Dead Money, page 10
First and foremost was my job. Been letting that slide far too long. Times like these, if you weren't giving a hundred percent, you weren't entitled to full-time employment. I had to grab the job by the balls. I had to show Jimmy Henderson that I wasn't another Beale.
Because Christ knew, the last thing the world needed was another one of him.
17
"Okay, so let's start with success, yeah? Let's start with the end. You have your sale. How did you get it?"
Silence in the meeting room. There were other salesmen in the room, new lads with frightened faces and few sales to their name. If one of them answered, I'd be surprised. If they'd come away with commissions, chances were it was a fluke lead.
And then one of them spoke up: "Through anticipating the customer's needs and following through on those needs."
He was a young guy, couldn't have been older than mid-twenties. He was lean and hungry-looking, dressed in the kind of suit that looked cheap if you had the time and inclination to study the stitching, but which would fool your average sit. In short, he posed a threat.
The woman in front of the whiteboard nodded vigorously and circled the words CUSTOMER NEEDS on the board. Her name was Trudi. She had bright eyes with nothing behind them. I got the feeling that her non-business attire comprised chiefly of kaftans and cheesecloth. She probably recycled. Bought The Guardian. Not married. No children. Maybe a couple of cats judging by the swathe of hair on the shins of her business slacks. Her hair looked too lacquered to be a daily thing, so I guessed she made an extra effort when she had bullshit seminars to deliver.
But she was happy with the answer, which meant we could move on. And that was all any of us wanted.
"So how do you follow through on those needs?"
"For myself, Trudi, I overdeliver on an undersold good."
Trudi looked confused for a second, but still nodded. She twirled a hand. "Go on."
"Well, it's about managing expectations," he said. "If I've discussed our range with the customer, and I feel they could probably stand to upgrade on what they think they need, then I'll arrange that slight upgrade with what appears to be a minimal jump in price."
Trudi was lost, now. You could tell. She was nodding.
"That way, they're under the impression they got a bargain, while I manage to make sure their needs are not only fulfilled for the short term, but the long term as well."
Trudi kept nodding for a while longer after he'd finished.
Then she wrote LONG TERM on the board. "Long term, yes. So you've over-delivered, and undersold. How do you identify your customer's needs in the first place?"
"The lead," said someone from the back.
"The lead, yes, and ...?"
The room was blank.
Trudi tapped one ear and wrote as she said: "By listening."
Of course, listening. How could we have ever forgotten about that? So glad Trudi was here to tell us the bleeding obvious, otherwise we'd never have managed to make a living at this sales lark. Christ, I was lucky I'd managed to remember putting my trousers on.
I looked at my watch. It was knocking on for lunchtime. This was an all-day thing. So far this morning, I'd learned precisely bugger all. I don't know who found this daft tart, but it was obvious to everyone in the room that she'd never been on a sit in her life. The classic example of a trainer with no concept of the subject she's purporting to train. I felt like telling her, look, this might work for your headset brigade, but real salesmen didn't need this. Real salesmen found this insulting. Sales wasn't about anticipating the customer's needs any more than customer service was about serving them. Sales and customer service went hand in hand – they were both about dissembling. Sales you did it to bring them round to your intended goal, customer service you did it because you didn't have the information to hand, nor did you have any power to serve. I could only imagine the shit that would hit the fan if they gave call centre staff the power to help. And the way to convincingly dissemble was to agree, over and over again. All people ever wanted was someone to agree with them. It was the reason people started talking in the first place, outside of warning grunts. And once you agreed with them enough, they started to feel stupid if they disagreed with you, because in essence they were disagreeing with themselves. So once you were in complete accord, that was when you went in for the kill.
What the new lad had said was solid, though – undersell and over-perform to maximise profit. Plus, he was brief about it.
This bitch, though, she was useless. And remained so until the welcome break for lunch. I let the rest of them fill their boots with the sandwiches and nipped out to call Lucy, but Jimmy Henderson caught me on the way.
