The Consultant Read online

  Phil stopped by his office mid-morning. Craig was checking the schedule to see who was up—Tyler was currently being interviewed—when Lupe buzzed and announced that Phil was here. Craig went out to meet him. “I was just going to walk down to the break room,” Craig said.

  Phil looked him over. “Yeah. You could use some exercise.”

  “Hilarious.” He turned to Lupe. “Do you want anything?”

  “No, I’m fine, thanks.” She held up a silver thermos bottle. “I brought my own tea.”

  “Okay. I’ll be back in ten minutes,” he told her.

  “So,” Phil said as they started walking. “When’s your interview? Tomorrow?”

  “Today,” Craig said. “The whole division.”

  His friend seemed surprised. “Mine, too. Who’s doing yours, Patoff?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Mine, too. That fucker’s busy, isn’t he?” The corridor was empty, and they walked slowly, not wanting to get to the break room too quickly, wanting to speak freely without others around. “Have you thought about what you’re going to say?”

  Craig shrugged. “I’ll just answer whatever questions he asks me.”

  “I know what I’m going to say.”

  “What?”

  Phil grinned. “How to save the company.”

  “Here we go.”

  “I’m serious,” Phil insisted. “That’s the whole point of this consultant thing, isn’t it? Saving CompWare? Well, it’s also an opportunity for us to step up. There’s no reason Matthews should be relying on the suggestions of outsiders. There are plenty of people here who have good ideas and who know the company. They’re wasting who-knows-how-many-thousands of dollars on BFG, when there’s salaried talent in-house who can do the same thing for free.”

  “You have a point,” Craig admitted.

  They reached the break room and were both glad to see that it was empty. Craig popped in a quarter and got himself some straight black coffee from the coffee machine, while Phil purchased some sort of cellophane-wrapped pastry from one of the other vending machines.

  They sat down at one of the tables. Craig spotted a security camera in the corner of the room and instinctively lowered his voice. “So what’s your big plan?”

  “We start making things.”

  “Making things? We already do.”

  “I’m not talking about software. The future is in proprietary hardware. Look at Apple. They have the hype machine so well-tuned that every time they make some minor adjustment to one of their products, the sheep are lined up around the block to buy it. Look at smartphone makers. They inundated the airwaves with meaningless tech-sounding buzzwords like ‘3G’ and ‘4G,’ and now every student and secretary on the street is spouting that gobbledygook to justify purchasing the latest version of phones they already have. What we need to do is tap into that market. We need to create some sort of mobile device that exclusively runs our games.”

  He grinned. “My idea? Out of the gate, we say it’s ‘5G’ to give it that must-have appeal.”

  “But it wouldn’t be fifth generation.”

  “How many of the yokels even know that ‘G’ stands for ‘generation’? And how many of those know the specific differences between generations of product? If they get a chance to lord it over the Joneses and tell everyone that they have 5G, they’ll be happy.”

  “So, basically, you want us to make a DS.”

  “No. Not exactly. Ours would be connected. And this is only the basic template. I’m expecting everyone else to add their ideas, too.”

  Another duo entered the break room—two secretaries from another department—and by tacit agreement, they changed the subject. They started talking about TV shows, and Craig described a new cartoon that Dylan had been watching yesterday. “It reminded me of Ren and Stimpy. Remember that one?”

  “That was kick-ass!” Phil said.

  One of the secretaries frowned at them.

  That was their cue, and they stood up to leave, Craig giving the security camera in the corner one last surreptitious glance before walking out the door.

  “So what time’s your interview?” Phil asked as they started down the hall.

  “Noon.”

  “You’re before me then. Why don’t you stop by when you’re through, tell me how it went down.”

  Craig nodded. “All right.”

  Curious himself about how the interviews were going, he went to see if Tyler was back in his cubicle immediately after leaving Phil. The programmer was indeed there, and when Craig asked him how it went, he did not look up from his monitor. “Fine.”

  There was nothing else forthcoming, and after an awkward pause, Craig asked his friend, “So what happened?”

  “Oh, nothing much.”

  This was starting to get annoying. “Tyler,” he said. “What did the consultant ask you?”

  “I can’t tell you.” For the first time, the programmer looked up from his computer. “The interviews are supposed to be confidential. I had to sign a non-disclosure agreement.”

  That made sense, Craig supposed. But Tyler’s attitude was defiant rather than apologetic, and something about the way his friend was acting seemed odd. It made him wonder if the consultant was going on some kind of fishing expedition, with himself as the target. He had no idea why that would be the case, but it did not seem nearly as far-fetched as it should have.

  Craig wanted to ask Tyler if they had discussed him or the division as a whole during the interview, or if the consultant had merely wanted to know the specifics of Tyler’s own job, but he knew that, even if he asked, the programmer would not answer, so he said goodbye and walked back up to his office. On the way, he passed a poster that had been placed on the wall of the corridor in the few minutes that he had been in the programmers’ work area. It showed a comical cartoon vampire with a conversation bubble above his head saying “Give Blood!” Beneath the vampire were the dates next month of a company-sponsored blood drive and the statement “Participation Mandatory.”

