a job interview you wanted to appear confident, not too eager. Like they would be lucky to have you work for them.
“And you are…Chester?” Morgan said.
The man smiled and took off his sunglasses, folding them and tucking the pair into his breast pocket. He held out his hand. “Nice to meet you. Thanks for coming on such short notice.”
“No biggie,” Morgan said. “Just had to reschedule a few things, that’s all.”
“Really? Such as what?”
Morgan stammered, “I, uh, meetings, you know.
Banks. A bank.”
“Oh, well I hope the bank understood,” Chester said with complete sincerity. If this guy realized Morgan was full of shit, he wasn’t letting on. “Let’s walk.”
Morgan followed Chester as he strolled down Fifth
Avenue. He matched the man step for step, tried to keep his stride the same length but damn, the man had long legs. Instead Morgan shortened his paces and walked faster. It was two blocks before Chester spoke again.
“How’s the job hunt going?” he said.
“It is what it is. There’s always room for good workers,
I figure I’ll take a little time, weigh my options and see what the best fit is for me.”
“Really,” Chester said, his voice either distant or disbelieving. “Any good leads? Anything coming down the pike?”
“Always something coming down,” Morgan replied.
“Just a matter of who makes me the most attractive offer.”
“I understand that,” Chester said. “Hold on a second.”
Chester stopped at a vending cart and ordered a hot dog. He paid, then slathered ketchup, mustard and relish on it. He wolfed the dog down in three bites, still standing at the cart, then wiped his lips with a napkin and continued walking.
“Sorry, did you want one?”
“S’okay,” Morgan said. “I just had breakfast an hour ago.”
“Really,” Chester said softly.
Morgan silently cursed himself. It was nearly twelvethirty. The fact that he had a late breakfast gave away that Morgan had woken up late. If he’d woken up late, he had nothing better to do. No job, no interview.
Morgan could feel himself falling behind, and hoped
Chester would let it slide.
“Your friend Ken spoke highly of you,” Chester said.
“It really is a shame. Always the young, talented ones who go before their time.”
“I know what you mean,” Morgan said. The truth was,
Ken was only a half-decent worker. A man with some bad habits and with maybe a quarter of the brainpower
Morgan possessed. He didn’t say any of this to Chester, of course, but if this guy spoke so highly of Ken Tsang he’d be simply blown away by Morgan Isaacs.
If it took this little to impress Chester, Morgan could probably have his job in less than five years.
“I know I mentioned this to you before,” Chester continued, “but Kenneth did some work for our firm. He was a good man, a good soldier, and recommended you as someone who could do the same kind of work if, well, if you ever decided to pursue other opportunities.”
“What kind of work did Ken do for you?” Morgan said. “Whatever it was, modesty aside, sir, I guarantee
Ken didn’t know the half of what I’m capable of.”
“Is that right?” Chester said, eyebrow raised.
“Yes, sir.”
Chester nodded. He seemed pleased.
“I don’t know what kind of money you were making at your last job,” Chester said, “but I hope you’ll find that if you do decide to work for us, the pay will be commensurate with what you’d expect.”
Morgan was slightly surprised, considering this guy was bringing up salary before even discussing the job. It must be either crap work or a crappy salary, and Chester probably figured he wouldn’t waste any time, that if
Morgan didn’t like the payoff, he’d walk away.
“What kind of figures are we talking about?” Morgan said.
“Well, we would have to start you out at the bottom of the ladder. I’m sure you understand. So many people competing for so few jobs these days. If you’re not comfortable with that, I can move on. Ken did give me a few other names.”
Morgan felt his neck grow hot under his collar.
“What kind of money are we talking about?”
Chester stopped walking. He reached inside his coat, pulled out a ballpoint pen. Then he walked over to a garbage can on the corner, tore a page off a loose newspaper. He scribbled something on the paper, then held it out for Morgan to see.
Morgan felt his stomach lurch, felt his hands go cold.
Chester crumpled the scrap up and threw it back into the trash, then he kept walking. Morgan was unable to move for a moment, before snapping out of it and jogging to catch up.
This couldn’t be right. Nobody started at the bottom of any company and made that much money.
Chester was walking faster. Morgan’s short legs couldn’t keep up, so he found himself half walking, half jogging to keep alongside the man.
“If you’re interested,” Chester said, “you’ll be downstairs outside of your apartment tomorrow at 1:00 p.m.
You’ll be dressed just like you are now. Let me make this clear. You do not have the job. Not yet. If you tell anybody about the offer, or if you’re one second late, you’ll never see me again.”
“I’ll be there,” Morgan gasped.
“Good,” Chester said. The man stopped walking. Out of nowhere, a black Lincoln Town Car pulled up alongside them. Chester walked over, opened the door and climbed in.
“Wait!” Morgan said. “Don’t you need to know where my apartment is?”
Morgan’s words faded into the roar of the exhaust as
Chester’s car sped away, leaving the young man confused, excited and ready.
10
When we arrived back at the Gazette, I followed Jack to his desk. Yet as we rounded the corner, I saw Tony Valentine approaching. When Tony saw me his face lit up.
Actually I couldn’t tell if his face lit up, considering there was enough self-tanner on there to make George Hamilton look pale, and his face was pumped with enough Botox to iron out a shar-pei. But he did have a big smile on his face, and his gait picked up when he saw me coming.
“Henry!” Tony exclaimed, jogging up and placing his arm around me. “I’ve been looking for you. Where’ve you been all morning?”
“Chasing a story,” I said. “Tony, have you met Jack
O’Donnell?”
Tony shook his head, but took Jack’s hand and did a neat little bow. “Not yet, but your reputation precedes you, Mr. O’Donnell. It’s a pleasure.”
“Pleasure’s all mine, Mr. Valentine,” Jack replied. His tone surprised me. As a hard news man, I didn’t think Jack would have much use for Tony Valentine. Tony had recently been brought on board at the Gazette to kickstart the paper’s flailing gossip pages, which had grown stale with coverage that revolved mainly around celebrities who stopped being famous before I was born. Tony was one of the top names in the gossip field-if you could call it that-and already his columns were among the most e-mailed on the Gazette Web site. He dressed like he was auditioning to be James Bond on a daily basis, and smiled like he was being paid to. We had nothing in common other than our employer, and I preferred to keep it that way.
“Henry,” Tony said. “Glad we ran into each other. Do