Corporate Truth Page 2

  Chapter Three

  Eight minutes later Justin’s office door swung open. A man Justin assumed to be Guy Chambers stormed in with a frustrated expression, his cheeks puffing in and out under his scruffy beard. The man adjusted his Black Flag T-shirt over his portly belly as he penguin-marched to the computer in question. Guy spun the laptop around so he could see the back of the machine. He looked at a sticker and spoke.

  “Just as I thought, this is brand-new. The little sticker confirms it.” He turned his head to the door and his body followed.

  Justin stood. “Guy! Don’t touch that fucking door. And sit the fuck down.”

  Guy stopped. This wasn’t the first IT tyrant Justin had dealt with. He scanned Guy up and down, reading his entire life story by his dress sense, grooming, and job title. Justin knew Guy wouldn’t be used to people talking to him in this manner. Normally it would be he who sneered at people and dictated terms to them as to when and how things would get done. When it came to computers at Soda-Cola, Guy would see himself as the master of the universe. But he had never encountered someone like Justin before, someone who was a true master of his universe. And within Justin’s universe, Guy was nothing but a pathetic atom.

  Then Guy did what Justin knew he would, something he wouldn’t have done in a long time. He did what he was told and sat down.

  “This is not new,” Justin said.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “So, William Munroe never touched this computer?”

  Guy’s eyes flicked to the MacBook and back to Justin. This told Justin he was right, that William had used this computer for the three weeks before his arrival. And it was likely Guy who’d given it a factory reboot.

  “Now, Guy. You don’t know me,” Justin continued. “But you are about to learn some valuable life lessons. Let’s call this Lesson One: Don’t fuck with me.

  “Lesson Two: Know your role. I have worked with a lot of people like you, Guy. Jumped-up geeks who have no power in real life. Inside a corporation like Soda-Cola, you get a taste of power, you like it. You get a little more, it’s even better. All of a sudden, people need you, they kiss your ass to stay on your good side. This is your turn to bully people, just like you were bullied at school. It works most of the time because the average person will put up with your bullshit as long as they can open emails, print files, and look at their Facebook page. I am not your average person, Guy. I am not one to be disrespected, and you will do as you’re told.”

  Justin picked up the laptop, opened it, then snapped it in two over his knee, ripping the keyboard away from the screen. He casually dropped the two bits onto Guy’s lap.

  Guy opened his mouth to speak. Justin slapped him hard across the face.

  “Fuck!” Guy squealed. “You slapped me!”

  “No, I didn’t,” Justin said. He continued. “Lesson Three: Do what you are told. Now, you will have a brand-new laptop on my desk in sixty minutes. You will answer my calls to IT personally. You will tell people I’m the best thing to happen to Soda-Cola. You will do all this because you want your life to be easy. You want your life to be comfortable. And the easiest way for that to happen is for you do to everything I tell you. You mess with me, you lose everything. Do you understand?”

  Guy nodded reflexively.

  Justin changed his tone to sound soothing and empathetic. “Good. Lesson Four: Get rewarded. Now I see you are wearing a wedding band. Do you have kids?”

  “T-t-two,” Guy stuttered, now looking totally frazzled.

  “When was the last time you took your wife to a five-star restaurant?”

  “Never.” Guy stammered, confused.

  “There is an amazing restaurant downtown called The Red Plate. You can’t reserve a table, but the owner knows me.”

  Justin pulled out a few hundred-dollar bills from his wallet. He placed them in Guy’s hand, and closed it for him.

  “Now, you go buy your wife the biggest bunch of flowers you can find, hire a babysitter, shave, maybe even buy yourself a shirt and tie, and take her to The Red Plate tonight. Tell the maître d’ you’re friends of mine. The entire meal is on me.”

  Justin returned to his desk and the file, focusing on the pages in front of him. Guy got the message that he was to leave. He meekly made his way toward the door. As his hand touched the handle, Justin spoke.

  “Now, Guy, what have we just learned from our lessons?”