  Mandatory? That was new. Was this one of the consultants’ suggestions? Some sort of attempt to get them to come together as one big happy family? It didn’t seem logical, but he could think of no other explanation.

  Was this even legal? he wondered. Could a company force its employees to give blood? Not Christian Scientists, he assumed, or other people with religious objections.

  It didn’t matter to him—he usually gave blood anyway—so why should he care? Let the people who objected fight this battle.

  He walked back to his office. Battle? When had he started thinking of work here as a battle? He loved his job, and he’d always been happy here. There was nowhere else he’d rather be working. But something had changed with the hiring of BFG, and it wasn’t just his own mindset. When they’d had setbacks in the past, when they’d been scooped by Microsoft or been unable to come to a deal with Sony for device access, they’d always come together. In a crisis like this, they would ordinarily have been circling the wagons and rallying around the company. The insertion of consultants into the mix, however, seemed to have fragmented them, torn them apart. They were now competing for jobs and space. Rather than working together as one for the good of CompWare, they were working as individuals, against each other.

  It had been a big mistake to bring in consultants.

  Lupe was on the phone when he returned, and she covered up the mouthpiece with her palm, mouthing the name “Jet Hayes.” Hayes was his counterpart at a rival startup and possibly the most annoying human on the planet. He was always calling up and inartfully trying to gather information about CompWare’s upcoming game slate.

  Craig shook his head, and Lupe nodded her acknowledgement. “I know it’s important,” she said into the phone. “But Mr. Horne is in a meeting.” There was a pause. “I believe he’s in meetings all afternoon, but let me check.”

  Smiling, Craig gave her the thumbs-up sign as he walked into his office.

  “Yes he is,” she was
saying as he closed the door behind him.

  Unsure of what he would be asked in the interview but wanting to make sure he was up to speed on everything the division was doing and able to address anything that might be mentioned, Craig reviewed all of the programmers’ current projects, memorizing target dates and recent mileposts. He was getting hungry by the time noon rolled around—this was his usual lunch hour—and as he turned off his computer and prepared to go to his interview, he wished he’d had some sort of snack before going out to face the consultant.

  There was some bottled water in the small refrigerator next to his printer, and he took a bottle out, bringing it with him. He was leaving five minutes early because he was curious to see whether Lorene Nikono, the programmer whose interview was directly before his own, would be with the consultant for the entire time allotted. “I’m going to my interview,” he told Lupe. “Hold all my calls.”

  “Good luck. Let me know what to expect.”

  “I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.”

  But maybe he wouldn’t be telling her all about it. If the consultant was making employees sign confidentiality agreements, he and everyone else would have to keep their experiences to themselves and would not be able to share what happened with anyone. Such a scenario didn’t sit right with him. It would seem to allow a manipulation of the process, and while he had no reason to suspect such a thing, no factual basis on which to suppose this would happen, his gut told him that the consultant could tell one person that someone else had said something bad about him and obtain negative information about both, pitting them against each other, with neither able to find out the truth.

  But was that really probable?

  No, but it was possible.

  Why did he mistrust Patoff? Craig wondered. He had never been one to form snap judgments, so why had he so quickly developed an antipathy toward the consultant? Part of it was the nature of the man’s job, the fact that he was here to suggest structural changes to the way the company was run and, most likely, cuts in staff. But not all of it could be put down to that. There was a more personal element involved, and he thought about the consultant’s—

  cold

  —smile, and realized that even though he was in the middle of a crowded building in the middle of the day, he dreaded being alone in a room with the man.

  Interviews were being conducted on the seventh floor, and Craig took the stairs up, not wanting to wait for the elevator. Opening the stairwell door, he stepped into the main corridor. He was supposed to go to Room 713, which, following the numbering scheme, should have been down the next hallway. He headed off in that direction, turned left and glanced at the numbers of the widely spaced doorways on both sides, stopping before 713.

  Craig frowned. Although he’d been up here many times, he had never seen this door before. How was that possible? Was he so unobservant that he simply hadn’t noticed it? No. Everything else he recognized, but the door was conspicuously out of place. It was not supposed to be here. In fact, the seventh and sixth floors of the building were laid out almost identically, and there was no corresponding doorway up on his own floor, no Room 613 (didn’t architects and builders usually avoid the number 13 so as not to freak out people who were superstitious?). In its place along the analogous wall, the sixth floor had a bright red fire alarm next to a windowed square with a recessed ax and fire hose.

  Already he had a bad feeling about this.

  Craig knocked on the door. “Come in!” a voice called—Lorene was done with her interview—and he turned the knob, pushed the door open and stepped inside the room.

  It was smaller than he’d expected, smaller than any other room he’d seen in the building save the supply closets, and it looked like the type of interrogation rooms he’d seen on police shows: narrow, with bare walls, and only a single metal table in the center of the open space. Patoff sat in a chair on the opposite side of the table, while an empty chair on this side was clearly meant for interviewees. There was a round black globe mounted in the upper right corner at the far end of the room: a camera.

  The consultant smiled, motioning for him to sit. “This is going to be a good meeting, isn’t it?”

  “I thought it was an interview,” Craig said, taking his seat.

