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Calder watched them go, waited for the door to close behind them, then turned to Elle. Before he could say anything, she asked, “Hear all of what from you?”
“Elle, I’m sorry about this morning.”
She steeled herself and repeated succinctly, “Hear all of what from you? If it’s sweet nothings, I don’t want to hear them.”
“Elle.” Eyes full of regret, he silently appealed to her. When she didn’t bend, he sighed. “Understood.” He let a few seconds elapse before continuing. “Remember yesterday, that private conversation upstairs with them?” He tilted his head toward the door.
“It wasn’t about your breakup with Shauna?”
“It was, but there was also something else.”
“Sounds serious.”
“I believe you’ll think so. Which is why I’ve avoided talking about it with you.”
He got up and, looking down at the floor, paced a circle. He then walked over to the built-in bar where Glenda had left the refreshments. So far they’d gone untouched. Calder picked out an orange from the bowl and bounced it in his palm.
“It’s about what I do for a living.” He dug his thumbnail into the orange and tore off a chunk of the rind. “I’m a corporate hit man.” He pitched the piece of orange skin into the small sink, then looked over at her. “Do you know what that is?”
“I… I’m not sure.”
“Well, follow closely.” He tore off another piece of the orange peel and also pitched it. “Companies in financial straits hire me to come in and analyze their operation. Time management, productivity, assets and liabilities. The whole shebang. I ingratiate myself with the employees, become one with them so that they’ll talk to me candidly about their bosses, coworkers, and the job in general.
“After several months, when I’m satisfied that I’ve been thorough, that my projections will save the company thousands, often millions, of dollars in salaries alone, I recommend which employees should be let go, because, in my expert opinion, they not only contribute little, but they’re a drain on the budget. They’re dispensable. Deadwood.”
He turned and looked at her directly, as though to ensure that she was comprehending him, then resumed peeling the orange. “Those who get axed go home with a pink slip. I go home with a fat paycheck.” Another piece of orange skin was tossed into the sink.
“For a generous base fee, I guarantee a certain reduction in the company’s overhead. I never fail to reach that figure, and typically I exceed it by laying off more people than estimated. For each extra employee who’s fired, I get paid a bonus.”
By now the orange had been peeled. He held it out toward her, but when she shook her head, he set it in the sink, turned on the water, and washed his hands.
“How did you get into that line of work?”
“I had a consulting business. Time management, basically. It was successful enough. I didn’t drive a Jag, but I could afford the best cable TV package. One day, I was interviewing a prospective client, giving him the full-court press, promising a big turnaround in productivity, and, in passing, he said, ‘While you’re at it, trim the fat.’
“I asked what he meant. He said he would pay me extra for every lost cause, for those he could cut loose. Based on my opinion alone.” He shook water off his hands and turned to her, eyebrows raised. “I saw a much more lucrative angle to my consulting work and went at it like a hound on the scent of blood. Since, I’ve done a lot of bloodletting. I get a little sick thinking about how cavalier I was while demolishing lives.”
She said, “You’re being unfair to yourself.”
Using a bar towel, he dried his hands but didn’t say anything.
“Without your analyses and recommendations, wouldn’t the company continue on a downward spiral?”
“More than likely.”
“Until it ultimately collapsed?”
He raised a shoulder that indicated the probability of that.
“If it was forced to shut its doors, then every employee would be out of a job, and the domino effect would have a negative impact on the economy of the whole community. More failed businesses, more lost jobs.”
Meticulously, he folded the towel and draped it over the edge of the sink. “I tell myself that at lot. But it’s a self-serving rationalization.” He propped his hips against the bar and folded his arms across his chest.
“The evening of the shooting, I was celebrating my most lucrative project to date. Why? Because a goodly number of people lost their livelihood that day. Can you appreciate the irony?
“I drove away from there feeling so goddamn cocky. Gloating. Thumping my chest. A self-congratulatory, invincible superhero who nothing or no one could touch.” He snuffled. “An hour later, a bullet went through my arm.”
She assimilated all that, then said quietly, “Before the shooting, had you ever experienced misgivings about what you do?”
