Lords of Corruption (2 page)

"Thanks for the sympathy, Cindy."

"No, seriously, Josh. I'm starting to tear up. I better go get a tissue."

She swayed back to the bar, and once again, he watched. She seemed to get more perfect every time he saw her. Not only the long legs disappearing into the ridiculous plaid miniskirt that the bar's waitresses were forced to wear but the fact that the sun always seemed to be shining around her.

Which, in a way, it did. Her parents were rich, her grades were irrelevant, and half the guys on campus would kill the other half to get a date with her.

He, on the other hand, was screwed.

He'd just left his last on-campus interview, and though the interviewer had been perfectly nice, it was clear that he -- like al
l t
he res
t c
ould spot a loser when he sa
w o
ne. It was easy for Josh to hide his past from his friends but not so easy to keep it from a professional recruiter with half a brain and an Internet connection. Every corporate interaction he'd had followed the same pattern: the recruiter's initial excitement at seeing his resume and setting up a meeting followed by a cool, disinterested interview, culminating in a polite letter saying that he wasn't what they were looking for.

The rest of the beer went down even more easily than normal, and a moment later Cindy returned with another one. When she tried to take his empty glass, he grabbed it and wouldn't let go. Her brow furrowed and her head tilted, but she finally retreated to the bar empty-handed.

Josh slid it to the edge of the table -- the first of many. A monument to the weight of the responsibilities bearing down on him and the fact that he'd lived up to none of them. His medium? Pint glasses and dying brain cells.

His cell phone rang, and he looked down at the incoming number. Laura.

His sister had an uncanny ability to remember his interview schedule and religiously called after each one to see ho
w t
hings had gone. Amazingly, this wasn't ne
w s
he'd done the same thing when he'd been looking for engineering jobs after getting his undergrad degree. She'd been twelve at the time.

He turned the phone off and jammed it back into his pocket. What would he say to her? She was annoyingly difficult to lie to, so he'd have to spend some time devising and rehearsing something plausible a creative recasting of the truth.

And what exactly was the truth? That strapping yourself with a mountain of debt to get an MBA because no one would touch you with a ten-foot pole after you graduated near the top of your class in engineering school wasn't a work of genius?

The worst part, though, was that deep down he'd known that the whole time. He'd run away from the world, retreating to the only place he could convincingly pretend not to be a loser. School.

He sat there for well over an hour, slumping farther and farther into his seat as the alcohol slackened his muscles but not his anger -- at himself, at the companies that had no concept of the idea of second chances, at the world. He leaned forward and looked through the empty glasses lined up along the table's edge, trying to focus o
n t
he distorted image of the building beyond. A guy in a suit had just taken a stool at the bar and was trying to get a conversation going with Cindy. He clearly wasn't a student -- suit, tie, and a midsection in irreversible-growth mode. Traveling salesman. Vacuum cleaners. Maybe encyclopedias.

Josh snorted at his own bad joke and pulled a pen from his pocket. Using a damp napkin and his six-figure education, he calculated how long it would take to pay off his student loans working at a Jiffy Lube. If he went back to his ramen-and-hot-dog diet, lived under a bridge, and managed to hold on for the average American life span, he'd make his last payment two years after he was dead.

"Cindy!" he yelled, noting that the telltale slurring had begun. "Tequila!"

He watched her approach through the lens of the glasses and immediately downed the shot she slid onto the table.

"Tequila and self-pity don't mix so well," Cindy said disapprovingly.

He squinted up at her. "Okay. Now I've hit rock bottom. I'm being lectured by a twenty-one-year-old waitress."

"I'm twenty-two, and you're being an asshole, Josh." She slapped the side of his head and started back toward the bar. This tim
e h
e just stared down at the grain in the tabletop.

She was right. And not just about her age. He pushed himself into a sitting position and took a deep breath to clear his head. Sure, he'd come up with a big goose egg from on-campus interviews. But the world didn't end at the well-manicured lawns of the university. What about the interview he had next week at a local company that was advertising in the paper? He was wildly overqualified, and the pay probably wouldn't be much more than he could make fixing cars, but at least it would be a foot in the door that led to the mysterious world of the white collar.

"Mind if I join you?"

He hadn't noticed the man who had been sitting at the bar approach and would have been startled if he hadn't been so drunk.

"Why?" was all he could get out.

The man laughed and slid into the opposite side of the booth. "You're Josh Hagarty, aren't you?"

"Do I know you?" The response was just a reflex. The man was probably in his mid-forties with an acne-scarred complexion and an oddly shaped bald spot that would be hard to forget.

"I'm John Balen." He reached across th
e t
able and shook Josh's hand before leaning back and loosening his tie. "I'm a recruiter for an organization called NewAfrica. We're based in New York."

That sobered Josh up a bit. "I didn't see you on the schedule."

"We weren't on it. We've never been all that impressed with the on-campus interview format, you know? Kind of a cluster-fuck, and in our experience you don't end up getting the right people. Everyone's angling and got their game face on."

Josh's mind was still running at less than half speed, and he couldn't figure out where this conversation was going. Was the guy just bored and wanted someone to talk to?

"So, who are you interviewing?" Josh asked, more to be polite than anything. He could see Cindy coming their way. Maybe to save him.

"Just two people, actually. A guy from California and you."

And in the end, she did save him -- arriving just before he could start to stammer. "Can I get you guys anything?"

Josh looked at the line of glasses on the table and silently cursed himself. For very good reasons, he almost never drank. One Newcastle a week when he wasn't saving up for interview clothes. And now here he wa
s l
ooking like the poster child for Alcoholics Anonymous in front of a guy who had come from New York just to interview him.

