Chapter 35

The Pitch

For a brief, jarring moment Lisa was thrown airborne, only to be slammed back down a fraction of a second later. She rode in the front passenger seat of a town car that sped down Portland’s broken patchwork of streets. The driver, in a rumpled suit and tie, murmured a quiet apology and Lisa responded with a weak smile. Her stomach felt stuck in her throat, and she grasped the door handle and braced for the next blow. She was grateful to not be stuck in the back seat. She peeked over her left shoulder at the three creatives who shared her car—the two Mikes and Steve. They seemed unfazed by the bumpy ride, their eyes glued to their phones, laps weighed down with messenger bags, each holding a travel coffee mug. Chris, who apparently had seniority, rode in the other vehicle with George.

Before leaving Burnam & Green, Lisa only had time to grab her raincoat and backpack. She hoped George wasn’t expecting her to take notes, or actually say or do anything at this meeting. Her role as a temp was supposed to be limited to sitting at a desk, answering phones, maybe doing some light data entry. Attending a pitch to a major client was not in the Temporary Heroes handbook.

Lisa opened her backpack and took a quick inventory. With a sinking feeling she realized it contained absolutely nothing useful for a situation like this, not even pens or paper. Thanks to Jamie’s new-found obsession with earthquake preparedness, it did hold—a two-liter bottle of water, a box of granola bars minus the one she’d had for breakfast, a flashlight, a whistle, a packet of turkey jerky, a basic first aid kit, travel toilet tissue, and a backup battery for her phone. Jamie told Lisa proudly that with these supplies, she could survive for approximately three days if she also collected her own urine and drank it. Lisa was not terribly comforted by that thought. Urine was just not happening. She’d have to be content with two days.

The car finally slowed and pulled up to the curb. Lisa thought about just waiting with the driver, then her door opened and there stood George with a smile, holding out his hand for her to take. She ignored him and stepped out, hefting her backpack over her shoulder.

She looked straight up at the skyscraper, nicknamed the Big Pink for its sleek rose gold exterior. Momentarily dizzied by its height, she shook off the vertigo and dashed through the drizzling rain, following the creatives through the lobby door to a bank of elevators.

“That bloodsucker Smith bought this building for a song after the quake and put his entire crew on repairs day and night while the rest of the city was still pulling its collective head out of its ass, including your mother,” said George to Lisa as he called the elevator.

Lisa’s heart skipped a beat at the name Smith. “Who is Smith?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. The elevator arrived and they all stepped in, George last.

“Seriously?” he said turning to Lisa. “Victor Smith of VSC. Victor Smith Construction. He owns half the property in Portland and is working on buying the other half. Now that everyone’s scared shitless, they’re offloading properties as fast as Victor can buy them.”

“But he’s a crook,” Lisa blurted out.

“And that’s a problem why?” asked George.

“He should be in jail,” said Lisa.

The creatives all laughed, like she’d said the punch line to a joke.

“Probably, but let’s hope he stays out of prison. If this pitch goes right, we can drink from the ample VSC teat to the tune of two million a quarter.”

The creatives exchanged premature high fives, faces plastered with smug grins. Lisa just glared. The elevator dinged to mark their arrival on the thirtieth floor and the creatives filed out. George followed then turned back when he noticed Lisa hadn’t moved. He caught the door before it could close.

“The meeting is this way,” he said, gesturing toward a
cavernous lobby.

Lisa tapped the button for the ground floor. “I think I should leave,” she said in a low voice. “My mother wouldn’t like that I’m at Victor’s office.”

“Your mother? She also wouldn’t like me sharing the details of how you and I met with those politicos she’s been cozying up to,” said George with a smirk. “But maybe I will. That would throw a wrench in her gubernatorial ambitions.”

Lisa glared at him. “Remember, George, I have a lot to share as well.” She didn’t like how the Mikes were hovering nearby, attempting to eavesdrop on every word of their hissed conversation. “Fine, I’ll stay,” she snapped and stepped out of the elevator.

Steve and Chris had already checked in at the reception desk and were being led across the lobby by a young woman wearing a suit and heels.

Lisa started toward them, then felt George’s hand on her shoulder. She shrugged him off and shot him a warning look.

“Sorry,” he said, his hands raised apologetically.

Lisa waited for him to step ahead, then followed. She took a quick glance around the lobby. It felt more Las Vegas casino than a place of business. Gold leaf adorned the walls and trim, and the floor was paved with a dozen shades of marble. The space was arranged with white leather sofas and side tables holding ornate vases filled with fresh flowers. A cut-glass chandelier was circled by a fresco of naked nymphs dancing at the foot of Mount Hood.

For a moment, she felt eyes on her. Lisa swung around and scanned the sofas, the reception desk, and each floral monstrosity, but she couldn’t see that anyone was watching. She felt a flash of terror that she’d run into her mother. Ellen could easily be here coordinating with VSC on one of a dozen rebuilding projects. Thankfully, her mother was nowhere in sight.

Lisa shook off her uneasiness and followed George into a large conference room. The space was startlingly sparse and modern compared to the repellent splendor of the lobby. An oblong table flanked by black leather executive chairs dominated the room, and a flat-screen monitor pulsed on an otherwise unadorned wall. She turned around and gasped. The opposite wall was entirely glass and featured a stunning view. The rain had stopped, and the sky had cleared enough to reveal the peak of Mount Hood floating in the distance above a thick cloud bank. Below, Portland was spread before them in all its ragged beauty. Cranes embellished with the VSC logo towered over countless buildings.

“Victor is like a virus,” her mother had said last week at dinner. “He keeps spreading and building his influence.”

Lisa hadn’t understood how true that was until this moment.

George waved at her, indicating she should sit next to him. Reluctantly, she did. Everyone seemed to have something to do but her. Remotes, dongles, and laptops were hooked up, turned on and tested. She watched as George flipped rapidly through the slides, his mouth moving silently as he ran through each frame, practicing the words that could bring his firm millions.

Suddenly, everyone looked up, and Lisa followed their gaze to the door. Victor Smith entered, wearing a beautifully tailored pinstripe suit, a blinding white shirt, and a tie with a pattern that was discordant in just the right way. He was tall with full head of dark gray hair. He wore a pair of black-framed glasses that gave him the appearance of a college professor, yet did nothing to diminish the aura of power and confidence he exuded. They all stood, not knowing what else to do.

“George, you son of a bitch.” Victor walked around the table and shook George’s hand briskly. “I’m so glad we could finally make this meeting happen.”

“As am I. Should we get start—”

Victor interrupted him. “My son Patrick will be joining us. He’s learning the ropes from his old man.” He looked back at the door. “Where is that kid?”

Lisa’s heart skipped a beat. Patrick?

George leaned toward Lisa and whispered, “If his son is half the man Victor is, he’ll be three feet tall.”

In spite of herself, Lisa laughed at George’s terrible joke.

Reaching the door, Victor spoke to someone waiting in the hallway. “Patrick, get in here.”