"Alan, good to see you. How are you finding the seminars?"
"Yeah, good. Very helpful, Jimmy."
"Glad to hear it. Trudi comes highly recommended."
"I'm sure she doesn't."
A brief shake of the head – he thought he hadn't heard me right. "What's that?"
"Who's the new guy?"
Jimmy grinned. "Just got him in from Centurion. Name's Richard Hudson. Pretty big deal over there."
"How come he's over here, then?"
"He wants to work for a solid outfit, Alan." Jimmy squeezed my shoulder and leaned in close. "He wants to sell the good shit, doesn't he?"
I smiled. "Of course he does."
"You manage to have that word with Les yet?"
"I did a little while back, yes."
"Oh. Right." He pulled back. "You seen him around recently?"
"Here and there, you know. Don't really see him much outside of work."
"I thought you two were mates."
"Not really, Jimmy."
"Just, you seem to hang around a lot ..."
"I'm a friendly bloke," I said, smiling at him, then looking beyond at the huddle around the sandwich table. "And I don't want to see anyone lose their job unnecessarily, do I?"
"No, of course not. Neither do I, Alan. That would be awful. Still, if you see him, let him know I was asking after him, won't you?"
"Absolutely. If I see him, I'll let him know."
"Good man."
Another squeeze of the shoulder, and Jimmy took his lunchtime shake into the meeting room to schmooze with the rest of the sales team. I followed at a distance and headed over to where Frank and Eric were standing. Frank had been working for Warmsafe since the early days, and the story was he could go on a sit and not say a bloody word, but still get that signature. Something to do with the fact he looked like a Bassett hound. People just took pity on him. Eric was the other extreme, a bundle of nervous tics with hair, couldn't sit still and his thin limbs refused to coordinate. He smiled through a mouthful of egg mayonnaise sandwich. When he raised his hand in greeting, he noticed more mayo. When he tried to wipe it off, some of it spattered his tie.
Frank ripped a sugar and dumped it into his tea. "You talked to Les yet?"
"Last week. Haven't heard from him since, mind." I poured a glass of water.
Eric chewed quickly so he could speak. "He knew about the seminars, right?"
"I don't think he's bothered about them, to be honest."
"He knows how important they are."
"I don't know." I sipped some water, leaned in a little closer. "Way he was talking, I wouldn't be surprised if he jacked his job."
Frank raised large eyebrows. "Way he's been selling, I wouldn't be surprised if Jimmy jacked it for him."
"He's got his own stuff to deal with. Way I see it, he's better off out of all this."
Trudi went past. We smiled at her as pleasantly as we could and waited until she was gone before we continued talking.
"We're supposed to be his mates, though."
"You give him a call then, Eric, and see what kind of earful you get."
"Alan's right. Leave him to it."
Eric looked at us both, incredulous. Poor bloke couldn't understand the survival instinct.
Frank patted Eric's arm. "It takes the heat off us, doesn't it?"
"We should at least try, shouldn't we?"
"I'm telling you, Eric, he's not interested in his job. He's got other stuff. Spends most of his time gambling these days."
"What about you?" said Frank.
"Not so much." I took a bite of a chicken sandwich. It was mostly mayonnaise. "Thought I'd get my head down and work, know what I mean?"
"Good idea."
Frank turned a little. "Especially if Jimmy's bringing in help."
"You saw him, too, did you?"
"Couldn't miss him." I dumped the sandwich and dug around in my pocket for my Rennies. Popped two in my mouth and chased them with some water. "Felt like he was running that seminar."
"Somebody had to."
"Where's he from?"
Eric raised a hand. "Jimmy says Centurion."
"Hard sell," said Frank.
"No harder than us on a bad day. But if he's got volume, he's the start of something."
"Even if he hasn't," said Frank. "Jimmy took him on, he obviously thinks there's something there."
