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  Coe sipped his coffee before answering. There really was a difference in taste. He’d forgotten how good authentic coffee could be. “How did I manage the recommendation from Copley?” he asked, to buy time. He wanted to phrase his response just right. “Mr. Copley came to the attention of my work during a routine audit of the Research Department.”

  There was the smirk again. “CFOs don’t do routine audits, especially of—and I don’t mean to sound hoi polloi here—less-skilled departments such as Research.”

  “It was during a visit of the Philadelphia office,” Coe said, with confidence. “While touring the various departments, a representative from each section was asked to give a short presentation explaining the nature of our work. After, Mr. Copley was so impressed by my real-life example of a case file I had just completed, that he offered his assistance should I ever seek a promotion. That was two years ago. When the auditor position opened here at home office, I naturally sent him an electronic message requesting his word. I wasn’t sure he would even remember me.”

  “Copley has a mind like an elephant,” Mitchell said. He laughed. “That certainly was a ballsy move, Coe. But it has obviously paid off.”

  Coe relaxed a bit. He’d won him over for now.

  They finished their coffee. Mitchell paid the bill. When he reached for his back pocket to retrieve his wallet, Coe noticed the revolver in the shoulder holster beneath his suit coat.

  They stood under the canopy and waited for the valet to fetch the hover car.

  Coe looked out over the rooftops. “It seems like a magnificent city. I’m excited to live here.”

  “It rains too fucking much,” Mitchell said.

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  Tony Diorenzo had a glob of mayonnaise in the corner of his mouth. “This is your mobile communicator,” he said, pushing the wireless phone toward him. “It’s NIB. Right out of the box. It has full AV capabilities. It copies, it faxes, it takes dictation, it remembers to send flowers on your anniversary—does everything but make coffee.” He scratched out the serial number on a form. “This here is your portable CRT,” he said, handing Coe a black leather briefcase.

  Coe had seen them in use by the Philadelphia auditors. The briefcase opened up to reveal a keyboard and monitor. It was a fully functional CRT.

  “Your desktop CRT isn’t ready yet,” Diorenzo said. “Blame that fuck-up Tate.” He caught himself. “That was crass. I apologize. I’m under the gun here to keep the equipment updated and functional. Things go a lot smoother with limited user-error. Get what I mean, amigo?”

  “I will treat it like it’s my own,” Coe said.

  “Most of the auditors do,” Diorenzo said. “It’s a good staff. It’s just one or two—hell...it’s not your problem.” He wrote down the portable CRT’s serial number on the form. “There’s one in every section. Archetypes. You know...Jung? Joseph Campbell? I’m sure you had one in Philadelphia.”

  “Several, actually,” Coe said, trying to be chummy.

  “Funny how that works. Names, faces change; but there are roles to fill, I guess. I wonder if our resident asshole might be completely fine in another office?” He looked at his watch. “Too late in the day for deep thoughts.” He slid the form on the clipboard toward Coe to sign. “Put your John Wayne down there at the bottom.”

  While Coe signed it, Diorenzo produced a revolver, sheathed in a holster. Coe felt a jolt at the sight.

  “Barnes handles firearms,” Diorenzo said. “But he’s out this week. In fucking Disney World with his family. He’s got a separate form you need to fill out.”

  “I’ll carry a weapon?”

  Diorenzo shrugged. “You’ve been with this company long enough to know the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand does, and vice versa. I only have the vaguest idea what you auditors do. I don’t want to know. Not my business. I get paid to keep the equipment humming, and that’s what I do.”

  Coe reluctantly took the gun. He was shocked by how heavy it felt in his hand.

  “Oh. Barnes apologizes for the ankle holster. The shoulder holsters are on back order.”

  “That’s where it goes?”

  “You’ve seen detective shows, right?”

  Coe nodded. “Do I wear it now?”

  “I’m not the guy to be asking.”

  Coe completed the form. It included a five-page psychological exam similar to the psych test during the application process. It was composed of such true and false questions as “I am generally not an angry person”, “I sometimes am sexually excited by the evening news”, and “It is sometimes okay to lie if it serves the best interest of the company.”

  Diorenzo looked it over briefly when Coe had finished. “Weird questions,” he said.

  After the Operations meeting had let out, Mitchell came looking for Coe. He found him wrestling with the ankle holster outside of Diorenzo’s cubicle.

  “An ankle holster?” he said. “Really?”

  “The shoulder holsters are on back order—”

  “Hasn’t anyone shown you to your desk yet?”

  Coe said, “No, I—”

  “Come with me.”

  Coe followed Mitchell through the maze of cubicles. As they passed other employees working at their desks, Coe heard snatches of conversation.

  “This is my third call. When do you expect him...”

  “I’m phoning regarding the series of unanswered mailings...”

  “You’re receiving this call because you scored remarkably well on a recent aptitude test...”

  “Here we are,” Mitchell said. “Your desk. Your cubicle.”

  Coe gazed into the gray-walled enclosure. There was a desk. A chair. A calendar that had not been changed for two months. A dust square was visible on the desktop where a CRT had once set. The nameplate on the wall read Collin Revis: Auditing Specialist.

