Jimmy Klinsman slackened his pace and scanned the line of iPad screens. He spotted his name on one of them. Strode forward. Dropped his battered leather Gladstone bag at the feet of the guy who was there to greet him and continued toward the exit without saying a word. The chauffeur felt that he showed extraordinary restraint when he didn’t drop-kick the bag onto the roof of the smoking shack. Instead he picked it up and followed his client, making sure never to get closer than six feet away. He wondered if Klinsman would confuse his disdain for respect, but didn’t care too much either way.
“Wait.” Klinsman stopped. “You’re not my regular guy.”
“No. I’m not.”
“Why?”
“I’m sorry. I’m not here for that kind of thing.”
“What are you talking about?”
“My job is to wrangle your baggage and drive you to your destination. Not to speculate about my own existential nature. That costs extra.”
Klinsman’s top lip wrinkled as if he’d taken a mouthful of something rancid. “I mean, where is my regular guy?”
“He was selected for astronaut training, so he’s now en route to a NASA camp in the desert in New Mexico.”
“Seriously?”
“Of course not. He has a gallbladder infection. He’s out for two weeks, minimum.”
“What’s your name?”
“McCarthy. Paul McCarthy.”
“I’ll remember that. Are you any good?”
“I believe you’ll find my performance to be satisfactory in several respects. If not, I can provide you with the number for our customer complaint hotline. Although I suspect you already have it.”
“Come on. Get me to my office ASAP, and we’ll see.”
All the exit routes from the airport were seething with traffic, as usual, but as they were about to join the Van Wyck the driver spotted a gap between a taxi and another limousine. He hit the gas, hard, and as the car surged forward a folder slid out from beneath the passenger seat. In the mirror he saw Klinsman reach down and pick it up.
“At least you’re reasonably cheerful.” The driver accelerated again to avoid getting blocked off by a minivan.
“What?” Klinsman threw the word forward like it was a physical thing with sharp edges.
“You’re more cheerful than my last client.” The driver forced his way into the outside lane. “I picked him up at his office, in Midtown. He seemed gloomy when he got in the car, then he started reading a bunch of papers and I swear I actually saw the will to live leave his body. I was genuinely worried he was going to slit his wrists where he sat.”
“Stop.” Klinsman held his hand up. “Say one more word and I’ll see to it you’re fired.”
“One more word.”
“Did you just speak?”
“Sorry. Misunderstanding.” The driver looked in the rearview mirror until he locked eyes with Klinsman, then mimed that he was zipping his lips. Klinsman sneered in return.
In silence, Klinsman turned his attention to the folder. He started to read. Soon he was starting to feel a strong emotion, too, like the guy he’d just been told about. Only in his case, it wasn’t despair.
The driver checked the interior of the car very thoroughly when he dropped it around the corner from the limousine depot. The folder was definitely gone from the backseat. Klinsman must have taken it. Along with all of its contents. All the documents that outlined in great detail a fatal flaw that had come to light in a well-known company’s signature product. They confirmed that its regulator knew all about the problem. A confidential memo from a PR consultant suggested a range of strategies to contain the fallout when the bad news inevitably broke. The president of finance had projected the losses she expected to ensue. Their broker had forecast the hit their share price was likely to take. To ensure that these points were clear, graphs were included. They showed a series of red lines plunging relentlessly toward catastrophe. Even the most hopeful scenario ended with a total wipeout.
The driver couldn’t resist a smile. He just wished he could snag a seat at Klinsman’s next dinner party. Shorting is dangerous, Ro Lebedow had said. The losses can potentially be infinite…