Chapter SEVEN
It took the sight of bare branches reaching up to the sky, like the naked limbs of skinny old men, to remind Mike Warrington of the surprising number of trees that lined the main street of Cranston, Illinois. Cranston had always been small, but through the eighties it had been a moderately thriving hub of machine-tooling companies that supplied parts for every major industry in America. Now it was home to just two major employers. Mike could see one of them from his booth at the Waffle House: a call center for an insurance conglomerate headquartered on the East Coast. It was located in a strip mall in what used to be a discount electronics warehouse. Rumor along the Waffle House counter was that the 250 jobs—held primarily by locals with, at most, a high school diploma—would soon be outsourced somewhere, probably India.
The other business, and one of two reasons Mike made the seventy-mile trip down from Schaumburg, was ten miles outside of Cranston. Power Industrial Supplies used to be one of the biggest buyers of the precision metal-cutting tools and drills manufactured by Transcon Tooling, the company Mike represented as a regional sales director. Power-I, as they had branded themselves, didn’t seem to be faring much better than the call center. Two of their major customers had gone belly-up over the past six months, and the industry itself was trying to extricate itself from a two-year slump. Consequently, Power-I was buying less and less product from Transcon.
Still, Transcon’s account manager for Power-I, Stephanie Kraus—the other primary reason Mike traveled to Cranston—was starting to turn things around. Stephanie was one of the few women in the business and the only female sales rep who reported to Mike. Still, he knew that once the novelty of buying from a woman wore off, sales would slide again. It might take a while, since Power-I’s buyer, Frank Chadwick, acted as if a thirtyish redhead with an athletic build, an MBA, and a boatload of ambition didn’t notice the gut hanging over his belt, the bad comb-over, or his sophomoric attempts at humor. When Frank revealed, between not-so-discreet glances at Stephanie’s chest during dinner the previous night, that Power-I had entered into an exclusive agreement for milling inserts with one of Transcon’s major competitors, Mike finalized his decision. He kept the decision to himself, though. He didn’t interfere when Stephanie set up a meeting with Frank for this morning.
“Just you today, honey, or will your wife be joining you again?”
The waitress was about his age, Mike guessed. Tight uniform, unaware or unconcerned about the bulges it revealed. Mike pushed his coffee cup toward her for a refill.
“Or is she your daughter?” she asked as she poured. No smile. Eyebrows raised ever so slightly.
“My colleague,” Mike said evenly. Screw these small-town snoops. “She should be here in a few minutes.”
“Sorry. Colleague,” the waitress said, nodding her head, her lips slightly pursed. “Y’all want menus?”
“No, thanks. We’ll probably just have coffee.”
The waitress offered a small, flat smile as she walked away.
Mike was a little ashamed of himself. He’d been in this restaurant at least a dozen times and always pretended it was the first time he’d laid eyes on the waitress. A good salesperson would have chatted her up. Salespeople were friendly, genuinely interested in other people. And for years Mike had played the part, psyching himself up to ask about the kids, the latest scores, the goddamned weather. He knew how to play the game. He’d learned it from his father years ago. Wherever he went with his dad, people called out to talk with him, be with him, get the surefire flattery they knew was coming their way. Everyone in the goddamned state of Ohio, it seemed, loved Bill Warrington. But they didn’t know, really know, Bill Warrington.
Mike was much more comfortable in his current managerial role than with selling. He knew what had to be done. He could tell others what had to be done and how to do it. But he didn’t actually have to do it himself—at least, not as often as he used to. And he didn’t have to kiss ass.
Unless he wanted to.
Mike’s back was to the door, but he knew Stephanie had arrived by the soft, fragrant cloud that seemed to surround her at all times.
She slid into the booth, pulling her briefcase in with her. She glanced around. Mike thought she was about to lean over the table and try to kiss him.
He took a sip of his coffee. “Did you check out?” he asked.
“Mmm hmm,” Stephanie said, arranging herself.
“Receipt?” he asked, checking the inside breast pocket of his jacket for his own.
“God, you’re paranoid. Have I forgotten before? Besides, do you really think some dweeb in accounting is going to compare expense reports and make sure we had separate rooms? He’d probably recommend you for a promotion for cutting expenses.”
Mike offered a tepid smile.
“Would you like a menu, miss?”
Stephanie looked up at the waitress, who had picked up some dirty plates from the next booth.
“Just coffee, please,” Stephanie said.
“Surprise, surprise,” the waitress muttered as she started to walk away.
“Um, just a second,” Stephanie said. “You know, I should have asked months ago, but I don’t know your name.”
“My name?”
Stephanie nodded. “You always give such great service, and you’re the reason I keep coming back here. I should at least know your name.”
Mike could see that the battle-ax wasn’t buying it. “Edna,” she said, voice as flat as the syrup-stained table that Stephanie now had her elbows on.
“Get out of town! That’s my younger sister’s name.”
“Nobody names their kid Edna.”
“Oh, I know!” Stephanie said, turning toward her. “And, no offense, my sister hates the name. But my mom had an aunt Edna who took care of her after my grandma died when my mom was a little girl. Auntie Ed, as my mother called her, was a saint.”
Edna’s face softened. “What’s your sister call herself?”