  “We’ll have maintenance get that removed ASAP,” Mitchell said. “Sorry about the window—as you can see, you have none.”

  Coe nodded.

  “If it’s any consolation, it’s all rooftops from this height. Rooftops and rain clouds.”

  “It’s fine,” Coe said. “It’s more than I need.”

  Mitchell opened a drawer. He found a thick book. He blew the dust from it and dropped it onto the desk. It made a heavy thud when it struck. The Auditor’s Manual: A Guide to Corporate Investigation.

  “It’s Revis’s copy. Like brand-new. Doesn’t look like he’d ever even opened it,” Mitchell said. “Start working your way through it until we can get some files for you.” He looked at his watch. “4:15 you can call it a day.”

  He left.

  Coe cracked the book. It was dry. It was written in colorless, humorless language; there were nearly no breaks in the paragraphs. Coe struggled to read it. He heard footsteps outside of his cubicle, heard the rustling of papers. Somewhere, a copier spit out copies. Coe’s eyelids grew heavy.

  “Mr. Coe?”

  He was startled by the sudden voice. He looked up from his training manual. It was a woman. She was similar to Ms. Davenport and Ms. Jacoby—similar in that they were female and dressed conservatively. She had blonde hair, worn up, and black, horn-rimmed glasses. She was not nearly as old as either Ms. Jacoby or Ms. Davenport, nor was she unattractive.

 
; “I’m Ms. Hunter,” she said. “I’m your secretary.”

  She extended her hand, which prompted Coe to stand and grasp it. It was warm.

  “My secretary?”

  “Well, not solely your secretary. I’m assigned to you and two other auditors.”

  “I see.”

  “I report under Ms. Davenport who I trust you have already met?”

  Coe scanned Ms. Hunter for any kind of secret message relating to Davenport. Did she like her? Did she like working for her? Davenport seemed rather unpleasant. He couldn’t help but think no one particularly liked her.

  “Yes, I have,” he said. “She seems to be someone with a good handle on things.”

  Ms. Hunter nodded. “She is knowledgeable and efficient,” she said, robotically.

  “She is a source I plan to use,” he said.

  She smiled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Coe. I look forward to serving you.”

  She left. Coe returned to his seat and picked up his reading. He listened for stray conversation—fellow auditors, or Ms. Hunter; he heard nothing. It was quiet. The air was lifeless. It felt as though no work was being accomplished.

  His phone rang, disturbing the silence. He hesitated. It didn’t yet feel like his phone. He picked it up to his ear. A voice said, “It’s about time you answer your phone.”

  “I think—”

  “Our man has spent weeks at the drop-off—”

  The voice stopped abruptly.

  “Who is this?” the voice asked.

  “Mr. Coe,” he said. “In Auditing—”

  He heard a click.

  “Hello? Hello? Are you there?”

  The line was dead.

  Coe was disturbed by the call. His first instinct was to dismiss it. Chalk it up to a wrong number. But, then he became concerned that it might be a test. He stood and stepped out of his cubicle. All the surrounding cubicles were vacant. Some had similar dust squares on their desks were once a CRT had set. There were remnants, artifacts, of the former employees who had sat there: a pencil-top troll with orange, bushy hair; a photograph of a child in a baseball cap; a holiday card. Old, abandoned staplers and tape dispensers were left behind.

  He looked for Ms. Hunter. He passed a window, paused to look out. Steam rose up from vents and pipes and chimney stacks. The rooftops glistened with rain. Raindrops beaded on the glass. By all appearances, his corner of the office was a ghost town. He wandered up and down the gray-walled corridors—corporate catacombs of a once-thriving section of commerce. Finally, he decided to call out, “Ms. Hunter...”

  He checked himself to ensure his voice did not sound alarmed. “Ms. Hunter?”

  A voice responded, “Yes, Mr. Coe?”

  He cleared his throat and said, with a nervous laugh, “I can’t seem to locate your desk.”

  “That’s fine,” she said. “I’ll come to you.”

  Within moments, she was standing beside him. She moved with startlingly, silent, efficiency.

  “How can I assist you, Mr. Coe?”

  “I’ve received a call—probably a wrong number and no cause for concern; however, it nonetheless troubles me.”

  “Troubles you? How so?”

  Coe shifted uneasily. “The caller made it seem as though there was some sort of intrigue going on.”

  “Intrigue?” she said. “Like in a suspense novel?”

  He didn’t know her well enough to gauge whether her response was patronizing. “Intrigue is probably not the correct word here.”

  “If you suspect there is some sort of corruption or underhandedness, you need to report it to Mr. Hanover immediately.”

  “Shouldn’t I report it to Mr. Mitchell?”

  She shook her head adamantly. “Section C of the Employee’s Handbook, titled, “Internal Fraud,” clearly states on page two-hundred-and-eighty-one, that any suspected internal fraud must be reported directly to Mr. Hanover.”

  “Mr. Hanover?”

  “He is the director of the Special Auditor’s Unit. They address all internal allegations.”

