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“Where are they?”
“In the boardroom.” She hesitates, and I think she’s about to tell me she’s over-reacting. Instead, she says, “Hurry.”
I shove my phone in my pocket and run my fingers through my hair, grateful it’s too short to require anything complicated, like a hair dryer. Or a brush.
I half-walk, half-jog across the parking lot to the freeport office tower. My ID wakes up the security kiosk, and I gain entry by submitting to a retina scan. Sophia, one of the curators, is staffing the front desk instead of the usual security guard. Her face is pale.
“In the boardroom,” she says. “Hurry.”
I wonder if she and Susan compared notes to get their identical wording. It doesn’t really matter if they did. I can hear shouting from this end of the hall.
“I pay good wages, dammit! The best you’ll find in the business! And I refuse to be held hostage by absolutely unreasonable demands!” Trap’s bellow is drowned out by a chorus of disagreement.
Wincing, I rush down the corridor.
The scene I find is actually worse than I anticipated. Trap stands at the front of the room, hands planted on his hips as if he’s some sort of drill sergeant. His hair is ruffled, like he’s been combing through it with angry fingers. His cheeks are flushed.
Clyde McGregor looks like a lion-tamer who forgot to bring his chair and whip to the three-ring circus. The freeport’s chief of security stands to one side. His walkie-talkie is in his fist, the antenna extended like a middle finger.
“Dinna make things worse’n they are, the lot o’ ye!” He raises his voice to be heard over the chaos, his accent thicker than the August humidity outside.
“I’m talking!” Trap snaps at the interruption.
His words land like a slap across Mac’s face. I’m not sure if the chief meant to include Trap with his “lot o’ ye” but he’s sure not looking friendly now. The security guards react predictably—their grumbling becomes louder and a lot more focused.
Trap looks cornered. I see his jaw set, and I know exactly what he’s thinking. If the security guards walk out in—oh, twenty-one minutes—the freeport will be absolutely stranded. It won’t be safe for clients to enter the premises. And we won’t be able to guarantee the protection of any assets stored on site.
It’s not like Trap can turn to Security R Us to instantly hire new staff. One of the great advantages of locating Diamond Freeport in Dover is our relatively remote location. It’s easier to monitor our safety here than it would be if we were on the docks in a major city.
But that advantage turns upside down when it’s time to hire staff. Trap only had a dozen applicants for Susan Richards’ position—and half of those were easy to toss out. It’s often impossible to find qualified candidates for jobs that aren’t suitable for Sherman University undergrads looking for part-time gigs or for Dover Air Force Base spouses supplementing household income until their next military transfer.
Susan is one in a million. As she proved when she got me involved in the current dispute.
“Gentlemen!” I say from the doorway. “I apologize for being late. I’m so glad you got started without me.”
Trap scowls, exactly the way I knew he would. But I catch a quick look of relief on Mac’s face. He senses the same high temperature in the room that I do. And he wants to put a lid on it.
As I walk to the front of the room, the security guards fall silent. I know all of them by sight and a few of them by name. I make a point of fingering my official ID on its lanyard. I want these men to think of me as a fellow freeport employee.
A dozen catchphrases run through my head, all things I learned in psychology classes about conflict resolution: mixed-motive interactions, ego defensiveness, naive realism, high epistemic motivation… I can recite studies performed by countless social psychologists and cite articles from the most prestigious journals.
Or I can help Trap negotiate with his employees.
I smile at the guards, knowing I’ll be more successful if I address them first. Let Trap bear the snub. He’s a big boy. He can take it. “I think I understand the issues here, but I’d love to hear from one of you to make sure I’m not missing important details.”
There’s a moment of uncertainty among the men before Dave Washington steps forward. He’s one of two supervisors, responsible for day shifts throughout the freeport. “We want to protect the premises,” he says, without preamble. “But we’re helpless if we don’t have enough staff. Men are pulling double shifts. Vacations are routinely denied. The rules say we get two weeks of paternity leave, but Martinez wasn’t able to take twodays. We need the freeport to step up and follow its own rules. Give us what we’re promised.”
Trap replies before I can rein him in. “I’m paying half again as much as anyone else in Dover. If you aren’t happy with your paycheck, Wash, go back to babysitting college kids at Sherman.”
The guards start to shout their disagreement. I muscle my way back into the conversation. “What I hear you saying, Dave, is that you need more bodies.”
“Damn straight,” he grumbles. Mac shoots him a sharp look but has the good sense not to interrupt.
Trap, on the other hand, is bursting with the need to contradict. Purposely brushing my fingers against my lanyard—sending a subliminal message, if not an actual audible one—I say, “And I understand, Trap, that you’re paying top dollar and expect top service from your employees.”
“That’s right,” he says, biting off the words.
“But Dave, it sounds like you want to protect the freeport. You value the premises and everything we do here.”
