Call Me Joe by Steven J Patrick Page A

is, you don't know. I ask what crews are working where, you don't know. I ask about production schedules, you don't know."
     
    "Tell you what. I'll make you a bet. I bet that, if I were to take my cell phone here and call Anthony Pembroke the Third, my $100 million trumps your job status.  You have any firm ideas about that?”
     
    “No,” Steptoe said icily, all traces of old world charm now completely absent. “As in all things, I take my instructions from London.”
     
    “Y’know, Dennis,” Jack mused, “I don’t think it’s a very sound position to have a manager in place who can’t make any decisions for himself. I’ll be talking to Anthony later on. I think we’ll change this."
     
    Jack stood up. I followed suit. Steptoe looked as though he had shrunk into his clothing like a turtle.
     
    "In the meantime, Mr. North and I are going to look around for a few days. Anyone who interferes with that is fired. Your head of security is now Allen Simmons. I fired that thing you had in place. Write him a check for three months’ pay and tell him he’ll be arrested for trespassing if he shows up here again.”
     
    “I don’t know if that…” Steptoe interjected.
     
    “I’m aware that you don’t know, Dennis,” Jack smiled. “You don’t need to know. It’s done and it’s final. If you think I don’t have that authority, I suggest you call P.P.V.’s attorneys.”
     
    “I shall,” Steptoe growled.
     
    “While you’re on the phone with them, have them explain your role here. And mine. If I see you tomorrow and your attitude hasn’t changed, I’ll put you on an airplane myself. Clear?”
     
    “Very,” Steptoe muttered. “An if my behavior has seemed uncooperative, I…”
     
    “Save it, you supercilious little snot,” I snapped. “You had a chance to be cooperative and you didn’t take it.”
     
    They were the first words I’d uttered since “hello.” I’d vowed to keep quiet but my mouth, as always, seems to operate independent of me.
     
    Steptoe looked at me in shock, as did Jack. He then looked at Jack with an expression clearly meant to convey his displeasure at being addressed in such terms by Jack’s subordinate.
     
    “He doesn’t actually work for me,” Jack chuckled.
     
    “I’ll be speaking with your superior, Mr. North,” Steptoe snapped. This was clearly his sort of management function. “I’ll have his name please.”
     
    “Hmm,” I mused. “My superior, that would be Mahatma Ghandi, M.L.K. and God. You’re welcome to contact any of the three."
     
    “I’m not joking, Mr. North,” Steptoe snapped, tapping his toe impatiently.
     
    “Neither am I,” I smiled, “You just put your foot in it, pal. Try being man enough to accept that you fucked up.”
     
    I followed Jack out and closed the door.
     
    “Supercilious?” Jack laughed. “They never taught me that word at Maryland.”
     
    “I’ve been saving it for just the right moment,” I sighed. “I believe that was it.”
     
    “I’ll say,” Jack grinned, slapping me on the back.
     
    “Sorry for mouthing off at your meeting,” I offered.
     
    “Don’t apologize,” Jack said, shaking his head. “You just said what I was thinking.”
     
     
    Nine
     
    Simmons did a few shift-ending pieces of paperwork and then took us down the road about two miles opposite the way we’d come in, to an ancient log roadhouse called Cascade Jack’s.
     
    It was my kind of place.  Long, polished mahogany bar with precious few scars on it, neon beer signs that leaned heavily toward mass-produced domestic brews, two well-worn pool tables, booths along the back wall, and a real juke box that was blasting a George Strait tune as we came in.
     
    People were unashamedly smoking cigarettes; something which would have gotten them first shunned and eventually killed in Seattle.
     
    The booth farthest back contained Aaron Weber, doubtless burning a hole in his severance check, and two companions who appeared