was one odd note. He wasn’t wearing a suit jacket or tie. His type was rarely out of uniform, even in South Florida’s heat.
She followed him into the boiler room. He went straight to Vito’s office. Helen clocked in for the evening shift.
Someone had left a full ashtray on top of her computer, bristling with lip-sticked butts. A half-empty Big Gulp was leaking on her desk. Where did that come from? She dumped the mess in the trash and wiped up the sticky soda. She tried not to look at Nick’s sad, empty chair. Sitting next to the jangled junkie had been an ordeal, but she still felt sorry for him.
“Hi,” said a cheerful male voice, and a soft, manicured hand was stuck in her face. “I’m Jack Lace, your new seat mate.”
The executive with the smoked-glass Mercedes sat down in Nick’s chair. She’d bet his pampered bottom had never touched anything but leather office chairs before it landed on Nick’s ripped seat.
“You’re working here?” Helen couldn’t hide her surprise.
“Absolutely,” he said. “A new day, a new challenge, that’s what I always say.”
“But you don’t look like... I mean you’re so...”
“I used to be a broker,” he said.
“Oh. Nine-eleven do you in?”
“Something like that,” Jack said. “But sales are sales. If I can sell stocks, I can sell septic-tank cleaner. Right now, both are in the toilet.”
He laughed at his own joke. Helen noticed he wore no wedding ring. He must have seen her staring at his hand.
“I’m divorced,” he said. “It’s the main reason I’m here.”
“Bad?” Helen asked.
“The worst,” Jack said.
“Another veteran of the marriage wars,” she said. “Well, we’ve got plenty of them. See Zelda over there—the tiny woman in the big red sweater? She’s always cold, poor thing.
Husband divorced her after thirty-five years. Didn’t give her a nickel. She’s sixty-one, with no work skills outside the home.”
“Um, yes. Well, I’m sure there are two sides to every story. Are you married?”
“Not anymore,” Helen said.
“Good,” Jack said.
The computers beeped on. “We’re calling Connecticut this evening,” Helen said. “It’s fairly decent. New Hampshire and Vermont are harder sells.”
“All right, people, let’s get our heinies in gear,” Vito bawled, ending their conversation. Helen’s evening went strange from the first call.
“Hi, Jody. I’m Helen with Tank Titan and—”
Jody was weeping. “Me and my boyfriend are breaking up. I’m moving out. I caught him with the lady next door.
Walked right in on them. I never knew they were making it.
I feel like such a fool. He said he was lonely.”
“Well, well,” Helen said. “I’ll fix it so he’s never lonely for a telemarketer.”
“You do that, honey,” Jody said. “And thank you.”
Helen hit CALL BACK. Women had to stick together.
“Loud and proud people, let’s hear you loud and proud, Vito yelled, but Helen had nothing to be proud about. A tired mother, her voice trembling at the breaking point, was next.
“I’m trying to get four kids to bed,” she said.
Four kids? At least I’m not in that trap, Helen thought.
While she worked, Vito stalked the aisles, plump and pink as a prize pig, listening to their sales pitches on his black monitor phone, telling them what to say to make a sale.
Helen thought she was doing well with an Indianapolis woman. Then the woman said, “I don’t know. My septic-tank man told me to never put anything in my tank.”
She was about to hang up, but Vito materialized at her desk with his black phone, whispering lies in her ear like a swinish Satan.
“Of course he did, ma’am,” Vito said softly. “Your septic-tank man would lose his job if you used Tank Titan. Buy our product and you’ll never have to pump your septic tank again. We guarantee it. Otherwise, we’ll refund every penny of the cost of our product.”
But not the repair costs, Helen thought.
Vito poked her back with a meaty finger, and she parroted his words. The woman bought a five-year supply. Helen wished she hadn’t.
“You made the sale,” Vito said. “Great way to end the night.” He turned to Jack. “And how did you do on your first night?”
“I sold six,” Jack said, with the proud air of a retriever that brought home something smelly.
“Phenomenal,” Vito said. “You’re a natural.”
He was. Helen rarely made more than four sales on one shift, and she was good.
“Congratulations,” she said when the computers shut down.
“Thanks,” Jack said. “Like I said, sales is sales. Listen, would you like to go for coffee or a drink?”
Helen started to say, “I don’t know you.” But she did.
Helen had worked with men like Jack Lace for almost twenty years. She thought of Sarah’s luncheon lecture about her love life, and worse, of another night alone with her cat.
“Yes,” she said. “I’d like that very much.” She was glad she was still wearing her good black pantsuit from her lunch with Sarah.
“What about your car?” Jack said.
“A friend dropped me off at work,” Helen said. She couldn’t admit she didn’t even have a clunker.
“Good,” Jack said. “We’ll take mine.”
Jack’s car no longer looked threatening, shining in the moonlight. It looked rich and comforting. For the second time that day, Helen sank into luxurious leather seats and listened to the hum of a well-tuned engine.
“I thought we’d go to the Pier Top Lounge.”
“Jack, can you afford that?” Helen knew from bitter experience that it took time to realize you no longer had money.
Soon, he would have to sell this extravagant car. He’d never be able to afford the upkeep.
“Hey, I’m the top seller in the boiler room.”
Jack was a fast, aggressive driver, weaving in and out of traffic, cutting people off, refusing to give anyone a break.
They were at the Pier Sixty-Six resort in ten minutes. Jack pulled into valet parking, another outlandish expense.
I won’t say anything, Helen thought. He’ll learn the same way I did. A few missed meals and he’ll figure out he needs to budget.
Jack handed over the keys to the valet and reached into the backseat for his suit jacket and a Ralph Lauren tie. Now he looked complete. Even at ten thirty at night, he had no beard shadow. How did he do that?
It was fun to take a hushed elevator to the penthouse. The Pier Top was a revolving bar with a panoramic view of Fort Lauderdale. Helen had forgotten the simple, overpriced pleasures of sitting in a lounge chair and drinking cosmopolitans. They kept the conversation impersonal at first, discussing the view and their work. Then Helen asked, “Do you live in Lauderdale?”
“I do now,” he said, “in a crappy apartment near I-95. I used to live in a big house in Coral Springs. My wife got it.
She got my Range Rover, too. And both kids. Like the song says, she got the gold mine, I got the shaft.”
“You must miss your children,” Helen said.
“I do. But she’s turned them against me. It’s like they aren’t even my kids anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” Helen said. “My marriage was a mess, but at least there weren’t any kids.”
