Jill Smolinski - The Next Thing on My List

‘ He does what his secretary tells him to?’

‘ For as long as I’ ve known him. She must know where the bodies are buried. So that may help you. On the other hand, all those angry commuters-it didn’ t bode well for the company. And this gas station manager threatening a lawsuit is a problem. I’ m sure they can ward him off, but it could get pricey. What I worry about’ -she paused to wipe her hands on a napkin-’ is that if it starts to get expensive, they’ ll panic. Then they’ ll want a scapegoat.’

‘ Baa-aaah,’ I said.

‘ I’ m not saying they’ ll come down on you-and you know I’ ll do what I can to defend you if they do.’

‘ I appreciate that.’

‘ Still, not a bad idea to update your resume.’

Chapter 13

W hen I got to work on Monday, Dr. Death was waiting for me at my cubicle entrance. I shouldn’ t have been surprised.

Martucci had warned me on our morning run that his friend Armando wasn’ t backing down. He was claiming he’ d lost ten thousand dollars and that his gas station’ s reputation had been irreparably besmirched. ‘ I didn’ t know he knew words that big,’ I’ d grumbled, to which Martucci had replied, ‘ He’ s full of shit-if anything, the guy stands to make money. All that publicity. But he’ ll still try to squeeze what he can out of us.’ Apparently, he’ d been particularly offended that we’ d wiped out his snack stand. So I’ d spent most of the weekend fretting, although my fingernail biting wasn’ t limited to the demise of my career. Deedee and I mowed our way through an ice cream the size of an army tank at Coldstones while discussing her options and, to my frustration, getting nowhere. She seemed resigned to giving up her future. By the time Monday rolled around, seeing Dr. Death first thing in the morning was par for the course.

He attempted a smile as I eased past him and asked him in. ‘ I hear you had quite the brouhaha,’ he said with a chuckle. When I looked at him uneasily in response, he cleared his throat and sat in my guest chair.

Too bad for you, I thought. If you’ re going to be the man who fires people, you don’ t get to make jokes. Dr. Death was in his late forties with a medium build, round, soulful eyes, and pancake ears. The overall effect was oddly gentle given his reputation; I hadn’ t been this close to him since the directors’ meeting.

Every muscle in my body held its breath. I’ d never been fired from a job before, but I’ d seen and done enough in my tenure here that I knew it could be brutal. The higher-ups were almost always escorted out immediately-I assume so they couldn’ t steal files or make disparaging phone calls. I hoped at least I’ d be granted a few weeks to get my résumé out there and, more important, continue drawing a paycheck. At my level, what harm could I do? Write a bad brochure? Dangle a participle?

‘ You’ re aware we’ ve received a letter from a lawyer representing a Mr. Armando Bomaritto.’

‘ I heard a rumor to that effect.’

‘ Care to tell me what happened last Thursday?’

Hmm. So he intended to draw blood slowly from the victim. I updated him on everything-from how I’ d planned the events, to the phone calls I’ d made to reporters, to the events of the day itself. ‘ It doesn’ t make sense,’ I admitted. ‘ I made sure everyone I talked to knew not to broadcast the locations.’

‘ No one spoke to reporters but you?’

‘ Just me.’

‘ Did anyone else have access to the list of reporters?’

‘ Lizbeth& she had me turn over a list of who I called at the end of every day.’ A thrill shot through me as soon as the words left my mouth. I’ ve watched plenty of detective shows in my day, and you don’ t have to be Perry Mason to figure out that what I said sounded incriminating. My mind whirled, trying to figure out a way to beef up Lizbeth’ s role. Oh, to look at Dr. Death, doe-eyed and demure, and say, ‘ I’ m sure Lizbeth wouldn’ t sabotage me, even though she was bitter and envious because Bigwood gave me the assignment, which, gosh, now that I say it out loud, sure sounds like quite the motive. But Dr. Death& may I call you Ivan?& do you really think she’ d do such a thing? Do you really believe she’ d call my reporter list and tell them to broadcast the secret locations?’ Tempting as it was, I simply said, ‘ She’ s my supervisor.’

I was going to be classy and leave it at that, but he pushed. ‘ Can you think of any reason your supervisor might follow up on your calls?’

There was no way to whine, ‘ She’ d do anything to screw me,’ without sounding as if I were the sort of person who’ d say such a thing. ‘ She wasn’ t happy with how things were going, if that’ s what you mean.’

His face told me he meant nothing. Dr. Death was a blank slate. ‘ Was there a contract with Mr. Bomaritto?’

‘ He and I had a verbal agreement. He’ d let us use the site. I’ d get him publicity.’ I left out the part about my promising to wear the red shirt.

‘ Hmm,’ he said.

‘ Is that bad?’

‘ Is what bad?’

‘ Not having a contract.’

‘ I’ m merely collecting information at this point, and this has been helpful.’ Dr. Death stood to leave. Relief rolled off me in waves. He hadn’ t yet pointed at me à la Donald Trump and barked, ‘ You’ re fired.’

‘ What happens now?’ I asked.

‘ We’ re preparing a response to Mr. Bomaritto, and Phyllis is at Costco buying snacks to replenish the gas station’ s supply.’

‘ Phyllis had to go-’

‘ We needed coffee,’ he said, waving me off.

‘ Plus they have those good sticky buns,’ I added, which I knew was stupid, but I was nervous. Exactly how close, I wanted to know, was the guillotine blade to my neck?

Although I couldn’ t bring myself to ask the question, he must have seen it oozing from my pores. He said, not unkindly, ‘ We intend to keep this out of the courts. I don’ t know yet what that will require. You’ ll hear from me.’

After he left, I checked my messages. There was one from Phyllis letting me know that she was headed to Costco and did I need anything?

Yes, I thought, a giant tray of sticky buns, a fork, and everybody the hell out of my way.

The other message was from Troy Jones. ‘ June,’ he said, and the rest wasn’ t easy to make out since he kept erupting into laughter. ‘ I gave your gas giveaway a plug, but I see you didn’ t need the extra help& hahahahaha& got the locations from dispatch and I flew overhead and& hahahahaha& it looked like you were starting a junkyard off the 101 freeway& hahahahaha& guess I was the only one who kept your location a secret& hahahahaha& ‘

Good thing he was enjoying himself, because I sure failed to see the humor.

TROY JONES AND I played phone tag all week. It’ s not easy to get hold of a guy who works in the middle of the sky in the morning and doesn’ t return calls all afternoon. And I forgave him for mocking me in his phone message because-as it would happen-I needed a favor. A big one. Troy Jones was now officially part of my plan to be the best gosh-darned employee L.A. Rideshare had ever seen. He was, in fact, my entire plan.

After daily messages back and forth, Troy finally reached me Thursday night at home. It was almost nine o’ clock when my phone rang.

‘ Isn’ t it past your bedtime?’ I asked him. After all, I was about to crawl into bed, and I’ m not the one who got up at three a.m.

‘ I catch up on my sleep in the afternoon.’

Mmm. I pictured him stretched out on his couch. Then I pictured him stretched out on his couch with his shirt off. Even better. I was about to insert myself into the scenario-deciding the on/off status of my own clothing-but I swatted down my hormones.