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“You ready?” he asks.
I finish checking the closing figures for a new shopping mall project and close the manila folder, adding it to the towering stack on my desk.
“Ready for what?”
Greg saunters into my office, which used to be his office. His eyes slide over the bookshelves and focus briefly on the north-facing view. From his expression, I can see he is much happier in his new, upgraded space down the hall and around the corner. He’s just checking out this view to see if it really is as inadequate as he remembers.
“Rudy’s, remember?” he continues, jerking his chin and flexing his eyebrows in an expression that is simultaneously leering and triumphant. “Happy hour in twenty minutes. I hear the Merc crashed today. We can watch the traders cry into their craft beers.”
The next open folder in front of me blurs briefly and then snaps back into focus. It is a condominium conversion of one of the stately old hotels on Michigan Avenue. One by one, that way of life is going away. People used to live in these hotels in a fairly luxurious situation. Like an apartment plus concierge and doorman. As the people got older, they gradually turned into something almost like assisted-living facilities. And now they will be reborn again as pricey condominiums with outrageous association fees to cover the concierge and the doorman.
Everything old is new again, after all.
“Why don’t you take Fred?” I suggest vaguely. “I still have got a lot to do here.”
Greg sighs in frustration. I pretend not to hear him.
“Come on, man,” he shrugs. “You blew me off yesterday, remember? You owe me.”
I look up at him in surprise, quickly realizing he believes what he is saying.
“Blew you off?” I repeat incredulously. “Look, Greg, these are your deals I’m doing here. Why don’t you take a few of these back, and maybe I can get out of here a little bit faster?”
Greg pulls a sour face. “Fine, whatever. I’ll just check in with you tomorrow.”
“No, seriously,” I insist, picking up a couple of thick folders and holding them out so he could take them if he wanted to, though I know he won’t. “I might get out of here before ten o’clock tonight if you finish these up. Should be easy for you, right?”
Greg puffs up, looking like he’s going to try to front me off, then forces himself to relax a little bit.
“I really need an executive assistant,” he shrugs, rolling his eyes. “Don’t want to fall behind.”
“How’s that going? Are you interviewing?”
Greg walks to the windows, scowling. “It just takes time,” he explains. “I’ll find somebody competent. Somebody with experience. Gotta look for the right chemistry.”
“Chemistry,” I nod sourly. “So you’re sure you don’t want to take any of these back?”
Greg turns back to face me, obviously frustrated with this line of questioning. He’s one of those big, thick guys who probably doesn’t get a lot of pushback. Basically he
’s a linebacker, more accustomed to just barreling through opposition than actually having to stand there and negotiate with it.
“Just handle it, okay?” he sniffs. “Honestly, Clarissa used to take care of all this boring stuff.”
My eyes wander over my desk which is uncomfortably messy, stacked with about two dozen deals in various stages of completion. The boring stuff? This work represents probably two million dollars. It is literally the lifeblood of this company. If he thinks this is the boring stuff, what exactly does he think his job is?
But he’s barely even here. I can sense that his mind is elsewhere, and he’s eager to leave. His attention is already on the happy hour specials at the bar around the corner. A bad day for stock traders is a gloomy day in the bar, to be honest. I don’t understand why Greg takes such entertainment out of their discomfort.
“All right,” he finally sighs, “have it your way. I’ll catch you tomorrow.”
He leaves my office, and I realize this might be a really good time for another cup of coffee. I have at least three hours’ work left to do here, maybe four if I want to feel like I’ve really caught up.
People are starting to pack up and leave for the day as I make my way to the breakroom. Most everyone has been here at least a couple of years, and they already know each other pretty well. They head out in pairs and trios, friendly and chatty.
“Maxwell,” comes a voice as I pass by the open door of the corner office.
Surprised that he is calling my name, I backtrack a couple of steps and walk into Lou Tolliver’s office. He’s pulling on his suit coat as he stands behind his desk. His glasses are so firmly attached to the top of his head, I can see the two divots where the nose guard has permanently made an impression.
“Hello, Mr. Tolliver,” I smile.
