Mr. Hoffman spun the wheel, watched for a gap in the traffic, and stamped on the gas to make the tires shriek. “I said that, did I? What a guy.”
Ben’s head whiplashed as he tugged on the envelope, exposing a sheet of company letterhead. “It’s… I got this just yesterday, printed off at the hotel. From Dr. Crampton. And if you look, you’ll see I’m pretty concerned.”
Mr. Hoffman snatched the letter, hung a right on New York Avenue, and mumbled through the document in a cartoon voice, as if programing a washing machine.
“Dear Mr. Louviere,
This confirms our conversation Monday regarding your evidently meager committment to our enterprise. I raised with you your poor timekeeping; absences from planning meetings; and, most recently, the incident in which you lost a Lenovo ThinkPad laptop computer containing price-sensitive commercial information.”
The general counsel snorted and waved the letter over the dash. “Look there. See? You see that there? He’s got ‘committment’ with three ‘t’s. You believe that? Duh? Autocorrect? Spellcheck? Huh? Motherfuckin’ dickheads. Every one of them.”
Ben cracked a grin and squirmed against the passenger door. This meeting was going better than the interview. The vibe felt so right, as if they shared a star sign or Theodore Hoffman and Ben Louviere were meant to be.
“But you think he’s serious then? What with that final warning part and everything?”
A red Silverado edged ahead on New York Avenue while Mr. Hoffman finished the letter.
“You will be expected to replace the missing device, at your own expense. And you should consider this letter to be a final warning within the meaning of your contract of employment.”
Signed:
“Philip C. Crampton MD, Vice President, Marketing & Product Communications.”
Mr. Hoffman snorted again, threw the letter in Ben’s lap, signaled right, and turned onto Ninth. “Know here, kid? Know what ‘MD’ stands for?”
“Doctor of medicine.”
“Stands for ‘Motherfuckin’ Dickhead.’ Believe me now.”
A smiling jury is an acquitting jury. Ben learned that much at Loyola. “Yeah, but what he’s saying though. You don’t think it’s serious then?”
“What’s he say about this Lenovo? That right? You lost a ThinkPad?”
Damn the laptop. Damn the fucking laptop. He’d left it a few hours in the trunk of his BMW outside a nightclub in Atlanta called Bluestreak. He got there at one, a week last Sunday, left around four, got home, popped the lid, and found the fucking fucker was gone.
“Can’t understand it, sir. It’s like they had the key to my car, or something. Left it ten minutes. Not even that. In the BerneWerner Building parking garage.”
Mr. Hoffman shrugged, pumped the car’s brakes, and thrust his foot on the gas. “Who uses laptops anyhow?”
“Dr. Crampton told me my whole future was in jeopardy. Sent me a Xerox of my contract. You know, with the clause about the scholarship? You said it was a technicality in the state of Georgia.”
Mr. Hoffman glanced away toward a party of schoolkids formed up to cross the street with their teachers. “I did? What’s that one say?”
“How the scholarship’s a loan and everything. And how it’s paid-off on twelve months satisfactory service.”
“That so? Twelve months? And you done what?”
“Forty-seven days. Including weekends.”
“That long? And what we spend educating your white ass?”
“Two hundred sixty thousand dollars.”
The car rolled to a stop. Mr. Hoffman opened the glove box and yanked out a music CD: Second Piano Concerto by a band called Rachmaninoff. He slugged it into a player beneath the dash.
“Gotta tell you here kid, you gotta watch out.” The Crown Vic swirled with orchestra. “There’s folks in the company wanting a crackdown. Company’s getting ready for the biggest product launch since Pepto-Bismol in the cherry caplets. Can’t take any goofing. Not now.”
“But I’m doing my best, sir.”
“That’s good. That’s good. So why not do better? Can always do better, don’t you think?”
“Thing is, they give me nothing to do. Like, they send me to law school, which is pretty awesome for a biotech, when you think about it, and then they put me in the Marketing Department. I mean, does that make any sense?”
Mr. Hoffman upped Rachmaninoff and swayed his fingers over the wheel as if conducting violins around the hood. “Look, that’s only to start you off. Happens with all our scholarship people. Had Janice Hughes on level one reception for months. Dominique Blitzer, well, she was a lab tech. And Sarah-Jane did a year as a payroll clerk. What you gotta say about that then?”
“But at the interview you told me about maybe regulatory affairs. And, I mean, take this conference. Darlene’s got me working the promotions B module in the Montreal Room. You seen that thing? Really sucks.”
“You’re our module man, huh? They got you minding the Wendy house?”
“It’s got a fake doctor’s office inside.”
Mr. Hoffman turned right and cracked open a window. “Hell, shit will come. Hope for better things. You gotta prove yourself, get yourself noticed.”
“That’s what I want. To prove myself. I do. Do stuff that means something for medicine.”
The general counsel sucked a knuckle. “Course there is something. There’s something today if you’re interested. Could help us right now if you want it.”
“Anything, sir. Anything at all.” He wriggled like a dog to its dinner.
The mighty Crown Vic was now back where they started: the meter bay beside the science building. Mr. Hoffman hit the brakes but didn’t pull over. A truck hauling ladders behind them honked.
“Okay. Good. Now here’s what you do. And it’s advantageous stuff, I can tell you.”
“Sure. Ready for anything.”
“We’re getting the old girl in from Atlanta this afternoon. Flying her up to the conference.”
“The old girl?”
“Sure. Dr. Mayr. Our vaccine chief.”
“Yeah?”
“Go meet her at National airport.”
“And?”
“Carry her bags.”
Two
ABOVE A deco-style canopy and revolving glass door, four flags drifted from sloping staffs outside the Marriott at Metro Center. With the Stars and Stripes and the hotel chain’s banner hung the District of Columbia’s flag (two red-on-white stripes,
