A Firing Offense - By George Pelecanos Page 0,1

together for lunch. The executive was one of those corn-fed, brighteyed men who seem to be hired by corporate giants like General Electric specifically for their slack-jawed lack of intellectual curiosity.

Our lunch began to deteriorate when the dapper little fellow had bragged about his company’s impending contract on, as he put it, “that Star Wars thing.” Despite a deadly stare and a nudge in the ribs from the equally vacuous Brandon, I plunged head on into a political discussion on the subject, though my enthusiasm was admittedly rooted more in my disgust for the man across the table than in my limited knowledge of the somewhat ridiculous, juvenile image of War in Space. At any rate, the executive’s smile, that of a game-show host, faded, as he nervously touched the knot of his yellow tie. Our business lunch had gone immediately to hell.

Now I was about to receive what business people call, without irony, a “slap on the wrist.”

On my way to Brandon’s office I chewed a Lifesaver and passed by the switchboard once again. Over Marsha’s desk was a huge, colorful bar graph titled “Nutty Nathan’s Sales Leaders!” I noted with pleasure that Johnny McGinnes’ bar was far above the pack.

Ric Brandon’s office was rather spartan, with only a calendar hung on the bare walls around his metal desk. The bookshelves behind him housed software and two slim volumes, A Passion for Excellence and See You at the Top. On the computer table next to his desk was a keyboard, printer, and amber screen displaying the previous day’s sales report sorted by store location, salesman, model number, sell price, unit cost, and profit margin.

Brandon smiled his toothy, equine grin as I entered. He was a big-boned Swede from Minnesota, a former high-school athlete who, at twenty-five, had already become soft and fleshy. He wore his navy suits and Johnston and Murphys proudly, and always had an unread copy of the Wall Street Journal on his desk. (Once, on a business trip, I had watched him stare glassy-eyed at the front page of the Journal for the duration of the flight.) Like many ambitious, recently graduated business majors on their first professional job in the D.C. area, he had a little boy’s notion of how a businessman should look and act.

“Close the door and have a seat, Nick,” he said.

I did both. Though he was already taller and broader than me, he had raised his chair higher than the others in his office to gain the psychological advantage, undoubtedly a tip he had eagerly extracted from one of his ladder-climbing guidebooks. He pulled out the bottom drawer of his desk, parked the soles of his wing tips on the edge of it, and leaned back.

“I’ve got an ad deadline for this afternoon,” I offered, hoping to get it over with quickly.

“This won’t take long,” he said, segueing into a dramatic pause. I could hear the ventilator blowing and the murmur of the all-news radio station he listened to in his office. “As the sales manager of this company, I have to do certain things I really don’t enjoy doing, but that are necessary in order to establish a continuity of discipline. One of those things is terminating those who consistently and deliberately fail to follow company policy.”

I nodded that I understood, and he continued.

“Yesterday I told you that George Adgerson in our Marlow Heights store was getting to be a real problem—blowing customers out the door, smoking on the floor, not wearing his name-tag, things like that—and I gave him several warnings. First thing this morning I walk into his store to let him go, he says to me, ‘If you plan on firing me, Brandon, you should know that I’ve spoken to my lawyer, who advised me that if you do fire me, you had better be firing all the Caucasian salesmen who break your rules as well.’”

“What’d you do?” I asked, forcing down a smirk as I thought of Adgerson, up in Brandon’s face.

“Oh, I fired him,” he said casually, with an obligatory and false trace of regret. “Personnel can deal with his attorney, if he has one. The point is, Nick, he was ready for me. And you tipped him off.”

I stared at my shoes for a while in what I thought would be a fairly reasonable display of humility, then looked up to see Brandon’s facial muscles twitching as he awaited my admission. “Adgerson was a good man,” I said slowly, “and he wrote a lot