"And if he's looking to make cuts, then this Hudson fella isn't additional, he's a replacement."
Frank sipped his tea, then dabbed his moustache with a paper napkin. "So Beale's gone for good, then."
"Bit harsh, isn't it?"
I looked at Eric. "What else are you going to do? Keep his job open indefinitely until his volume picks up? Can't run a business like that."
"He's right," said Frank.
"Talking of which, I've got to go."
We did the see-you-laters and I headed out into the reception. Gave Henderson a friendly wave on the way out and turned on my mobile as soon as I left the building. Nothing from Lucy yet. I'd already left a couple of messages for her this week, but she wasn't answering. Funny way to start again. I hoped she didn't expect me to bump into her at the Dawgz Nadz. I didn't know if any girl was worth another visit to that place. She'd come round, though. Once she realised what she was missing, she'd call me. All I had to do was wait.
18
Just after one o'clock, I pulled in opposite Lucy's place. A light rain had started, so I had to jog across the road to her front door. I pressed the bell.
No answer. I checked my watch. She should've been in. Someone should've been in. I leaned on the bell.
Finally, I saw some movement behind the glass. The door opened to reveal Josh. He was wearing a rugby shirt and boxers and he looked as if he'd just gotten up. By which I mean his hair looked even dafter than usual.
He scratched his arse. "We're not interested, mate. I told the bloke already today. We rent, so you'll have to talk to the landlord."
"Where's Lucy?"
He cocked his head and looked at me. Then he rubbed his face and turned back into the hall. "Lucy, it's Alan for you."
I stepped in and closed the door behind me. Josh padded into the front room. I heard the telly blare what sounded like gunfire. I heard Daz swearing at something and Josh laugh. Lucy appeared at the top of the stairs in a dressing gown. As she came down, I noticed she was frowning.
"Late night, was it?"
"What do you want, Alan?"
"I tried to call you."
"I've been busy."
"So I can see."
She huffed and turned towards the kitchen. I followed her.
"Left a couple of messages, too."
"I didn't get them."
"See, that's what I thought, which is why I came round. I thought we could get coffee or something."
"Not today." She filled the kettle and flicked the switch.
"Okay, then whenever you want."
She looked at her nails, then pushed some hair out of her face. "I don't know. I'm busy."
Something exploded in the living room. It was Josh's turn to swear this time.
"How about Friday? I'll take you out."
"I've got something on that night."
"Then I'll take you out to lunch." I'd never intended on taking her out at night. As far as I was concerned, my nights belonged to Cath, at least for the foreseeable future. I had to stay in her good books. It was much easier to get an alibi from your wife if she liked you. "Wherever you want. Just name it."
"Alright then." She lifted her chin. "Abode."
"Sorry?"
"Abode. Look it up. Give me a call when you have reservations. Until then ..." She shooed me out of the kitchen.
"Okay. Abode it is." I left the kitchen and she showed me to the door. As I passed the living room, I peeked in. Josh and Daz were playing some game on the console, but it wasn't the game that'd caught my eye. It was the pile of Warmsafe leaflets that sat on the coffee table. I walked in, picked one off the top. Josh gave me the once-over then went back to his game. The leaflet was dog-eared and dirty and had a three-year-old logo on it. That crappy cartoon of a window with a crown on it. It meant nothing back then, but it meant a hell of a lot now.
"Where'd you get this?"
Josh didn't look away from his game, so Daz had to give me the filthy looks on his behalf. "I told you, we already talked to one of you lot today."
"Today?" I turned to Lucy. "You see him?"
"Just for a second."
"He was a pushy bastard," said Josh. "Kept wanting in."
"What'd he look like?"
"Short, fat." Josh shot a man in the face. "Smelled a bit like he hadn't had a wash in a while."
He must've stank if Captain Boxers here thought he wasn't clean. Which narrowed it right down. "How long did he stay?"