  “Don’t-don’t fuck with you?” Guy replied, hoping it was the right answer.

  “Yes, and it’s better to be on my good side, and to not be a little bitch. Because Guy, bitches get fucked. And the last thing you want is for me to fuck you.”

  Chapter Four

  Justin added the final touches to an email on his brand-new MacBook Pro that Guy had personally dropped off.

  * * *

  To: Carlton, Curtis

  From: justin.truth@sodacola.com

  Subject: Day One!

  _____________________________

  * * *

  Morning Carlton,

  Once again, thank you for the opportunity. This is an amazing company and I can only but try and make you proud. You made the right decision in giving me the job. I have a thousand ideas running through my head about how to take my brands to the next level. I am here 24/7 for you and the company.

  * * *

  PS: In six months, OrangeFizz will outsell LemonGreat.

  Just don’t tell Steve.

  * * *

  Justin.

  * * *

  He read it twice, then hit Send.

  Justin rubbed his scar, thinking. He had a theory about starting with new companies. It wasn’t about him starting a new relationship, it was about everyone else ending an old one. He had to be clear up front that his way of doing things was now the only way, and he’d get rid of anybody who disagreed. Justin had sorted out Guy. Now it was Debbie’s turn. He picked up his phone and hit Debbie’s extension. It rang six times before she picked up, three too many.

  “Hi, Mr. Truth,” Debbie said, with a flat tone.

  “Debbie, can you join me, please.”

  Sixty seconds later, forty-five seconds too many, Debbie waddled in, a fake smile plastered across her face. Justin read each step she took and could already tell that she was going to be spiteful and bureaucratic because of his earlier actions.

  “Sit down, please.” Justin gestured toward the couch opposite the windows.

  When Debbie sat, her feet just reached the floor. She flipped open her notepad, pen at the ready, and grinned extra hard to show she would take notes. She clicked the pen eight times, seven times too many.

  “Now, Debbie,” Justin started. “I think we need to get a few things straight. I think—”

  “Yes, sir.” Debbie’s tone was sarcastic.

  “Never interrupt me while I’m talking.”

  “Yes, sir. Should I write that down?” Debbie clicked her pen. “Do… not… interrupt.”

  “The smartest thing you can do right now is listen. Any more smartass comments, and you’re fired. Try me.”

  Debbie shifted her weight on the couch, her lips trembling.

  “I didn’t hire you,” Justin continued. “I know you’ve been here for thirteen years, working your way from reception and into a prime PA position. Soda-Cola likes to keep people. Debbie, I need someone I can trust. Can I trust you?”

  She nodded.

  “By getting Guy here in the time you did, you proved to me that you know how to get things done. I like that. Which means I’m going to like you. Do you want me to like you, Debbie?”

  She nodded.

  “Did you see Guy’s face when he left? Have you ever seen him run away like that with his tail firmly between his legs before? Don’t think so. I am like no one you have ever met, Debbie, and I’m giving you the opportunity of a lifetime. Are you ready for your life to change for the better?”

  Debbie nodded even more.

  “Do you like to gossip?”

  Debbie paused her nodding. Her eyes flicked to the floor and back to Justin.

  “I want you to,” Justin nodded, encouraging Debbie to start nodding again. “I can’t be everywhere. You’ll be my eyes and ears. If people are talking bad about me, you bring me a list of their names with the details of what they’ve said. I want info. If you find out anything, whether it’s juicy truths or just vague rumors, I want you to log it into a file for me. I want to know the dirt on everyone—who cheats on their partners, who leaves work early, who takes home stationery, who is fucking who, which little power groups are hatching secret plans behind closed doors. Anything they don’t want other people to know, I want to know.”

  Justin paused. He’d been using his body language to subtly manipulate her. Making her nod was a simple technique to open her up to suggestions. Now it was time to close the deal.

  “I know how much you get paid, Debbie, and if you were to lose your job, it’ll be tough for you to get another one right now. If you do everything I ask of you, I’ll double your salary.”