"Uh, just the check, Cindy."

Balen held a hand out. "I got it."

She looked at him with an expression that suggested their conversation at the bar hadn't gone all that well. "They're on the house."

"No way," Josh said. "You don't have to do that."

She ignored him and began writing on a napkin she'd pulled from her apron. When she was finished, she slid it into the breast pocket of his jacket. "That's the address of my new apartment and my phone number. Why don't you come over tonight and I'll make you dinner."

If it had just been the five pints he'd consumed, he could have handled this many things coming at him at once. But the tequila had put him over the edge.

"Uh, I don't think I'd be very good company."

"Come anyway. You wouldn't believe the lengths I'll go to to cheer you up."

Josh stared blankly at her as she once again walked away. Finally he turned back to Balen. "I'm sorry. What were we talking about?"

"We were talking about our interview process."

"That'd be the process where you sneak up on people in bars."

Balen smiled. "We do our research from New York, narrow down our prospects, and then do a few interviews. It's kind of unusual, but it's been pretty effective, you know?"

"Why me?"

"Jesus, Josh. Have you looked at your resume lately? Why not you?"

Josh chewed his lower lip for a moment, his badly impaired mind spinning things in ways he knew he'd regret. But he was fed up. It was time to get off this roller coaster and settle for something realistic. "You should just hire the guy from California, John. You're wasting both our time."

"Yeah, but it's my time. And if you don't mind me saying so, you don't look all that busy."

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the line of glasses on the table and wondered why the hell Cindy hadn't taken them until he remembered wrestling with her to keep the first one.

"So. Any interest, Josh? Can I tell you a little about the company?"

"I guess."

"We're a nonprofit focused on creating sustainable agricultural projects in Africa. The motto of the charity is 'Helping people who are willing to help themselves.' We've had a lot of success and done some good things for people who really needed it."

"Africa?"

"That's what I said. Africa."

Josh had never even been west of Missouri. Or was Africa east? He'd never thought about it.

"So, have you ever considered working for a charity, Josh?"

"Not really, no."

He regretted the words almost before they were out of his mouth. The conversation was starting to counteract the effects of the booze, and the memory of his desperation was getting the better of his cynicism.

"Why not?"

It was a good question that would have been complicated to answer dead sober. The truth was that it just wasn't in his culture. His people were the recipients of charity, not the providers. That was a whole other world.

But that would be a little too much honesty. Balen had clearly done this on purpose. He could have called and set up a meeting. Hell, he could have come over before Jos
h h
ad plowed through half a keg. He wanted Josh off guard. But he was going to be disappointed.

"Honestly, I think it would be incredibly fulfilling work, John. But I've never known anyone who's worked for a charity. And business school, doesn't really push you down that path. . . ."

"I'll bet. They tell you to graduate, make a bunch of money, buy a big house. It's the American way. But not the only way, you know?"

Josh nodded in a manner that was calculated to look deep as Balen pulled an envelope from his pocket and held it out across the table.

"First-class plane ticket. Flies out tomorrow morning."

"To where?"

The surprise must have been audible in his voice because Balen did a bad job of stifling a laugh. "Relax, kid. New York, not Congo. We'd like you to come out, meet some of our people, get the tour. You know, see what you think."

Josh opened the envelope and stared down at the ticket. He'd never been on a plane before. And he sure as hell had never been to New York City.

"Thanks, Mr. Balen. I don't know what t
o s
ay. I really appreciate you giving me the opportunity."

"You know how you can thank me, Josh?" "By doing a good job for your organization?"

"Well, that would be nice, but no. I was hoping you could tell me how you get free beer and a hell of a lot more than a dinner invitation from that waitress."

Josh hadn't been ready for the change in subject, and he blinked dumbly. "Uh, I had a little help on that one. We used to go out."

Balen leaned forward over the table. "Really? My old girlfriends all hate my guts. What's your secret?"

Josh thought about it for a moment and shrugged. "I like them."

Chapter
2.

It had been an unpleasant and undignified trip, but he'd finally made it.

Josh Hagarty stood on the corner with his back pressed against the building behind him, watching people flow by. Every few seconds there would be a break in the pedestrian traffic sufficient for him to see the brownstone he'd been given the address to. And every glimpse was followed by a wave of nausea.

He'd thrown up twice in the plane's minuscule bathroom -- a combination of anxiety, his first time flying, and a moderately bad hangover. The taxi had been wors
e t
he driver seemed to think that the only appropriate position for an accelerator pedal was completely released or pressed to the floor. But Josh had held it together. Barely.

Josh looked down at his watch and followed the second hand on its trip around the face. When it hit the 12, he starte
d a
cross the street, breathing into his hand to make sure the pack of Altoids he'd purchased was doing its job.

The door was mostly glass, with "New-Africa" etched into a stylized representation of the continent. He looked into his reflection, smoothed a few waves from his hair, and searched briefly for anything that might be stuck in his teeth.

When he stepped through, he found an interior that was nice, but not the antique mahogany and Oriental rugs he'd daydreamed about during those endless tax-law classes. He wasn't exactly in a position to be critical, though. It was a hell of a lot more swanky than the Formica counter and cash register that might be his alternative. Besides, too much opulence would undoubtedly work against him -- amplifying the city's uncanny ability to disorient and intimidate him. He'd seen hundreds of movies set in New York, but they'd done little to prepare him for the overwhelming reality of it