“It’s just a name change,” Roy said.
He stared for a moment at the map on the screen. Shanghai, Chongqing, Osaka, Karachi, Singapore: he’d never been to any of those places but he kind of knew their quirks. That was one of the things he liked about the job. What else? He liked the guys. And there was opportunity for promotion-Roy had seen lots of men get promoted from his floor, transferred to jobs all over the world. At Curtis’s suggestion, he’d signed up for an industrial management course at Georgia Tech one night a week, to make his chances a little better. As for the negatives: the hours, seven to four-thirty, which always meant five, Monday to Friday; the vacation time-Roy was up to thirteen paid days after eight years with the company; the health plan Roy stopped thinking about it. Every job had negatives.
He got back to those three overdue freight cars of ammonium nitrate somewhere between Shanghai and Chongqing. Ammonium nitrate was water reactive: that was the tricky part. Roy wondered whether it was raining in China and whether they’d made sure to use the watertight cars specified in the order. For a moment Roy, picturing what happened on the training films when moisture got into a load of ammonium nitrate, felt that not-getting- enough-air thing. He clicked back to his original order and found that he had indeed specified watertight cars. He took his hand off the inhaler in his pocket.
Roy sent thirty overdue gallons of methane sulfonic acid on a commercial flight to Kuala Lumpur; found himself in a misunderstanding with the Miami office over a container of assorted specialty chemicals and tried without much success to sort it out; sent a twenty-footer of methyl mercaptan to Manila via a freighter out of Oakland; tried again with Miami; failed to find the ammonium nitrate between Shanghai and Chongqing; went down to the cafeteria, came back with a burrito and a Coke-Coke ran free in the cafeteria, one of the perks-ate at his desk. He heard Gordo ripping the tinfoil off his fried chicken from homedidn’t have to look, he could smell it-and was thinking of saying something about that flag stuck to the wall of Gordo’s cubicle, when his phone rang. He thought: Cesar in Miami. But it wasn’t.
“Mr. Hill?” A woman; Roy didn’t recognize her voice. Ten years ago he would have said she was from up north, hadn’t been raised down here, but now, at least in the city, it was getting harder to tell.
“Yes,” said Roy.
“This is-” Ms. Somebody. Roy didn’t catch the name-a long one, maybe Jewish; which was odd because he was used to catching all kinds of strange foreign names. “I’m the assistant principal at Buckhead Middle School,” the woman said.
Roy caught everything after that. He said stupid things like “But I thought my wi- I thought Marcia-” and “What do you mean, incident?”, but he caught it.
He checked the time: 1:37. You didn’t leave work at Chemerica-Globax-at 1:37. Not on a Monday, not when things were this busy, not for personal reasons. It wasn’t part of the corporate culture. Roy called Marcia’s work, was told she wasn’t in today, tried the cell and home numbers, got voice mail each time, said nothing. Who else to call? There was no one. Roy rose.
Gordo glanced up at him over the padded wall. “What’s up?”
“Something with Rhett.”
“Like what?”
“Got to go get him.”
“Now? What’s wrong?”
Roy left his cubicle, crossed the floor, went up the steps to Curtis’s glassed-in office. Curtis had someone in there: a silver-haired guy, the kind who worked on the seventeenth floor. Roy hesitated outside. Curtis waved him in.
“Speak of the devil,” Curtis said.
Roy didn’t know what to make of that.
“Just talking about you, Roy, Bill and I. Know Bill Pegram?”
Roy didn’t know Bill Pegram. They shook hands.
“Mr. Pegram’s VP tech personnel.” Tech personnel included shipping.
“Curtis’s been saying some nice things about you, Roy,” said Bill Pegram. “Real nice things.”
Roy wasn’t taking this in very well. He had to get out of there.
“You’re doing a fine job for us, Roy,” said Pegram. “How you likin’ it?”
“Liking it?”
“Working for the company.”
“It’s a good job, Mr. Pegram.”
Pegram nodded. “I know you’ve been passed over a few times when it comes to promotions, Roy. Doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate your good work. The competition is tough. Didn’t make you bitter, did it, Roy?”
“Not at all.” Where the hell was this going? He fought the urge to check his watch.
“Glad to hear it,” said Pegram. “Bitterness is like the snake that bites his own damn tail.” He paused, waiting for a response.
Roy nodded, maybe a little too impatiently. The snake idea came from a motivational speaker they’d had last year, or the year before that.
“That’s the boy,” said Pegram. “If you can keep this under your hat, there may be a few things opening up soon. Nice things, Roy.”
Roy got it: he was being considered for promotion at last. He should probably say he was grateful or they wouldn’t be disappointed or something like that. He said: “Curtis, can I talk to you a moment?”
Pegram looked puzzled, the way some people do, half lowering one eyelid. Curtis was doing the same thing. “About this?” he said.
“Something’s come up,” Roy said, moving toward the door, almost taking Curtis by the hand; he didn’t know how else to get him alone.
Curtis followed him out. They stood on the other side of the glassed-in office, Pegram watching from within.
“Just don’t tell me it’s a big bang somewhere,” Curtis said. The big bang-an explosion caused by some shipping error-was their worst fear.
Roy told him what it was.
Curtis’s eyelid fluttered down again, came back up. He gave Roy a look. “If you can get someone to cover for you,” he said in the kind of voice used for someone you don’t know well. He went back inside.
Roy started down Curtis’s stairs. He tried not to turn back, but couldn’t help himself. Curtis was talking to Pegram. Pegram was watching Roy. His face seemed to get narrower.
Gordo covered for him. “And Roy?” Gordo said. “Here’s a little present for the boy.”
Gordo handed Roy a stained white thing, maybe an inch long, rounded at one end, surprisingly heavy. Lead, probably, oxidized lead. “What’s this?”
“A bullet, Roy. A real bullet from Kennesaw. One of ours-you can tell by the two rings.”
“You found it?”
“In the souvenir shop,” Gordo said. “Seventy-five cents.”
Roy put it in his pocket, took the elevator down to employee parking on S5, went to his space, found it empty. Empty. He felt real funny for a moment, like some bad fate was happening, then recalled he’d driven in with Gordo. Therefore-what?
Taxi. Roy went to the elevators, saw they were all at seventeen, hurried up the ramp on foot. He was running by the time he came to the exit booth.
No taxis on the street. Roy hardly ever took taxis. In the movies they were always cruising up and “Hey, Roy,” said the attendant in the booth. The old guy who always wore a Braves cap, and in fact looked a little like Henry Aaron, as Aaron might have looked if he’d developed a drinking problem.
“I need a taxi.”
“Yes, sir,” said the old man, picking up his phone.
Roy rode in a taxi. He checked the time: 2:27. One of the side mirrors was tilted up at a useless angle, reflecting the image of the new sign high above. He’d been right about one thing: the letters were bigger. They’d also changed from red to blue. globax was already in place, except for the big blue X, rising on a crane. From the window of the taxi, the whole city seemed unfamiliar, as though Roy had touched down somewhere new. He started getting less air, reached for the inhaler, felt Gordo’s bullet instead. It had a nice shape, felt comfortable in
