have to learn this sooner or later. You want to be a big kahuna, get some money to buy yourself some new goddamn suits?” He was going to add, And not at Today’s Man, but it was hard enough to educate the guy about table dances, he wasn’t going to start fashion policing the poor slob.
“I don’t think he’s that kind of guy,” Harold said uncomfortably.
“Is he a fudgepacker? If he is, I know a couple of guys who’d love to screw him.”
“No,” Harold said. “I mean, he wears a wedding ring and he didn’t seem gay.”
“Then I don’t know what the problem is – take him to a strip joint. Believe me, as soon as he has some tits bouncing in his face you’ll close the sale.” Max waited then said, “In this business, it’s make or break, and you gotta go for bust.”
He let the joke linger, waiting to see if the schmuck got it.
Finally, Harold laughed uncomfortably, said, “I’m going to go to his office and present the proposal in person and see what happens.”
Max said, “Is it your wife?”
“Is what my wife?”
“The ball and chain, the guilt trips, because if it is, don’t tell her about it, that’s all. You think I tell my wife every time I go to a strip club? But your wife’ll be happy when you start bringing home the big commission checks. Trust me, I know this stuff and I certainly know women.”
“It’s not my wife.”
“Then what is it, your kid? You?”
Harold, his face turning pink, said, “No.”
“Look, you don’t have to enjoy it, I mean if that’s what you’re worried about. You’re not there to get off, you’re there for the client to get off. He’s Japanese right? Jesus Christ, the Japs love table dances. Trust me on this one. It’s a cultural thing. Maybe it’s because Japanese women, as a whole, have very small breasts. Why’re you smiling? I’m serious. But whatever you do, don’t, do not, buy him a Japanese dancer. Even if she has the big old- style silicone knockers, they don’t like that. It gets them angry because it reminds them of what they don’t have at home.”
Harold stood up, took a few steps back toward the door, said, “Well, thanks for the advice, but I think I’ll just stick to my own sales techniques.”
“Listen, you putz, I don’t want to have to let you go. I mean, I think you’re a smart guy. When you started here you knew more about hardware than you did about networking, but you’re catching up on your technical knowledge and I think in a month or two you’ll be right where you need to be. That said, I hope you understand, I can’t keep paying you your draw if you’re not making any commish. I just can’t run my business that way. Now I’m giving you some good, solid advice here. When I hired you I told you I’d give you all the training you needed, well this is part of your training.”
Max was happy with this speech, his rally-the-troops schpiel. He knew he was great at motivation – that’s why he was the head honcho and everyone else wasn’t.
“I came here to sell networks,” Harold said, “not table dances.”
“Then maybe this is the wrong product for you,” Max said. “Maybe you should sell bibles or something. Now go take Takahashi to a strip joint and close this goddamn sale, or else.”
Toward five o’clock, Angela paid a visit. She locked the door and gave Max a few wet kisses and a neck massage and wished him good luck. Max said, “The funny thing is, I’m not even nervous.”
Max made sure there was no lipstick on his face. He knew he must’ve smelled like Joy, but this was all right because a few months ago he had bought Deirdre some of the same perfume, in the smaller one-ounce size, so she wouldn’t be suspicious when he came home reeking of it. If the police asked, he could just say he picked up the odor from Deirdre. He was covering all the bases.
In the bathroom, Max put a coat of spray-on hair fibers over his bald spot. The fibers could only be detected on very close inspection or by touch. The only problems were when it rained or when he was nervous – sometimes the fibers melted and dark streaks dripped down his neck.
At 5:25, Max left the office, still feeling very relaxed. Janet, the receptionist who was temping this week, and Diane from Payroll were nearby so Max made sure he said “See you tomorrow” to Angela, loud enough so Janet and Diane could hear how casual and professional he was being.
“Good night, Max,” Angela said, not even looking away from her computer monitor. If they’d been alone, she’d have added God bless in that crazy way the Irish did. Psychos blew up half the UK and added, God bless?
Max hailed a cab on Sixth Avenue and instructed the driver to take him to Fifty-fourth and Madison, the building where Jack Haywood worked. Out of habit, Max memorized the driver’s name – Mohammed Siddique – and medallion number – 679445. As he got out, he said, “Thanks, Mohammed. God bless.”
Max told Mohammed to wait double-parked while he went into the building to call Jack from the concierge’s desk. Back on the sidewalk, waiting for Jack to show up, Max couldn’t help thinking about the break-in.
He’d told Deirdre that he wanted to take her out to dinner tonight and to be sure to be home at six. Deirdre was usually good about keeping her appointments, but now Max was worried that something might go wrong. Deirdre had said she would be going shopping this afternoon, but Max wondered what would happen if she came home early or had decided not to go at all.
A car horn honked. The sudden noise jolted Max, made his heart skip a beat. He took deep breaths, trying to relax. If he looked nervous tonight and Jack Haywood or someone else noticed, it could also lead to some big problems later. He had to just trust Popeye. After all, the guy was a pro and a pro would know how to handle any complications that might come up.
A few minutes later, Jack strolled out of the building, wearing the jeans and sports jacket he had changed into for his night on the town. As Director of Operations for Segal, Russell amp; Ross, a big law firm with over two hundred employees, Jack was one of Max’s biggest clients. He was only a few years younger than Max, but he kept in shape so he looked thirty-five. He was married with two kids and he had a house on Long Island, but he liked getting away from his wife and drinking and seeing naked women. Since he had become a NetWorld client, Max bought him as many table and lap dances and trips to the private fantasy rooms as he wanted. Once in a while, Jack asked Max to fix him up with a call girl. Jack would tell his wife he was out of town on business for the night and Max would book a room for him at one of the big New York hotels. Jack liked Russian women and Max knew two Russian call girls – sisters with monster-size breasts – who charged two thousand bucks for a menage a trois. It was above the going rate, but the money was well worth it to keep Jack as a client. He had a two-hundred-and- fifty-user network with four file servers and Max had placed three consultants there on a fulltime basis. Including hardware and software sales, Jack was a million-dollar-a-year client. Besides, you had to love a guy who knew how to relax. What was the point of working your ass off and having no fun?
As soon as Jack got into the cab, Max turned on his “business personality.” Usually, he hated small talk and phony conversation, but when there was money involved, man, Max could turn on the bullshit as well as anyone. During the ride across town to Legz Diamond’s, Max managed to hold a conversation on golf, wine, real estate and the upcoming mayoral election, and half the time he didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. But, shit, he knew that he was selling it well.
Legz Diamond’s was on Forty-seventh Street near Eleventh Avenue. It was an upscale strip club – dark and glitzy, like a cheesy, suburban wedding hall. Although it was still early, the place was at least half filled with businessmen trying to keep their male clients happy. That’s how the big city worked. You had a problem with it, get the fuck back to Boise, pal.
The host, a Mafia-looking guy with slicked-back hair, was on stage introducing the girls one by one, holding their hands and kissing them on the lips or cheek after he said their names. Max sometimes wondered whether all the girls screwed around with the host, but he was positive that the ones who kissed him on the lips had. Max was a known regular at the club so he and Jack got the VIP seats, right in front of the stage. Immediately, Max bought Jack a rum and Coke and a table dance with the girl of his choice. Jack picked a Puerto Rican with a big smile and a nice set of 38 or 40 triple-Ds. Perfectomundo. That was the way to get ’em in the mood.
Max was watching Jack enjoy himself when he heard someone call out his name. It was Felicia, a black stripper with 46 triple-Ds whom Max had bought dances from many times before. She was on the stage, leaning forward so that her implants hung down off her bone-thin dancer’s body.
“How are you?” Max said.