“Edie,” Stephanie said without hesitation.
“Me, too.” The waitress was smiling now.
“How about that? Well, Edie, it’s so nice to know you.”
“I’ll be right back with your coffee.”
And she was, placing it down carefully and with a smile for Stephanie but not so much as a glance at Mike. Stephanie winked at him as she took her first sip.
“I didn’t know you had a sister,” Mike said.
“I don’t. I just didn’t want that judgmental old biddy spitting in my coffee.” She was wearing a cream-colored top that revealed nothing unless she leaned forward, as she did now. “You seem preoccupied this morning. You were preoccupied last night. What’s up?”
Mike took another sip of his coffee to avoid looking at her. He never was good at this part, and he hadn’t expected things would get to this point so quickly. Or maybe he was just getting impatient with the age difference. Let’s face it—it wasn’t particularly arousing when he mentioned an event or something that had happened to him as an adult, only to realize that she hadn’t yet been born. Maybe he was crazy to even consider doing what he was about to do. Any guy who looked at Stephanie, and almost every one she walked by did, would think so.
“Hey!”
Mike jerked from both Stephanie’s voice and her foot, which was in his crotch. “Stephanie,” he said, in a low voice.
Stephanie slowly removed her foot. “Somebody’s a little sleepy this morning,” she said. “Or doesn’t want to talk with me. Which is it, Michael?”
She sometimes acted young enough to be his daughter; other times, old enough to be his mother.
“No meeting,” he said.
Stephanie frowned. “Canceled? Why? He didn’t call me. How do you—?”
“He didn’t cancel.”
“What do you mean?” She was sitting straight up now, her head cocked. “What’s going on?”
Mike took a deep breath. He’d made a mistake. He had thought a public place would be safest. But this was Stephanie. Had he really thought a crappy little breakfast joint filled with truckers and retirees would stop her from saying what was on her mind?
“I’ll handle the call,” he said. “We’re cutting Power-I loose, Stef.”
Stephanie didn’t react.
“Purely a bottom-line decision,” Mike continued. “The margins aren’t good enough to justify an account manager. We’ll shift them over to our telesales group.”
Stephanie remained quiet for another second. She looked Mike straight in the eye. “Sales are up 10 percent over the same date last year,” she said, her voice even. “They’re picking up new customers. Two big ones in Asia. And your margin argument is bullshit.”
“Stephanie.”
“That’s my bread- and-butter account, Michael, and you know it. You cut them loose and I’m—” She stopped. Her eyes narrowed. She sat back in the booth. “I see,” she said.
“It’s not what you think,” Michael said, careful to maintain eye contact now. “It’s just one of those things. You just need to find prospects with a stronger need for some of our bigger tickets. And I’ve been telling you for some time now the importance of keeping your pipeline filled.”
“Yeah,” Stephanie said, no slouch in the eye contact department. “The pipeline.”
Mike looked at his coffee cup. “I have no doubt you’ll pull in some big orders soon. You’ve got the brains, the motivation, the—”
“Don’t,” Stephanie said, her eyes wide now, warning. “I’m in no mood for some bullshit sales pep talk. Maybe instead you can tell me how I’m going to pay the rent now that 90 percent of my income has just disappeared.”
Mike nodded, trying to appear sympathetic but firm. “You knew this was a commission-based job when you took it, Stef. Shouldn’t put all your eggs in one basket.”
“Is that your secret to success, Michael? Lots of baskets to put your eggs in?”
Mike resisted the urge to glance behind him. He felt the waitress’s eyes on the back of his head, like infrared targets. “You might want to keep your voice down, Stef.”
“Might I?”
He waited. She usually calmed down quickly, but this was new territory. He was tempted to look at his watch. The meeting with Power-I was in fifteen minutes. He’d pick up the PO for the order Stephanie sold last night, then explain how Transcon’s “Customer First” telephone representatives would take care of all of Power-I’s future needs. The horny old bastard there wouldn’t like it, especially when he realized he’d seen the last of Stephanie’s boobs, but his business still needed several of Transcon’s lines. Mike’s numbers wouldn’t take a complete hit.
“Look,” Mike said. He reached across the table and took her hand. She didn’t pull away, as he feared she might. “Line up some solid prospects, and I’ll make some joint calls with you next time I’m down.”
“Yeah? When will that be?”
“Whenever you say. You know that, Stef.” Mike squeezed her hand. “Let’s not mix up the business thing with us.”
Stephanie inhaled deeply, and then covered Mike’s hand with her own. “I should tell you to go f*ck yourself.”
Mike smiled. Crisis averted. For now. “But you won’t?” he asked, dropping a twenty on the table with his free hand.
“I won’t,” Stephanie said. “But you’d better not be bullshitting me. Things would get ugly. Fast.”
Mike had no doubt. “I think you know me better than that,” he said, standing.
As he pulled out of the parking lot, he saw in his rearview mirror that Edna was at Stephanie’s booth. She was holding the coffeepot and talking to Stephanie, whose head was bowed, as if examining something on the table.
Mike glanced at his watch. He’d be a few minutes late for his meeting, but he wouldn’t rush. He would enjoy his last drive through Cranston.