  “I like to call them meetings.”

  “Okay.”

  “And before we start, I think we should pray that all goes well, if that’s all right with you. It’s something I like to do before each meeting,” he confided. “Offer up a prayer.”

  Craig examined Patoff’s face for any indication that he was joking, but the man appeared to be completely sincere. Craig was not religious himself, and he was unsure how to respond. Was he being tested? Was this some sort of leadership assessment where he would be judged on whether he went along with the request or stood up to it? He didn’t know, couldn’t tell, and he sat there and did nothing as, on the other side of the desk, the consultant folded his hands together.

  “Let us pray to God,” Patoff said. “I like to call him Ralph.” He closed his eyes. “Dear Ralph,” he intoned. “Please let our meeting be successful. Amen.”

  The consultant grinned, opening his eyes and unfolding his hands. “That was easy, wasn’t it? Why don’t we begin.” From his lap or somewhere beneath the table, he withdrew an electronic tablet. He touched the screen, reading. “You’re married, I see. Have one daughter, Dylan—”

  “Dylan’s my son.”

  “Yes. You live at 1265 Monterey Street—”

  “Wait a minute. What does this have to do with anything?” The litany of personal information was starting to make him feel uncomfortable. Of course, CompWare had his address, and it made sense that BFG would have access to that information, but it was still disconcerting to realize that Patoff knew where he lived.

  The consultant didn’t respond. “Favorite color: red,” he continued, as though talking to himself. “Favorite food: Mexican. Favorite rock band: U2. Favorite position: missionary…”

  “What the hell is this?” Anger had gained the upper hand.

  Patoff put down the tablet, smiling brightly. “So,” he said, “are you happy working for CompWare?”

  Caught off guard, he was not sure if this was an ice-breaking question or a veiled threat. “Yes,” he said.

  “Good. Are you happy with the staffing of your division? If not, what changes would you make, given the chance?”

  He was not prepared for these sorts of questions; he’d been expecting a more fact-based interrogation. “Staffing levels are fine,” he said. “And I have a great team working under me. Off the top of my head, I can’t think of any changes I’d make.” Smiling, he joked, “I suppose some additional funding for the division would be nice.”

  Patoff had no reaction. “Are you satisfied with the way in which your division is integrated into your department?”

  “Yes,” Craig said.

  The consultant stood, smiled. “Thank you Mr. Horne. You’ve been very helpful.”

  That was it? A few generic questions about how the division was doing? He’d been expecting to go over in detail the specific jobs of everyone within his division, and he’d planned out justifications for each staffing position and each budget allotment in an effort to keep everything intact. He’d been prepared to fight for the programmers, technical writers and secretaries, and the lack of any such discussion, the superficial nature of the shockingly short interview, left him feeling unsatisfied.

  Craig stood, preparing to leave. He had not had to sign a confidentiality agreement—such a document had not even been mentioned—and he was tempted to ask about it.

  But he didn’t.

  Either Tyler had been lying about that or the consultant was only having some people sign them—and those people would be in trouble if they mentioned the agreement’s existence to anyone else. Either way, he didn’t want to tip his hand, and he nodded to Patoff and walked out of the room, heading toward the elevators.

  As promis
ed, he stopped by Phil’s office on the way back to his own. Phil’s secretary was gone, taking her lunch, but the door to his office was open, and Craig walked right in. His friend looked up from the computer screen he was staring at, quickly clicking his mouse. “Oh, it’s you,” he said, relieved. “I should learn to shut that door when Shelley’s gone. I was playing Zombie Air Force.”

  “To figure out a new promotional angle, I’m sure,” Craig said.

  Phil grinned. “Exactly.” He leaned back in his chair. “So how’d it go?”

  Craig told him everything, starting with the awkward conversation he’d had with Tyler, up through the room that wasn’t supposed to be there, the weird prayer, and the minute or two of inconsequential questioning.

  “And that was it?”

  “That was it. I was dismissed.”

  “Huh.”

  “What exactly does BFG stand for?” Craig asked. “I was wondering on my way up here.”

  “Big Fucking Gonads?” Phil shrugged. “I don’t know. A lot of times, these names are bogus anyway. They’re just designed to sound good and give customers confidence. BFG could be the initials of the company’s founder or just something they thought would look good on a letterhead. It doesn’t really matter. What does matter is what they’re doing with these interviews. I don’t like the fact that your interview was so general and non-specific and it sounds like Tyler’s was probably a whole lot different.”

  “I don’t like that either.”

  “It makes me think they’re trying some sort of entrapment strategy. Against you. They’re probably quizzing the programmers about you, asking leading questions, trying to elicit negative responses, and rather than having you respond directly to whatever case they’re building, your official reaction will be a general, ‘Oh, everything’s fine,’ which will make you seem clueless and out of touch.”

  “You’re just being paranoid,” Craig said. But he didn’t think that; he was just hoping for reassurance. Phil’s analysis sounded dead on to him.

  “I hope so,” his friend said. “But my gut hunch is they’re going to do the same to me. They’re probably planning to cut down on middle management. Us. Maybe they’ll get rid of the divisions and just have departments, with supervisors reporting directly to department heads.”