Rough Trade by Hartzmark Gini

Author:Hartzmark, Gini [Hartzmark, Gini]
Language: deu
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

It has been said that there is a shorthand to every crisis, a rhythm to the swells and troughs of catastrophe that, if you are adept enough, can be anticipated and ridden like the surf. John Guttman, the partner I’d been assigned to when I first went to work at Callahan Ross, went a step further and contended that it could be mapped out in code. Like Morse, he favored a binary representation with B for big problems and s for small. According to Guttman, most crises fell into a BssssBssssBssssBBssss pattern. Even in Avco, the IPO from hell, there were more ss than Bs. But from the morning of the funeral the buzz on the Monarchs was BBBBB!

While Chrissy got dressed and fed the baby, I got on the phone and started waking people up. Poor Sherman, who’d spent most of the night researching case law on sex discrimination, had fallen asleep at his desk. Cheryl, grouchy at having been rousted from her bed at this hour, was nonetheless grateful for the warning. By the time she arrived at the office, everyone from CNN on down would be clamoring for a piece of me. I felt guilty about leaving her on the hot seat, but I had my own problems. When going to a funeral seems the least stressful part of the coming day, you know you’re in for one hell of a rough ride.

All things considered, Jeff took the news well. I honestly think he had been so bludgeoned by the events of the past few days that he was beyond all feeling. As he sat at the kitchen table looking at the breakfast that Chrissy had cooked for him, but not eating it, I found myself thinking of my roommate Claudia’s patient, the man who’d had his arm amputated while pinned under a truck on Wacker Drive. Looking at Jeff’s bloodless face, I found myself wondering whether the wounds that are not physical may be the ones from which it is most difficult to recover.

The doorbell rang and I went to answer it, mentally steeling myself for a horde of reporters. Instead, when I opened the door, I found a single messenger in a black government car delivering an envelope. It was addressed to me. I knew immediately what it was. I opened the envelope and scanned the letter. His Honor Robert Deutsch, the mayor of Milwaukee, felt that under the circumstances it would be inadvisable for us to meet at this time. I realized that this was just politics, the first step in what would no doubt end up being a very complicated dance. Still, I couldn’t help but find it disheartening.

Just as I was about to shut the front door, I saw Jack McWhorter pull up in his black Porsche. He stepped out looking handsome and sinister, like a seductive undertaker in a B movie.

“I came straight from the airport,” he said, slamming the car door behind him.

“So I take it you’ve heard,” I said.

“Are you kidding? They have huge posters at the newsstands.

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