Coleman looked at his own envelope. “Mine’s addressed to me, also.”
“I did that.”
“But when I open this, there’ll be no surprise.”
“You won’t remember,” said Serge.
“What’s this address, anyway?”
“You’ll find out after we drive back to Tampa.” Serge used the envelope to fan himself in the heat. “A lot of people will be surprised.”
Jim Davenport packed a fake-leather briefcase. “Sure feels good to be back on Triggerfish Lane.”
“It’s not like we had a choice,” said Martha. “We were upside down on the house.”
Jim shuffled papers into a file. “The economy hit everyone. We came out better than most.”
“I liked Davis Islands better.” Martha cradled a large mixing bowl and stirred. “This just doesn’t feel… as safe.”
Jim snapped the latches shut on his briefcase. “This neighborhood’s perfectly safe. Kids play in the street, neighbors know each other…”
Martha stopped stirring. “And remember what happened last time we lived here?”
“So there was a little crime.” Jim grabbed the handle of his attache. “We also had our problems on the island.”
Stirring again. “Where are you off to?”
“Work.”
“It’s one in the afternoon.”
“You know my job has odd hours.” He gave her a quick kiss. “I won’t be back for dinner.”
“I’ll cover a plate in the fridge.”
“Love you…”
Jim indeed worked strange hours. And it was true the Davenports had fared the economic downturn better than most. Those two facts went hand in hand. There are opportunities in even the worst economies. Jim had caught one.
He was a consultant.
His company was called Sunshine Solutions, and his specialty was everything. Didn’t matter the industry-manufacturing, hospitality, transportation-Jim got all the biggest accounts.
Not because he had broad experience. He actually knew squat about most of the accounts. In fact, he seemed like the most ill-suited person to offer any kind of advice whatsoever. Which is why he was perfect.
“You’re perfect,” said the executive who hired him after his interview. “Here’s your first account.”
“But I don’t know anything about hospital administration.”
“You don’t need to.”
“Then how am I supposed to consult?”
“You’re not,” said the exec. “We’re in the consulting business. We don’t consult.”
“What do we do?”
“Fire people. It’s what our clients pay us for. When heads need to roll, they want the ax in the hands of someone who doesn’t work in the building and nobody’s seen before.”
Jim sat puzzled. “Why?”
“Because fired people get pissed off. Some even start shooting. I’m sure you’ve seen the headlines.” The executive came around and sat casually against the front corner of his desk. “Who needs that kind of shit in their lives?”
“So I’m getting paid to have people shoot at me?”
The executive waved dismissively and walked back around his desk. “Probably never happen. Most of the shooters have to go home to get their guns. By the time they get back, you’ll at least be able to make it to the parking lot, maybe the highway, if you’re lucky.”
“Sounds dangerous, especially if they realize I know nothing about their business and have no legitimate basis to fire them.”
“Oh, they’ll definitely realize that. It’s part of the plan.”
“Plan?”
“Most of the firings are unjust anyway, merely to dazzle Wall Street by cutting operating costs in the portfolio and making top management rich from stock options. So if these employees are given walking papers by some consultant who wouldn’t last a day in their mail room, it shifts blame for the injustice-and the direction of the gun barrel.”
“But why me?”
“Because you’re non-confrontational.” The executive opened a file and removed a computer scan sheet with little ovals filled in with a number-two pencil. “The psychological test when you applied.” He leaned back in his desk chair and held the sheet toward a ceiling light. “In all our years, we’ve never seen anyone score so high in conflict avoidance.”
“I don’t think I agree with what this company-”
“You’re wrong!”
“Okay…”
“That’s the spirit.”
So Jim hopscotched from Clearwater to St. Petersburg to Sarasota, firing people and apologizing that it was the wrong thing to do. Then the economy picked up, and the demand to fire people dropped, so his consulting company hired another consulting company, which fired Jim.
A decade passed. The economy tanked again. Jim was back in business.
On this particular day in December, Jim took Interstate 4 out to a distribution warehouse in Lakeland, just east of Tampa.
The company gave Jim a temporary office close to the parking lot.
A knock on the door.
Jim waved the person in through the glass. The employee stuck his head inside. “They told me to see you?”
Jim gestured with an upturned palm. “Have a seat.” He faced the employee with an expression like his dog had died. “I’m afraid I have some bad news…”
Five minutes later:
“You’re firing me a week before Christmas!”
“I know.” Jim looked down at the desk. “It’s very wrong.”
“You don’t know shit about this business, do you?”
“Not really.”
“Then how is this fair?”
“It’s not.”
“I’ll bet your name isn’t even Jensen Beach. They’re keeping your actual name a secret to protect you from retaliation.”
“You’re right.”
“Well, I’m going to find out what it really is!” The employee got up and went to the door. “How do you sleep at night, motherfucker?”
The door slammed.
Jim hopped up, grabbed his briefcase, and walked swiftly to where a security guard was holding open a side door to the parking lot. “We moved your car closer. Hurry…”
Jim half walked, half trotted to his car. He stuck a key in the door.
From behind: “There you are!”
Jim spun around…
Spreading misery day in, day out wasn’t Jim’s cup of tea, money or not. He would have quit long ago, except he received a second set of duties. Because all the firings were simply window dressing to impress Wall Street, many of the companies became severely understaffed and unable to meet quarterly projections. Wall Street wasn’t impressed.
His consulting company needed headhunters. They called Jim in. He knew just where to look for new employees: the totally qualified old ones he had just fired.
His bosses were bowled over. “Where are you finding all these great prospects? Our clients are thrilled!”
They gave him a promotion and a company car.
It was the same car that Jim now stood next to in the parking lot of a Lakeland distribution warehouse as a husky man charged toward him. Jim hurried with the keys, but his hands were shaking too badly. The man reached Jim and seized him with both arms in a bear hug, lifting him off the ground.
“Oh, thank you! Thank you! Thank you! I haven’t been able to find a job in months, and now I get one just before Christmas! My children will have presents! It’s all because of you!”
With all the firing and hiring, there wasn’t much middle emotional ground in Jim’s line. All mountain peaks and mine shafts. On average, his work mood was indifferent. He was very happy.
But that was Jim. Counting his blessings. And overthinking the worst-case scenario.
As the man had asked, how did he sleep at night? Two eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Then the digital alarm clock with green numbers: 2:04, 2:44, 3:19. Perspiration. Aware of every heartbeat. Running checklists of family precautions through his mind. To look at Jim was, well, to look at anyone else on the street. Non-muscular, a little on the thin side. The kind of person people can’t identify to police. “He was just average.” “Anything else?” “Seemed the quiet type, like he could be pushed around.”