  “I would feel more comfortable reporting the matter to Mr. Mitchell—”

  She shook her head again. “It’s in violation of this company’s policy and a serious breach of protocol. All allegations of fraud must be reported to Mr.—”

  “Right,” he said. “Mr. Hanover. And how would I find him?”

  “He’s on thirty-eight,” she said. “The entire SAU division is there.”

  “Thirty-eight?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, I go up to thirty-eight and look for SAU?”

  “Mr. Hanover,” she said.

  “I can call him?”

  “You should see him,” she said. “In person. Introduce yourself. It’s only right.”

  “You want me to go up to the thirty-eighth floor?”

  “It’s only right,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  “You’re doing the right thing, Mr. Coe.” She smiled. “I’m very proud to be servicing you.”

  Coe’s pulse quickened.

  He found the bank of elevators and pressed up. He waited. The dial above the doors indicated a car was coming down. He thought about Ms. Hunter. She was trim and pretty with a slender neck, pink earlobes, and swollen red lips. He imagined her buttocks bare; the supple flesh of her thighs.

  A tone sounded and the elevator doors opened. He was surprised to find an elevator operator seated on a stool. He was even more surprised to discover it was a woman.

  “Up?” she asked. She was as equally attractive as Ms. Hunter—though where Ms. Hunter had blonde hair, the operator was red.

  Coe felt shame at his fantasizing about Ms. Hunter. “Yes.”

  “Let’s go.”

  He stepped in.

  “Floor?”

  “Thirty-eight.”

  “Uh-oh. Someone’s dropping a dime,” she said, and closed the door.

  He asked, “Is there an operator in all the elevators?” By his count, there were eight.

  “You got the only one in the building,” she said. “In fact, the last one in this whole city. The elevator business is a highly-automated one these days.”

  “Perhaps the last fifty years,” Coe said.

  “My response time, on average, is two and a half seconds faster than my automated counterparts. Bottom line: I get you there faster. Multiply that two and a half seconds by how many times you ride the elevator, per year, and you’ll see I’m good for productivity. I get you back to your desk and working while the other guy’s still listening to the muzak version of ‘Hey, Jude.’”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “You’re the only one,” she said.

  Her legs were bare; she wore no stockings. She sat perched on the stool with one leg crossed over the other. She wore flats.

  “You’ve got a troubled mind,” she said.

  The remark shocked him out of his secret assessment of her. “I don’t,” he snapped.

  She smiled. “If you say so, fella.”

  “Today’s my first day—not with the company. My first day here.”

  “It’s a nice place to work,” she said. “The people are friendly, pleasant. Every place has got secrets. This one’s no different. I hear things—bits and pieces. They talk around me. Who am I going to tell? I see nothing but the inside of this car, three walls, two sliding doors, a ceiling, a floor. Seven and a half hours a day—I get a thirty minute lunch and two breaks. I don’t smoke—but I use my breaks anyway. I read a glamor magazine. I have a coffee. I go look out the windows on forty-five. Have you been up to forty-five?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “You need to go to forty-five,” she said.

  “Okay. I will. Thank you for the recommendation—”

  �
�Go to forty-five,” she repeated.

  The elevator stopped at the 38th floor. She tugged a lever and the doors slid open. Coe looked out onto a confusing configuration of cubicles, no different than those on his floor.

  “You said thirty-eight, right?” she asked.

  “I need to see Mr. Hanover.”

  “Never heard of him,” she said, which struck Coe as odd.

  He thanked her and stepped out onto the floor.

  “I’m Carmen,” she said as the doors closed.

  He turned to tell her his name, but she had already gone. He walked cross the hallway which was covered in marble tile and caused his shoes to clack on the floor. When he reached the edge of the blue carpet, he was immediately greeted by a cacophony of keystrokes from what sounded like an entire team of typists.

  Perhaps eighty to a hundred women, all smartly dressed, sat at row-upon-row of crowded desks, madly and efficiently typing away. He approached the nearest, a young woman with sandy hair pulled back in a ponytail, a pair of small tortoise shell glasses perched on her nose.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m sorry to interrupt but I’m looking for Mr. Hanover—”

  “Hanover, Warren L.,” she said without looking up. “Suite three-eight-nine.”

  “Suite three-eight-nine—”

  “Ninth door,” she said, focused on her typing.

  “On the right,” the woman to her immediate left said.

  Coe spied a corridor just off the pool of women. “Thank you.”

  He walked down the corridor of offices, all doors closed. It was eerily quiet. They reminded him of crypts. When he reached suite three-eight-nine on the right, he found a door comprised of fogged glass, bearing the name WARREN L. HANOVER in black and gold lettering. In slightly smaller script beneath the name it read, CONSULTANT. Coe knocked on the glass. A woman’s voice said in an even tone, “Come in.”

  Coe opened the door. A woman in a brown pants suit sat at a glass desk. The office consisted of a wall of law books, a leather sofa and wing back chair, three large potted ferns, a ceiling fan, and an Egyptian sarcophagus. He could not tell if it was real. “Is in Mr. Hanover in?”