CHAPTER FIVE
I rush back to my desk to both sit by the phone and get fully caught up on what’s going on. I start going over what Matthews sent me and things start making sense.
Team Awesome has been tasked with resurrecting the past.
“We’ve got our work cut out for us,” I tell Rachel, who was somehow not at all shocked about the firings.
The subject of the email was CONSOLIDATION. After reading it, it was pretty clear that Matthews had cleverly orchestrated the firings.
The packets we’d received were clients that got away. Those who’d gotten packets earlier were those who had big clients or deals that they let slip through their hands. It will be our job to resurrect those deals, if not close them outright. He convinced Mason that he and I could close the deals on our own and didn't need the team.
As I look through I feel myself getting overwhelmed.
“I’ve only not closed one deal. How do I now have six to close?”
“That’s what happens when everyone else gets fired,” she says. “Congratulations.”
I look at her with worried eyes.
“Don’t freak out,” she says, “you have a couple of weeks to prepare. How are you guys gonna approach it?”
“We’ll figure all of that out on Monday. In the meantime, I have to get caught up.”
The hairs on my spine have begun to stand and I feel the warmth of competition coursing through my veins. The competitive part of me smiles at the challenge and already my mind starts strategizing, but the new, stress prone me already starts to worry.
“So,” Rachel says, “now you just need a phone and a plan. Still no word from Queens?”
“None,” I say. “And I actually need my phone now.” Waiting around for anything, especially a phone call, has never been a strength. I get a bright idea and pick up my office phone.
“What are you doing?” Rachel asks.
“Calling myself,” I say.
The phone rings for a while then goes to voicemail.
“No luck,” I say, hanging up the phone.
Rachel looks at me with surprise. “That’s it?”
“Of course not,” I say. I put the phone on speaker mode and try again, then again. The third call goes straight to voicemail.
We both look at each other and smile.
“Signs of life,” I say. I pull up the phone tracking screen and jot down the address. “I’ll call you from Queens.”
When I reach the address, I’m not sure it’s correct. It’s not his apartment but a tattoo studio. There are drawings and pictures of tattoos along nearly every inch of the walls. When I first walk in the room is empty, and except for the pictures and the sound of the bell signaling my entry, I’m all alone.
There’s a front desk and a doorway leading to the back that has a veil of hanging beads. A girl walks out from the back, making the beads clack and sound as she parts them like the Red Sea. She has blue hair, a nose ring, and piercings in her eyebrow and the bridge of her nose. She also has lots of tattoos. One tattoo, in particular, stands out. It’s a gold koi fish swimming up a stream along her arm.
“Like the tat,” I say.
“Thanks,” she says. “Pat’s the man. If you want one from him, you have to make an appointment. The earliest is in six weeks.”
“Is he here now?” I ask.
“Just missed him,” she says.
“Do you know where he is? Can you maybe call him? I lost my phone and I think he may have found it. I’m Danny,” I say.
“Oh?” She smiles. “Yeah, did you call like half an hour or so ago?”
“Yes,” I say with excitement.
“Yeah, he was working on someone at the time. The several calls weren’t at all annoying. Not at all.”
“Yeah,” I say, “sorry about that.”
“He tried calling you. I think he may have left a voicemail. Anyway, he’s gone and took the phone with him.”
“Do you know where I can find him or when he’ll be back?”
She hands me a flyer with the headshot of a man with giant holes in his ear and whose entire face is tattooed. ROCHESTER TATTOO CONVENTION.
“Can you call him?”
“I can, but I already know it's no use.”
“I’d really appreciate it if you could try,” I say, “it’s an emergency.”
She lets out a huff. “Yeah, it’s no use but sure.”
She’s right. The line goes straight to voicemail.
“Why don’t you just come back Monday, he’ll be in then.”
“How far is Rochester?” I ask.
She looks at me like I’m crossing a fine line. “Far enough to have to fly to,” she says. “How about I just tell him you came by if he calls, or you just come back Monday. Or you’re welcome to fly there or make the 5 and 1/2 hour drive.”
“Dammit,” I say. “Sorry,” I add quickly. “Meant to think that, not say it.”
“I work in a tattoo shop,” she says. “I’ve heard worse.”
I smile. “Can you let him know Danny came by? And I’ll try back Monday.”
She agrees.
I leave the shop, taking the flyer with me. “Just in case,” I say as I head toward the door. “Thanks for your help. What was your name again?”
“Cassie,” she says.
