Jennifer Government: A Novel (43 page)

“
H
ello?”

“Jim GE?”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Jennifer Government.”

“Oh—”

“Jim, I’m calling to tell you the Government has identified and located the perpetrators in your case. I’ll be sending you my case file in the next few days. You should choose a legal firm so you can prosecute.”

“You know…you know who killed Hayley?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, God. Thank you—thank you so much—”

“You’re welcome. Goodbye, Jim.” She put down the phone.

Buy was looking at her. “All done?”

“Yes,” she said.

The woman flicked the pages of John’s CV back and forward, back and forward. He forced himself to wait. He was not going to lose his cool with this interviewer, no matter how much of a condescending, tight-haired, natty-glasses-wearing bitch she was.

She looked up. “You were a Nike Liaison?”

“Yep.” He drummed his fingers on his thigh.

“Wasn’t there some trouble… wasn’t Nike one of the main instigators in the—”

“Aw, that was such a beat-up.” John smiled. “Okay, yes, some people got a little gung ho, but the rest of us were far more cautious.”

“But you did work for US Alliance?”

“Not on
that
side of things,” John said. “I was more into customer promotions and the like.”

“I see,” she said. “And this was…twelve years ago?”

He held the smile. “That’s right.”

“And since then you’ve been…”

“Working on special projects.”

“I see…” She stood and offered him her hand. “Well, thanks for your time, John. We’ll be in touch.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

He made himself say: “Thank you for the opportunity. I really appreciate it.”

She smiled. On his way out, she said, “Have a nice day, now.” His hand tightened on the handle. His vision flared white. He closed the door carefully and walked away.

F
or a city devoted to the automobile, Los Angeles wasn’t offering John much in the way of cabs. In fact, it wasn’t offering him much, period. He regretted coming back here. He remembered this place as being much cooler.

He walked along Wilshire for a block and a half before gaining a cab’s attention. As he walked toward it, a guy in a snappy suit emerged from a restaurant and strode forward.

“Hey!” John said. “Asshole! My cab!”

The suit turned. It was the Pepsi kid.

“Holy shit,” John said.

The Pepsi kid—not a kid anymore, of course; he was as old as John had been—grabbed his hand and shook. “John! I almost didn’t recognize you! What are you doing here? Man, how long has it been?”

“Hey, wow,” John said, thinking:
What was his name again?

“Geez, sorry, I didn’t mean to steal your cab.”

“No…” He waved the apology away. This was an opportunity, bumping into the Pepsi kid: a huge opportunity. “How’ve you been?”

“Great, just great. I’m V.P. Sales at PepsiCo now, did you hear?”

“No.”

“Man, I’m so jazzed to see you out of jail. No place for a guy like you. When did they let you out?” “Two weeks ago.”

“What a gyp,” the kid said. “I still can’t believe Nike wouldn’t front for your defense. I mean, I know why, but…”

“Those assholes—” He stopped himself. “Anyway, I’m looking for a job.”

“Hey! If you’re in need, Pepsi will take you in a second. I mean it.”

“Really?”

“You’re the man, John. Just say the word.”

John felt a rush of genuine gratitude. The Pepsi kid had been a good friend, except for the end, and that could be forgiven, couldn’t it? Under the circumstances. “Pal, I’ll take anything with ‘marketing executive’ in the title. I’m getting crucified out here.”

The kid’s face fell. “Well, John, we couldn’t put you in marketing.”

“What?”

“It’d be a bad idea to put you at a customer interface. After… you know.”

“So what kind of job are you talking about?”

“We’ve got an opening in Credit, and I think something in Order Processing—”

“Credit?
You think I’m going to work in
Accounts?”

“I’m trying to help you out, buddy.”

“Hey!” the cabby called. “Someone getting in here or what?”

John jabbed at the kid’s chest. “I’m an
executive
. I was
this close
to executing the greatest goddamn business coup in history!”

“Yeah, well,” the Pepsi kid said, “no offense, but close doesn’t get the cigar, you know?”

“You little fuck,” John said.

“I have to go. If you want a job, give me a call.”

“One day, we’re going to finish what we started!” John shouted. “Nothing’s changed, you know! One day, we’re going to try this again, and
win!”

“Maybe,” the kid said, getting into the cab. “But not with you, John.”

Most of the time, being a writer means sitting in front of a computer and fighting against the urge to play Minesweeper. It’s like that for a couple of years and then you get published and everyone wants to talk to you at once. But some people are there from the beginning, and these are the ones you can’t do without.

Kassy Humphreys, Gregory Lister, and Roxanne Jones read an early draft and provided excellent, much-needed feedback. So did Wil Anderson and Charles Thiesen, in amazing and profoundly helpful detail that took far too much of their time. Geoff Wong vetted some chapters for wild claims about computer viruses. Carolyn Carlson convinced me to cut a major character, which was painful and difficult and a really good idea. Todd Keithley, my ex—literary agent, provided enormous support throughout the writing of the book, and when he quit his job left me devastated and convinced I’d never be published again. Luke Janklow, my rockin’ new agent, made sure I
was
published again. He also landed me with an editor more insightful and assiduous than I could have hoped for in Bill Thomas, who somehow managed to write a five-page edit letter I totally agreed with. Finally, Jen, my brilliant and beautiful wife, kept me happy when the words weren’t coming, got excited with me when they were, and continues to make my life hilarious.