Previous story: Freeway
Fortune 500
Photo by 'Wayne Ray'
Mark turned to see who'd sat down beside him on the bench, readying a professional smile, just in case.
Great. A stinky homeless man in a greasy coat too heavy for the weather. Mark inched away from the old man. He very much needed to not smell like street people right now.
Pops sneered. You sit on a bench in a public park, anybody might sit down next to you. My ass has as much a right as yours to be on this bench. He stretched his legs and pushed back his shoulders, sidling closer to the suit. Pops chuckled to himself.
Mark frowned and crossed his legs, leaning farther away. He flicked an invisible bit of fluff from his knee. The sunlight suddenly caught the nap of his suit. Shit. They'd know it was off the rack and make their decision right then. He'd seen people turned down for less: last year's lapel width or the wrong MBA.
The sour look on the suit's face gave Pops a sharp pain in his gut. This was why he didn’t like to come downtown. Nine to five, these people thought they owned the place. Every evening they cleared out and left it to the dealers and whores. At least they'd talk to Pops. They knew Pops' money was as green as anybody else's.
Mark looked at his watch. Fifteen more minutes before he could walk the four blocks, take the elevator to the thirty-third floor, and arrive at a time that said punctual, but not desperate. Not nearly as desperate as he felt. He flipped open his manila folder to review the job description again.
Pops looked at the papers over the suit’s shoulder. "Job interview," Pops said.
Mark said, "Yes," making his voice as crisp and unfriendly as he could.
To Pops, the ice in the man's voice sounded like a challenge. "What job?"
Mark stiffened. Now the stinky bum wanted to talk to him. He'd show him. "Business Valuation Associate," he announced crisply.
Pops looked at the patch of white in the man's hair, the lines on his face. "Aren't you kind of old for entry level?"
Great. A stinky homeless man in a greasy coat too heavy for the weather. Mark inched away from the old man. He very much needed to not smell like street people right now.
Pops sneered. You sit on a bench in a public park, anybody might sit down next to you. My ass has as much a right as yours to be on this bench. He stretched his legs and pushed back his shoulders, sidling closer to the suit. Pops chuckled to himself.
Mark frowned and crossed his legs, leaning farther away. He flicked an invisible bit of fluff from his knee. The sunlight suddenly caught the nap of his suit. Shit. They'd know it was off the rack and make their decision right then. He'd seen people turned down for less: last year's lapel width or the wrong MBA.
The sour look on the suit's face gave Pops a sharp pain in his gut. This was why he didn’t like to come downtown. Nine to five, these people thought they owned the place. Every evening they cleared out and left it to the dealers and whores. At least they'd talk to Pops. They knew Pops' money was as green as anybody else's.
Mark looked at his watch. Fifteen more minutes before he could walk the four blocks, take the elevator to the thirty-third floor, and arrive at a time that said punctual, but not desperate. Not nearly as desperate as he felt. He flipped open his manila folder to review the job description again.
Pops looked at the papers over the suit’s shoulder. "Job interview," Pops said.
Mark said, "Yes," making his voice as crisp and unfriendly as he could.
To Pops, the ice in the man's voice sounded like a challenge. "What job?"
Mark stiffened. Now the stinky bum wanted to talk to him. He'd show him. "Business Valuation Associate," he announced crisply.
Pops looked at the patch of white in the man's hair, the lines on his face. "Aren't you kind of old for entry level?"
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Mark looked at the homeless man full-on. He knew financial advisory services?
Pops didn't like being scrutinized so closely. He pulled his arms and legs in close across his body. Mark could see the coat was Burberry. The style was fifteen years old at least, and filthy. But it was the real deal. He had to take the chance. "Who do you know at Deloitte?" Mark asked. |
"Edward Monaghan. Susan Brownloe. Ara Karpetian."
It was all Mark could do not to let his jaw drop. Those were Deloitte's top West Coast people.
Pops smiled. "George Miller. I supervised him early on." He had the man's attention now. This was fun.
"Miller the Killer?" Mark asked.
Pops leaned back against the bench again. He turned up his face to catch the warm rays of the sun. Businessmen who spent their days in climate controlled buildings lost the ability to enjoy this. He'd lost it once, and never would again. "Miller the Killer," he said. "Miller the Killer. Miller the Killer." He realized he was muttering and clamped his mouth shut.
Was the wino crazy or the real deal? Of course there were people on the streets who'd fallen from grace. Drinking, drugs, they could take you down. Untreated mental illness. Others, they just couldn't take the stress. A layoff during a bad patch in the economy, and you could find yourself missing mortgage payments on a multi-million dollar home. Lose your wife and kids when you couldn't provide for them.
Thinking of his family made Mark's chest tighten. He had to land a job soon. If things didn't turn around quickly, he could just as well find himself on the other end of this park bench.
Mark asked, "Think any of those folks would remember you?"
Pops laughed.
Mark started to panic. This guy had information he needed. "Who are you?" he asked urgently.
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Pops stopped laughing abruptly. He had the suit now. He looked back and forth around the park. Then he leaned forward and spoke softly, forcing the suit to lean in closer.
The stench from the man’s mouth was fetid. Mark had to repress his gag reflex. Pops said, "You remember reading about the Deloitte executive a few years ago who took his wife Helen and his son sailing and never returned?" |
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Mark wracked his brain but couldn't find a specific memory. Still, those sorts of things were in the news all the time.
"When the sailboat finally turned up floating off the shore of Chile, the wife and son's throats had been cut, and the executive was nowhere to be found."
Mark thought, this stuff is gold! Who should he ask for first? Monaghan, Brownloe or Karpetian? This could get him in front of a major exec during the first interview! Or Miller. This old guy had known him personally, but Miller wasn't as high up.
Mark needed a name. "Who are you?" he repeated.
Pops said, "They eventually found him in Mexico, leading a major drug cartel."
"What?"
Pops stood up suddenly, arms flying out from his sides. "He wouldn't be taken alive! Not the man from Deloitte!" Pops crouched in front of the bench, imaginary machine gun in his arms. "His men battled the federales down to the last bullet. Bang! Bang! Rat-a-tat-tat!"
Mark snapped his manila folder closed.
"They were closing in from all sides, but the man from Deloitte escaped through the underground tunnels. A plastic surgeon gave him a new lease on life. He was never seen again!"
Mark stood abruptly. What a fool he'd been.
"No one can catch the man from Deloitte!" Pops shouted at the suit's retreating back.
Mark looked at his watch and began to hurry, soles of his shoes clipping across the pavement. He ground his teeth in frustration. He was going to be late for the interview.