TWENTY YEARS AGO
George Carrick was looking fine in his Brioni tuxedo, he imagined—the same kind that James Bond wore. The ballroom carpet felt soft and plush beneath the leather soles of his mirror-polished Church’s shoes. He took his time on the way to the stage, casually strolling from his table—front and center, of course—and basking in the rapturous applause from the appreciative audience. He paused modestly in front of the podium before accepting the Waterford crystal trophy from his grateful boss. He stood for a moment, savoring its weight and substance. It must have been expensive. It should have been expensive, to be a fair reflection of his value over the decade he’d spent as the #1 rental agent in the company. Probably the whole city. The whole country, even.
Then it was time for his speech.
Except that he didn’t give a speech. He wasn’t wearing a tuxedo—just a slightly stretched black suit a dry cleaner had given his old friend Donny in lieu of protection money the previous month. His shoes were from China, not England. They weren’t shiny. The carpet was as thin as toilet paper. There wasn’t a stage or a podium. And there was only one table, crammed in the corner of the cheapest function room at a hotel where the only kind of balling that took place was in bedrooms that were rented by the hour. The boss had at least given him a trophy, though. A four-inch-high hunk of plastic, crudely molded to look something like a guy striding along, holding a briefcase by his side. It was exactly like the ones he’d won for each of the nine previous years. Had the boss bought them in bulk? Probably. He was cheap enough. And he must have stored them somewhere without air-conditioning, because this one had started to melt. Its legs were bowed slightly, like it had rickets. Receiving it was demeaning. He should stick it up the boss’s ass. But he knew he wouldn’t. The sad truth was, he’d take it home and put it on the shelf in the living room with the others. Only maybe at the back, to hide its deformity.
At the nine previous award ceremonies, Carrick had split once his dominance had been recognized and he’d noted which of his colleagues had failed to look sufficiently supportive. This year things were different. He was happy to sit for a while. Finish the rubbery chicken in its tasteless, wine-free sauce. Enjoy the boss’s discomfort as he tried to wriggle out of ordering another bottle of the hotel’s cheapest Asti Spumante. Or nasty spumante, as he’d heard the waitstaff call it. That really summed the boss up. He had a new Rolls-Royce outside—which he always left on the street because he would never spring for valet parking even when it was available—but he wouldn’t stump up for drinkable wine, even on his company’s one big event of the year. He claimed that was because only German wine was worth paying restaurant prices for, since his father was from the Rhineland, and there was none on the list. But everyone there knew the truth.
Carrick drained his final glass and decided it would be wise to hit the bathroom one last time before leaving. When he came out, a coworker named Amber Mitchell was lying in wait for him. Carrick was always wary of Amber. As the only woman on the team, he suspected that she had access to closing techniques that he and the other guys couldn’t offer. Not without subcontracting, which would eat into his commission and was therefore unacceptable. Carrick tried to step around her, but she moved, blocking his path. She reached out, placed her palm on his chest, and started to slide her fingers under his jacket. Carrick was taken aback. He hadn’t seen that coming. Then he realized she wasn’t being amorous. She was going for the trophy in his pocket. He’d had to take it to the bathroom, because with this mob, you can’t even leave a ten-cent trinket unattended.
“Give it to me!” Amber’s words were slightly slurred.
Carrick grabbed her wrist and pushed her away. “If you want the prize, work harder, you lazy bitch.”
“Give it to me.” Amber lunged at him. “You don’t deserve it.”
“The hell I don’t.” Carrick stepped back. “The numbers don’t lie. I’m number one. I always have been. And I always will be. Although I could coach you, if you think there’s a way to make it worth my while…”
“You disgust me.”
“Suit yourself.” Carrick turned to go.
Amber grabbed his arm. “It’s not your results I have a problem with. It’s how you get them.”
Carrick shrugged. “I don’t know what you mean. Every deal I do is fair and square.”
“You’re a liar.” Amber crossed her arms. “How many ethnic minority tenants are there in the buildings you manage?”
“I have no idea. I don’t keep track.”
“Well, I do. There are none. Zero. Zip. And if you ask me, that’s no accident.”
“Are you suggesting I drive ethnic tenants out of my buildings? Because that’s total crap. I’ve never pressured any tenant—of any color or creed—to get out. I swear on the Bible. And I challenge you to prove otherwise.”
“Bullshit.” Amber was swaying a little. “What you do is deliberate. You dog whistle, then you charge racist assholes like yourself extra to live in whites-only buildings.”
“That’s pure fantasy.” Carrick shook his head. “Just some kind of nonsense you dreamed up to smear me with because you’re a bad loser.”
“It’s not nonsense.” Amber wagged her finger. “I have proof. I’ve been watching you. Keeping records. So either you stop, or I’ll turn you in to the city.”
“How can I stop something I’m not doing? That doesn’t make sense. You’re drunk. Go home. Sleep it off.”
“No. I’m serious. I have a friend, a lawyer, and she’s going to help.”
Carrick took a moment to think. He didn’t like where the conversation was heading, all of a sudden. “OK, Amber. Maybe you do have a point. Maybe I do need to make some changes. Some improvements. But I’m sure we can find a more constructive way forward than arguments and threats and lawsuits. Let’s get together. You, me, and your lawyer friend. We can talk. What do you say?”
Amber’s arms dropped to her sides. “Talk. Sure. We could do that.”
“Excellent. Now, listen. I have a showing at one of my buildings tomorrow, first thing. So how about we meet afterward? There’s a bar I know in Queens. It’s a nice place. Out of the way. Informal. Say 10:00 A.M.?”
Carrick watched Amber totter back to the table, then he went in search of a pay phone. He did have a cell, but he figured that with some calls it was better if there was no record. Especially those involving Donny. It was good to have someone like him to rely on, but help comes at a price. The thought of the extra cost he was about to incur killed Carrick’s last remnant of enthusiasm for the party, so right after he hung up he headed for the exit. He was almost outside when he heard a man’s booming voice rumbling down the corridor after him, like a peal of thunder.
“Good night, George.” It was the boss, cutting and running before any more drinks could be ordered. “Congratulations on another win. Same again next year?”
“Actually, no.” Carrick decided that was as good a moment as any to break his news. “I quit.”
“What?” The boss grabbed Carrick’s elbow. “Why? Where are you going? Is this about money? Because if it is, don’t be hasty. The grass is not always greener, you know. So let’s sit down in the morning. Come over to the office. I’m positive we can work something out. I sure as hell don’t want to lose my number one guy!”
“It’s not about money.” Carrick bounced on the balls of his feet. “And I’m not coming to the office. There’s no point wasting your time. Or mine.”
“So what is it?” The boss leaned in close. “Come on. Tell me. You owe me that much, after ten years.”
Carrick had promised himself he wouldn’t say any more. It would be better to just drop out of sight. The boss would soon forget about him. Then, in two years—or three, or five at the outside—he’d reintroduce himself. When he bought the company. And closed it down.
The temptation was too great. Carrick couldn’t hold back. “See, I have money now. And I’ve been putting it to work. I’ve been building my own portfolio. It’s time for me to get serious. For me to be taken seriously. So this is it. I’m crossing the river.”
A huge smile engulfed the boss’s face, broader even than when Carrick had announced that the rent at his largest building had gone up by forty percent. “The Manhattan set? The movers and shakers? Really? You think those guys will ever accept you?”
The sound of laughter was still ringing in Carrick’s ears long after the boss had crossed the street and climbed into his dusty six-figure behemoth.