Holly turned to Jonathan. “And as for you, you know your job, right? You do for Peter what he did for you: make sure he shows up.”
“Don’t worry about that,” said Jonathan. “He’ll show up. Even if it’s at gunpoint.”
The following morning Mac McClernand’s secretary called Peter to say that Mr. McClernand would like to see him “ay-sap.” After hanging up Peter stared at the phone. Maybe he should just resign right then and there. He could have a new job in a day! But … but … Beeche was where he wanted to work and he had come pretty far, and if he quit, Thropp would win. Peter had told his father about the situation, and he had laughed. “A boss who’s a son-of-a-bitch, a real son-of-a-bitch!” he had said. “Welcome to the club.” Peter’s father had begun his career working for an industrial pipe manufacturer, and he had risen fairly high in the company that had bought the company that had bought that one. He was canny and levelheaded about these things, and he advised Peter not to quit or to go at Thropp directly, but to figure out whose team he wanted to be on and do everything he could to convince that person that he was indispensable to him or her and that he or she had to steal him away from Thropp. Otherwise, he should sit tight. Some employers value loyalty, and this trial would pass. That was all very sound, but didn’t it reflect an old-fashioned corporate mentality that ill suited today’s buccaneering, fast-paced securities industry, where patience and loyalty lasted only as long as it took for the bonus check to clear? Actually, at Beeche patience and loyalty were often well rewarded, and the culture discouraged self-serving intrigue, although the firm still had its Thropps. It was a class operation, as people liked to say. So, okay, he’d overcome other challenges, it was just a matter of bearing down, enduring this one and learning as much from it as he could.
Okay! All right! Let’s do it! With his confidence and optimism renewed by this self-administered pregame pep talk, Peter set off to find McClernand’s office. This was more difficult than he’d expected, even taking into account the size of the Beeche Building. He went up and down and up again in a couple of elevator banks until he finally reached the wing and floor that he thought were the right ones. Stepping out of the elevator, Peter found that there was no security desk or departmental receptionist, just a pair of glass doors at one end of a vestibule. He approached them and saw that the device that read identification cards had a yellowing, handwritten sign over it: OUT OF ORDER PLEAS CALL SECURITY. He noticed that one door was open a crack, and he tried it; it swung open easily—its lock and latch were broken. He walked along a corridor and in one office saw desks and chairs stacked up. In another, computer monitors lay strewn on the floor.
Peter followed the office numbers until he found the right one. The door was open, and he peered inside and saw a woman with her head bent over her desk; he knocked, and the woman looked up, saying, “Oh! It’s you! We’ve been expecting you! Please come in!”
Peter entered and the woman quickly rose to greet him. She was full-figured and in her fifties, with brassy red hair, black eyebrows, and one discolored front tooth. She made every utterance with great enthusiasm.
“You’re Mr. Russell, aren’t you?!”
“That’s right.”
“I’m Sheila, Mr. McClernand’s secretary!”
“How do you do, Sheila?”
They shook hands.
“Very nice to meet you! I’m so glad you’re here! Now, just have a seat, and I’ll tell Mr. McClernand!”
Peter sat. He had noticed that she had been working on a crossword puzzle and now he saw that well-worn books of crosswords and brainteasers were piled on her desk.
“Mr. McClernand?! Mr. Russell is here to see you!” A pause. “Yes, sir! I’ll tell him!” Sheila hung up the phone. “He’ll be with you in just a few minutes!” She smiled brightly at Peter, as if she had delivered the most exciting news. And then she returned to her crossword.
Peter waited. The only sounds came from the occasional scratch of Sheila’s pencil and the white hum of the air handlers. Time passed. No one popped his head in the door to have a word with Mac. The phone did not ring, and no lights shone to indicate that any lines were engaged. Sheila’s pencil made a skittering noise, like a small reptile running across the sand. After what seemed like a long time, the door to the inner office did suddenly open, very loudly, and, preceded by a waft of “masculine” scent, there appeared Mac McClernand.
“Well, well!” he said, smiling broadly and holding out his hand. “Peter Russell! Sorry to keep you waiting. Got hung up on a couple of things.” He cocked his head toward the ceiling with a smirk. “Sixty-eight. You know how it is.” Sixty-eight was a floor where some of the biggest big shots had their offices.
Peter rose and shook McClernand’s hand.
“How do you do?” he said.
“Fine, fine. I’ll just be one more minute.” McClernand spoke sharply to Sheila. “Sheila, did we get that packet out?”
Sheila had not been listening.
“Sheila, did we get that packet out?”
Sheila heard this time and looked up with an expression of shock and bewilderment. “The packet …?” she said. “The pack—? Oh! The packet! Yes, sir! It’s being messengered!”
“Good,” McClernand said. “And you’ve moved my breakfast with Erlanger to Wednesday, right?”
“Yes, sir! All taken care of!”
“Okay! Well, Peter, please, come on in.”
McClernand put his hand on Peter’s back and guided him through the door, then turned to Sheila. “Move my five o’clock back to five-thirty,” he said. “Oh—and hold my calls.”
Mac McClernand was in his sixties. He had an egg-shaped body, and his pants, held up by suspenders, rode at the latitude of greatest circumference. Freckles covered his hands and face, and his flesh tone was taupe. His furzelike hair seemed to hover above his scalp, and Peter could not determine whether that was because of its natural buoyancy, or because it was a comb-over, or because it was fake.
They had sat, and McClernand was leaning far back in his desk chair and looking at Peter so that his chin and jaw disappeared in folds of flesh. His hands were clasped, except for his index fingers, which were extended together; studying Peter, he tapped his mouth with their tips.
“So. Peter,” he said finally. “I guess we’re going to do a little work together.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I hear good things about you. You’ve made quite a name for yourself.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Of course, they only send me the best.” McClernand laughed, baring his grayish teeth. Presently his laugh turned into a phlegmy, wheezing, racking cough. He covered his mouth with a handkerchief and bent over, coughing so long and hard that his face turned red and his eyes teared.
Peter half rose from his seat. “Are you okay?”
“Fine, fine,” McClernand said in a stage whisper. After a moment or two he brought the eruptions under control, took a gulp from a glass of water, and wiped his brow and eyes.
“Harrumm. Harrumrummrum. Damn allergies. So where were we? Oh yes. Yes, I’ve been told damn good things about you.”
“I’m certainly glad to hear that.”
McClernand smiled a bit devilishly.
“But,” he said, “but … I guess maybe you took a knock with that new idea of yours.”
“It was very preliminary.”
Holding up his hand, McClernand knit his brow and pursed his lips and nodded. “Oh, I know, I know. It was very preliminary, just something to kick around. Of course.” He chuckled and shook