  Debbie’s eyes opened wide and her body flinched as if she’d just received a small electric shock. It was the reaction Justin had expected. She was hooked.

  “How can you do that?” Debbie asked. “Finance would never approve a salary increase like that.”

  “I will pay you out of my own salary, Debbie. That’s right, I will give you money directly from my own funds. You won’t be taxed. It’ll be a monthly bonus that will just appear in your account.”

  Debbie’s eyes glowed; she looked skyward. Justin could tell by the dreamy look in her eye that she was already spending the extra money in her head. She was his.

  “Do we have a deal, Debbie?”

  She nodded like a bobblehead, revealing several chins.

  “That’s great.” Justin grinned. “Now go to your desk and get to work. By the end of the week I want a list of everyone who works here, and any dirt you can gather on them. Now I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that what we have just talked about stays between us. If I hear so much as a whisper, I will rain a living hell down upon you like nothing before. You won’t just be fired, you will never work again. I will take personal pleasure in making sure you end up destitute and living under a bridge, giving blowjobs for pocket change. Do we have an understanding?”

  The woman nodded greedily. “I’ll start right away. I know a few things already to start the list with.” She got up, and practically skipped back to her desk.

  Justin returned his attention to the OrangeFizz file. In the eighties, the drink had enjoyed massive success, but over the last fifteen years, sales had slowly declined. Its main competitor, SummerCrush, had made large inroads, taking half of its growth directly from OrangeFizz.

  Justin searched the OrangeFizz list of employees for the advertising agency assigned to look after the OrangeFizz account. Their number was on his speed dial.

  “Hello, R and R Advertising,” a voice purred. “You’re talking to Sophie.”

  “Hello, Sophie. This is Justin Truth from Soda-Cola. Can you please ask Donna Southland to call me immediately?”

  “I’ll make sure to pass on your message, Justin.”

  He hung up. Getting OrangeFizz back on track was going to require a bit of work. From the notes left behind, they were quite far down the track in developing a new campaign with R and R. The campaign was big, and Justin was surprised at how much of the OrangeFizz advertising budget had been allocated toward it.

  Justin opened a webpage for Mother’s Milk, an independent advertising shop working out of Las Vegas. Justin liked the work they were producing, and their reputation of disliking large, multinational, award-hungry agencies. Agencies like R and R.

  “Hello, Mother’s Milk. How can I help you?” a voice asked on the other end of the line.

  “Yes, can you ask your GM to call Justin Truth at Soda-Cola?”

  “Will do, what is the number, please?” the voice inquired.

  “If he can’t find it, he’s not worth me talking to,” Justin hung up.

  It was only 10:12 a.m., and his day was just getting started.

  Chapter Five

  Casual leather lace-ups aren’t the best for running, yet Detective Ross Smith was flying in them. His eyes darted around Brownsville and the buildings he knew so well. This trip to Brooklyn was initially to follow up on a case; he wasn’t expecting to be sprinting through the alleyways, chasing down a fourteen-year-old punk in LA Lakers gear.

  The skinny kid ran quickly, but not as quickly as he could have because his basketball shoes, like the rest of his clothing, were a few sizes too big. His long legs powered him around a tight corner and toward the main road. With the skill of a linebacker, he ducked and weaved around people, holding the stolen handbag under his right arm. He knocked over some overfilled trash cans behind him to create an obstacle course for his pursuer.

  Ross rounded the corner seconds later, jumping over the fallen trash cans. He yelled at the kid to stop, knowing it was a waste of time. His nicotine-stained lungs heaved in pain with each and every gasp of air. The taste of last night’s whiskey returned to his throat. His leg muscles screamed at him to stop; he told them to shut up and move faster. Ross thought about discarding his three-quarter leather jacket, to stop him from overheating, but the thought of not ever finding it again made him keep it on. He loved that jacket.