Monday comes quickly, but not quick enough.
“What do you make of some of these deals?” Matthews asks. He and I are meeting in his office, also with a floor to ceiling glass wall and a suicide proof window.
I’m on edge having spent the entire weekend going over the packets. It’s pretty clear why most of these deals fell through—they were terrible in the first place.
“They need to be triaged,” I say. “Some are so old I’m pretty sure the window of resurrection has long passed. One of the companies doesn't even exist.”
“Did you check the database,” Matthews says, “I found them all listed, though a couple under different names.”
I have a general rule not to say anything in meetings that I haven't verified or backed up, and this is exactly why. In fact, part of our sales training is to always challenge companies to back up what they think with data. They usually can't.
Anything can happen with clients. Companies change names, managers switch companies, anything can and does happen and we keep that data in the customer database.
“I’ll have another look. I want to spend some more time doing background,” I say, trying to buy myself some time.
“Good idea,” Matthews says, “but there are a couple we can split up now.”
There are a few that do look promising that I think I could salvage.
“This deal is far too lucrative to not pursue,” he says of a deal that’s about as realistic as buying beachfront property in the Arctic.
“The pricing is way off,” I say. “They can't afford it and there’s no middle ground. I think it’s a waste on our part.”
“I don’t,” he says. “If you don’t want to work it, I’ll take it. I’m pretty sure I can close it.”
“You take that one, I’ll take the Michaels deal,” I say.
We continue on until we get to the deal I’ve been putting off discussing.
“So,” he says, “heard there might be some history with this one. Maybe I should take the lead with it.”
He’s talking about my deal, which is worth nearly as much as the other deals combined. Of course he wants to take the lead on it. “I think I can handle that one,” I say. “I’ve already got tons of work done on it.”
“Maybe that’s the problem,” he says.
I don’t trust the look in his eyes. “What does that mean?”
“Oh nothing,” he says, “just that maybe a fresh perspective would be good on this. I mean, that’s the whole purpose of this. Switching things up.”
I laugh. “Is that what we’re doing? And here I thought the whole purpose was to close the deals.”
“My mistake,” he says. “I guess I should have explained things better; though Mason seemed to pick up the idea with no problem. But you’re not Mason, obviously.”
I’m suddenly fighting the same stapler-to-skull urge I had last week.
“If you’re sure you want to hold on to it, no problem. Mason has his eye on it, though” he says. “No pressure.”
“It’s like the on-boarding,” I say. “I do well under pressure.”
His phone suddenly goes off. “I’ve gotta run,” he says. “Meetings and closings, story of my life.”
“Yeah, same here,” I say. “Let’s pick up later today or early tomorrow.”
“Wish my schedule was as open as yours,” he says. “Let me get back to you. I really gotta bolt.”
I head to Queens during lunch. Though it’s now Monday, I feel like I’m having Friday dejavu.
“I really need my phone.”
“I already told you, he’s not back yet.”
“Can you give me his number, so I can call him and arrange things myself. I get that you don’t want to be the middle man—or woman.”
“Nope, certainly don’t. And nope, you can’t. You have the number to the shop. Just keep calling,” she says. “I’m sure you’re going to do it anyway.”
I feel anger beginning to bubble. “Look, I’ve been naked in the guy’s apartment. There’s a certain level of intimacy established.”
She laughs. “Oh, don’t I know it.” She has a smirk on her face. “Maybe that’s why he doesn’t want you to have his number.”
“Excuse me?” I'm both offended and afraid what she's saying is true.
I switch tactics and begin playing the part of a professional. “I’ve got a work trip coming up and I really need my phone. I’ve got something really important to do and I need the info in my phone to do it. It’s crucial.”
“Maybe you should have backed up this super important info. Anyway, it’s just another day. He’s gotta big job there and he can’t have you bugging him every minute about a phone that you should have backed up or not left in the first place.”
I look at her with a tempered temper. She’s right and at this point playing gatekeeper with the phone. One thing I know from many nights of clubbing is that you don’t piss off the doorman. I also really like her tattoo. The fish is almost hypnotizing. Maybe I’ll get more work on my sleeve here, so I don’t want to burn any bridges. Also I make it an effort to be patient and nice to females. Rachel’s parents raised me with a little respect.
“Ok,” I say. “Sorry if I came off gruff. Going through way too much at the moment. I need my phone and tat therapy.”
She laughs. “I get it,” she says. “Come back tomorrow. You’ll have one less worry on your plate.”