“It’s a target pistol with a red-dot sight. But that’s not the point. He went all business on me, Margery. He spent half an hour talking about that stupid gun. Excuse me, weapon. It was as romantic as a night at the Bass Pro Shop. I ruined the mood. I’ve been so long without a man, I panicked and turned into a porcupine. I’m so freaking stupid.”
“I think you were smart,” Margery said. “Women used to know how to play hard to get. He was probably expecting you to fall into his arms. Instead, you threw him off balance.
A man like Phil is used to getting any woman he wants. It will do him good.”
Helen’s cheeks were bright red, and not from the brisk walk. “Do you really think so?”
“I just said so.” They were in front of the sidewalk restaurant at the elegant Riverside Hotel. Margery eyed the tanned busboy in the white jacket and tight pants.
“I hear the buns are great here.” She grinned wickedly.
“Margery!” Helen said.
Margery put on her best innocent old lady face. “I’m having a leisurely breakfast as a privilege of my age. You, young woman, should go to work. Build up that Social Security fund.”
Helen didn’t remind her landlady that she was paid in cash under the table. The only thing she contributed to was Vito’s slush fund.
As she walked the rest of the way to the boiler room, Helen decided she was a failure in the womanly wiles department. She’d have to impress Phil with her detecting skills. Maybe she could steal those papers off Vito’s desk.
She knew how to do it without getting caught.
As Helen clocked in, she felt her spirits sink lower. The boiler room was dingy with ancient dirt. The night shift had left half a bag of Cheetos on her computer. Helen popped a handful in her mouth. They were stale. Her phone was coated with bright orange-yellow Cheetos’ residue, like an exotic pollen. She cleaned it off and threw away the bag.
Ramon, Marina’s little boy, overturned her trash can. He found the stale Cheetos and started eating them.
“No, no,” his mother said, taking away the bag. Ramon sat on the floor and screamed.
Helen heard more screaming on the phone. Her first call was to a Rhode Island man who snarled like a rabid dog.
“You got a lot of balls calling me at eight thirty in the morning, lady.”
“I’ve got guts, not balls,” she said, but the guy hung up on her.
When the customers weren’t yelling, Vito was. He patrolled the aisles, shouting, “Loud and proud, people. Let’s hear you. Let’s get those sales.”
All Helen got was the green weenie in her ear. The nicest thing anyone did was hang up on her. For three hours she listened to the same old insults, and those were hard to hear with little Ramon howling for his lost Cheetos. Finally, Helen sneaked some out of the bag in the trash and fed them to the boy. Stale Cheetos wouldn’t hurt the kid, she told herself. She’d eaten them herself. Besides, he shut up.
At eleven thirty, Helen finally heard something she wanted:
“All right, people,” Vito said, “everyone in my office for a pep talk.”
Helen grabbed a pen and some paper. She jumped over little Ramon like a hurdle, then sprinted into Vito’s office. She was the second person in the room and snagged a seat on the corner of his desk. The other telemarketers pushed in, until Vito’s office was crowded as a Beijing bus. Good. The others would screen her.
Helen pulled out the paper she’d brought with her and began making notes. “Buy cat food. Throw out old takeout in fridge. Or feed to cat.” It was a list of things she had to do on her afternoon break, but she looked diligent from a distance.
Vito, pink and porcine, stalked up and down the room.
“You’re not selling, people. And if you’re not selling, you’re not telling the right things about our product. What do we know about Tank Titan? Here’s a refresher course:
“Tank Titan eats sludge like Pac-Man.”
Vito demonstrated with greedy chomps until the telemarketers were giggling. Helen glanced down at the boss’s desk.
It was a landfill. With a fingernail, she lifted the top sheet of the paper pile nearest her. It was a stack of articles on the do-not-call law, printed off the Internet. Nothing she could steal there.
“Tank Titan is so good it’s like being on the city sewer, Vito said. He quit chomping. Helen went back to scribbling.
“And it’s all-natural. Your baby could eat it for breakfast, and it wouldn’t hurt him.”
Vito grabbed Ramon from his mother’s arms and grinned at the boy like a deranged kiddie-show host. Helen noticed guiltily that Ramon’s mouth was yellow with stale Cheetos.
Ramon burst into sobs, squirming to get away from Vito. The kid’s instincts were good.
Vito said, “Of course, you’d be changing a lot of diapers for a couple of days, but Tank Titan is harmless.” He handed Ramon back to his mother like a rejected package. While Marina carried her sobbing child from the room, Helen examined the next paper pile: a stack of time sheets and racing forms. Nothing again.
“Helen!” Vito said.
She jumped.
“Name two things that we
“You can send the product back,” Helen said. “And, we will send you a free sample.”
“Very good,” Vito said. “See? The lady pays attention.”
Fat lot he knows, Helen thought, as she went back to her list of things to do. She looked at Vito’s well-packed form and wrote, “Buy ham.”
Vito tormented three more telemarketers, who hadn’t a clue about what they should not say—or should, for that mat-ter. Helen poked through more paper stacks. She found overdue invoices, ads for hair transplants, blank employment applications. Nothing.
“Remember, you’re not a telemarketer,” Vito said.
“You’re an insurance agent for their septic tank. And how does a good agent sell? With fear. Make them afraid
It is for me, Helen thought, as she inched toward the last heap of paper. It was blank copy paper. Damn. The desk search was a bust. Then she saw a stapled corner sticking out of the pile. Blank paper didn’t have staples. She gave the corner a tiny tug.
Vito shouted,
Every telemarketer knew that answer:
Vito clapped his hands. The telemarketers applauded themselves. Helen gave the stapled corner a good yank and pulled it out. She caught the paper tower before it toppled.
She had the list of phony employees. It was covered with dust and coffee rings, but she had it. She stuck her to-do list on top of the stolen paper.
The pep talk was over. Helen joined the crowd surging for the open door.
“Helen!” Vito called.
Helen froze.
“Can you come here?” Vito didn’t look porcine anymore.
He looked like a mass of robust muscle. Even his eyebrows were muscular.
“I saw what you were doing.” Vito cracked his knuckles.
Next, he’d crack every bone in her body.
Helen was too frightened to talk. He knew. He saw her steal that paper. What would he do next? Beat her up? Shoot her? Burn her with cigar butts? She could stand anything, as long as he didn’t lock her in with Mr. Cavarelli. Please don’t call in the lizard, she wanted to beg, but her mouth wouldn’t work.
“Taking notes is a good idea,” Vito said. “Sets a good example for the other telemarketers. Makes ’em take me more serious-like.” His smile showed sixty-four teeth.