  The kid took a hard right toward Betsy Head Park. Even though it was the middle of the day, the park was busy. The kid glanced over his shoulder at Ross. The grizzled detective was keeping up. The kid leapt a fence encircling the outdoor exercise area. His foot clipped the top and he tumbled through the air, crashing onto his front, skinning his knees and knocking the wind out of him. He groggily pulled himself up and ran again, with a slight limp.

  The teenager’s clumsy fall helped Ross gain some ground, just not enough to grab the kid. Dashing across the road, the kid forced a passing car to skid to a halt. The driver honked furiously and yelled as Ross slid across the hood.

  The kid ducked down another alleyway. Ross overshot the entrance and kept running straight. He knew that particular alley looped back to the main road. If he got to the other end first, he could cut the kid off. Each step sent anguish reverberating around his body as he pushed himself harder.

  Ross reached the second entrance and turned into it. He was right. The kid skidded to a stop as he saw Ross barreling toward him. The kid was breathing hard. His darting eyes stopped on a tall wooden fence separating the alleyway from a back lot. He jumped onto a large trash can, leapt to a nearby dumpster, and sprang toward the top of the fence. His fingers grasped the railing, pulling himself up in one swift motion. Within seconds he was over the edge and scrambling down the other side.

  Knowing he wouldn’t be able to climb as nimbly as his prey, Ross threw himself at the fence, twisting in midair so that his back would connect with the long wooden boards. He hoped he wouldn’t bounce off and land in a heap on the wrong side of the fence. He didn’t. His body crashed through. Chunks of wood went flying. Ross slammed into the kid. Both went down. Ross recovered first and yanked the purse thief up by his basketball jersey.

  “You little punk!” Ross panted.

  “Fuck you, old man!” the teen snarled. “Eat a dick!”

  “No, fuck you, and fuck you for making me run, and fuck you for making me have to deal with you. Do you know how much paperwork I’ll have to do after I drag your ass into the station, and for what?” Ross snatched the handbag, and hit the kid on the forehead with it. “For a handbag worth twenty bucks. Fuck, you’re dumb.”

  “Watch your mouth, Grandpa.”

  “Shut up! Mrs. Anderson’s eighty, you little punk.”

  “That your girlfriend? That’s gross. You into granny porn?”

  Ross grabbed the kid by the ear and twisted it. The kid squealed.

  “Come with me,” Ross ordered.

  The first stop was Mrs. Anderson's. The kid reluctantly apologized, so Ross twisted his ear a few more times until the apology sounded more sincere. Once Ross was happy, they continued walking in silence until they reached their next destination.

  “This ain’t no cop shop,” the kid said, his eyes widening.

  They stood at the mouth of one of the toughest streets in Brooklyn.

  “Yes, you’re right. No cop shop here, and you aren’t going to find many cops walking this street.” Ross pushed the kid in front of him. “A friend of mine runs a business of sorts here. He loves this city and is on a mission. See that wall over there, covered in dirt and graffiti? Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to clean and paint that entire wall. And once you’re done, you will paint it again. Each day you will come back, and if someone’s tagged it, you will repaint it. If you decide that you don’t want to paint that wall, well, see that guy sitting over there, the one with gold teeth and Just Fucking Die tattooed on his chest? That’s Rocko. This is his street and he is that friend I was telling you about. You will report to him until he’s happy that you’ve learned your lesson. If you don’t do it, I’m not going to come down and drag you to the station. That massive fuck is just gonna beat the living shit out of you.”

  The kid froze on the spot, unwilling to take another step.

  “You know Rocko?” Ross smiled. “Yeah, of course you know Rocko, everyone knows Rocko. Then you know that you don’t want to be on his bad side. Hell, being on his good side is scary enough. Lucky for most, he’s found God and wants to do good in his community. That doesn’t mean he’s a squeaky-clean Christian. Nah, he’s more your Old Testament type.”

  Ross shoved the kid toward Rocko and his crew.

  The kid slowly approached them, shooting quick glances back at Ross.