Линвуд Баркли - Elevator Pitch

“So where are you moving to?”

“Okay, so, you know at the job I had, I was doing all this survey stuff. Analytics, interpreting data, all that kind of thing.”

“Right. What marketing is all about.”

“No one makes a decision these days without looking at all the data. No one in business goes with just their gut.”

“Gut feelings are all I’ve ever had,” Barbara said. “I don’t understand any of this stuff you’re talking about.”

“It’s the way the world’s going,” Arla said. “I mean, even if you’re sure your own instincts are right, no one wants to make a move without data to support it.”

“And let me guess,” Barbara said. “Sometimes the data tells you what the people want, so that’s what you give them, even if, in your heart, that’s not what you want to do.”

Arla shrugged. “Pretty much. You find out what the people are hankering for and deliver it.” She shook her head. “God, who uses a word like ‘hankering’ anymore?”

Barbara chuckled.

Arla continued. “Anyway, you want to know if your message is getting out there, and if it is, if it’s reaching the target audience. All that stuff. It’s pretty fascinating. The company I just left, we were doing a lot of work for the entertainment industry. What movies people like and why, data from advance screenings. Funny thing is, even when you have a movie you think will be a hit, it can go out there and sink like a stone.”

“Sure,” Barbara said.

“But I was thinking, what if I could take those kinds of skills and apply them in a way that would have some more meaning? You know, instead of finding a way to make some airhead pop star even more popular, what if you could expose people to issues that matter, and make them care?”

“That actually sounds like a good thing,” Barbara said. “So who are you going to work for? Planned Parenthood? The ACLU? Save the Whales?”

“Not one of them,” Arla said. “But still, a place where I can do some good.”

“So, tell me,” her mother said.

“You promise you won’t get mad.”

Barbara sat back on the bench. Oh, no, she thought. She’s gone to the dark side. She’s working for Facebook.

The waiter delivered the ham and cheddar omelette, but Barbara didn’t even look at it. “Just tell me.”

“I got a job with the mayor’s office,” Arla said.

Barbara was too stunned to speak.

“Pretty cool, huh?”

Barbara found her voice and said, “ This mayor? The mayor of New York?”

Arla nodded and smiled. “I haven’t actually met him yet. I mean, maybe I never will. You can work for someone like that and never come face-to-face. You’re just one of the minions, right? But you never know.” She leaned across the table and whispered conspiratorially, “I hear rumors he’s thinking of going for a Senate seat, or maybe even something bigger than that. Imagine being on the ground floor if that happens.”

Clearly, Arla had not read Barbara’s latest column that put out that rumor. Barbara pushed her plate to one side and leaned in, their foreheads almost touching.

“I get it,” she said.

“Get what?” Arla said.

“It’s creative, I’ll grant you that.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Arla said, leaning back into her seat.

“Don’t be cute, Arla.”

“Honestly, I don’t know what you mean, Mother .”

“Did you actually plan it? Did you think, wouldn’t it be great if I could work for the man my mother’s been trying to get the goods on since he took office? The man is totally corrupt, you know. Always doing favors for his friends. Or did the mayor’s office seek you out?” Barbara suddenly smiled. “I could see it happening that way.”

“Not everything is about you.”

“Headley figures out who you are and offers you a job just to stick it to me. Were you headhunted? Maybe he figures if I know you’re working for him, I’ll back off. Or I’ll take him up on his offer.”

“What offer?”

“Never mind.”

“I saw the position advertised online,” Arla said. “And I applied. I went for an interview, and I got it. If you’re suggesting I was hired just to even some score with you, then thanks for the insult. I’m good at what I do. I got hired because I bring something to the table.”

“You went after it to spite me.”

“You’re not even hearing me anymore.”

“You wanted to rub my nose in it,” Barbara said.

Arla eyed her mother pitiably. “I’d have thought, being a writer and all, you could do better than a cliché like that.”

“Once they find out you’re my daughter, they’ll probably fire you.”

“Well, unless you’re planning to tell them, I should be fine.”

Arla’s last name was Silbert, as was Barbara’s. Matheson was actually Barbara’s middle name, which honored her mother’s side of the family. She’d chosen to write under it years earlier, so Arla wasn’t likely to be found out on name recognition alone.

“You know, it’d be nice, if just once, you could acknowledge that I can accomplish something on my own. Maybe even congratulate me.”

Barbara said nothing.

Arla sighed resignedly and looked at her watch. “Shit, I have to run. Don’t want to be late on my first day.” She flashed a smile as she slid out of the booth. “Thanks for the coffee. Always nice to catch up.”

She turned and walked out. Barbara watched as she reached the sidewalk, turned right, and walked past the window, heading south.

Barbara looked at the omelette. She was sorry she’d quit smoking years ago. She wished she had a butt to grind into it.

Jerry Bourque was at his desk. Lois Delgado sat across from him, drinking coffee from a paper cup.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“Kid’s sick,” she said. “Barfed her guts up first thing.”

Delgado had been married ten years to a firefighter named Albert. They had a seven-year-old daughter, Abigail. Abby for short.

“Al’s shift starts late, so with any luck I’ll be home before he leaves, and if not, we’ll get his mother to come over.”

“That’ll be nice,” he said.

She shot him a look across the two desks. “Don’t get me started.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Bullshit.” Delgado rolled her eyes. “She’s a snoop. She went into the medicine cabinet last time, looking around.”

“How do you know?” he asked.

“All the prescriptions, I had them all turned exactly halfway, so only the right side of the labels were exposed. Like, all you’d see of my name on the prescription is ‘gado.’ You know what I mean?”

“I get it.”

“So after she’s been there, I check, they’re all facing every which way. Pretty much in the same spot — she covered her tracks that much — but not sitting the way I left them. I got one of those mini-safes, like they have in the hotels? Put it in our bedroom closet. One day she says, she just happened to see it when she found Abby in there, wanting to try on my shoes. Oh, she says, I see you have a safe? What’s that for? It’s driving her crazy. Thing is, it’s the only place I can keep something where I know she won’t see it. Financial papers, stuff like that. I tell her it’s where I keep my gun.”

“She buying that?”

“She knows I already have a lockbox for it. Maybe I can get her thinking I’m building an arsenal. But she probably suspects.”

“Albert ever decides to have an affair, he hasn’t got a chance of getting away with it.”

“No kidding,” Delgado said. “I’ve told him, you mess around, I’ll kill you and I know how to cover my tracks.”