Josh turned from the game long enough to sneer. "I just took some of that shite off him and told him to do one." He punctuated the sentence with a burst of machine gun fire.
"You know him?" asked Lucy.
"Yeah, I do." I went back out into the hall. "I don't know why he came over here."
"Should I be worried?"
She wasn't entirely serious. Maybe she should have been. I didn't know. I was worried, I knew that much. The only reason I could think of Beale using stock to get through the front door was that he was scouting for a look at Lucy. Why he needed a look at her was another question entirely. "No, probably not."
"What is it?"
"I don't know. Probably nothing. I just want to keep any eye on it, that's all. I've not been taking his calls recently, so he might think this is a way to get back at me."
"Alan, what're you doing with friends like that?"
"Bad decisions. I don't know. Look, if he comes round again, give me a ring, okay? And don't let him in. He's not dangerous or anything, but he might be persistent, In the meantime I'll try and sort it out."
"Okay."
"And I'll also get this Adobe—"
"Abode."
"Yeah, I'll get that place booked."
She took me to the door. Any hostility she'd had for me when I arrived appeared to have gone. She kissed me on the lips and her hand lingered on my chest. And then I was out of there, already searching for Abode on my phone. It didn't take long, and I guessed immediately which one Lucy meant. Michael Caines' name was all over it and a couple of Michelin stars meant big money that I wasn't sure I had to blow on food. I phoned up and booked it for Friday afternoon as I drove out to the next sit.
The Malloy sit was on the Ordsall estate, so I had to pass the canal on the way over there. Didn't look like there was much around where we'd dumped Stevie, but I wasn't going to go down and check. I barrelled past the Riverside and took a left into a series of grey streets, made greyer by the rain. When I turned off onto Blenheim Street, I knew I'd been shafted again. This place didn't have a pot between them. That was if someone actually had the balls to live here. It was possible. Up the road a gang of lads were banging a football off a burnt-out car.
The house was number thirty, off to my right. The gate hung off its hinges, the windows that weren't opaque with muck were boarded up, and the front door looked as if it was the only thing holding the place up. Must've been a set-up, but I wouldn't know for sure until I checked. I pulled the lead from my pocket and called the number on it. Ringing at the other end.
The football banged against the car and then skewed wild, bouncing down the street towards me.
The phone kept ringing. My stomach growled and turned over.
One of the lads, a stringy youth with hair growing through the minefield of spots on his face, grinned at me and belted the ball my way. It slammed against the front of the car, then up onto the bonnet. I flinched. Couldn't help myself. Wanted to get out, but I didn't have the guts. The lad picked up his ball and kicked it back to the others. Turned back to me and gave me a grin that was missing two teeth on the left side and which made him look like a sick old man.
Still ringing at the other end. I killed the call and took a deep breath. It was a blag, maybe a little payback for the MacReady thing. And that was a good thing, really, because it meant I could get out of here.
My mobile rang. The Muppet Show.
I felt like turning it off, but I knew it wouldn't do any good. So I answered.
Beale's voice was cold. "We need to have a word."
"Yes, we do."
"You seen the news?"
I chewed the inside of my cheek. I twisted in my seat, just to see if his banged-up motor was anywhere in sight. The way he was talking to me, it sounded as if he was watching me at the same time.
"Hello?" he said.
"Where are you?"
"Did you hear us?"
"Yes, I heard you. Where are you?"
"They found him."
I stared out through the windscreen, my mouth dry. Up the road, the kids had stopped playing with the football and had taken to jumping backwards off the car. The noise was like static in my head. I hadn't heard the news. And I'd gone by the canal. There was nothing. But then, the other shoe always had to drop, didn't it?
"When?"
"Last night. I've been trying to call you."
I lit a cigarette. Smoke billowed up into my eyes. I waved it away and mopped the tears with the back of my hand. "Alright, so what's the score?"
"We need to have a chat."
"I told you I was out of this."
