Company Man

Copywrite By Tim Broderick

"Use your eyes son," Mr. Powell said, stopping David Diangelo's hand in midair. "Always start with the eyes."

Diangelo politely sat back from the computer while Mr. Powell grabbed the mouse and began micromanaging the project. Entering information from old, paper invoices into a modern database was the kind of thing the 18-year-old could do in his sleep, but Diangelo was here for only as long as the job took. If he made a good impression, maybe more work would come his way. Maybe a full-time job, but at least a good reference.

It should only have taken moments to show Diangelo what to do, but Mr. Powell relished the opportunity to weave in history of Jensen's Supply Company. He thrust his hand into the box, fishing for a particular piece of paper that would enhance the story he was telling.

"See!" He said, pleased with his find. "See this? That drill is 15 years old and still going. Got maybe 30 percent of its original parts left, but it's still in operation."

Mr. Powell stood straight, then stretched his back while pushing his hips towards Diangelo's face.

"Quality," said Mr. Powell with obvious affection. "That's what this place deals in. I love this company. And I love Mr. Jensen."

He looked to the closed door beyond Ms. Talmand's desk while Ms. Talmand beamed at Mr. Powell in obvious agreement. Then the phone on her desk rang and as she turned to answer it, Mr. Powell turned back to Diangelo.

"Right," he said. " When you finish one, stick it on here," and he impaled the invoice he was holding onto the paper spike resting on the desk next to Diangelo.

"Shouldn't take you more than four days to go through that," he said, indicating the box next to the computer. "I'd be disappointed if it took longer."

Diangelo set to work, lifting the invoice that Mr. Powell had prematurely placed onto the spike. He'd be surprised if the job took three days, and vowed to finish it sooner.

Mr. Powell walked over to Ms. Talmand and removed a pair of yellow note sheets from the spike on her desk. "She's called twice already," she said in a disapproving whisper, her hand muffling the phone. Mr. Powell shrugged and said nothing.

The morning passed quickly. Diangelo found the most challenging part of the job was paying attention, making sure the small details were correct.

At lunch, he ate a sandwich while sitting under a tree in the parking lot. He thought about working outside, and reminded himself to call the father of a friend who had mentioned a place on a roofing crew.

The afternoon was no different from the morning. Diangelo sat at a small workstation, Ms. Talmand at her desk in front of Mr. Jensen's door and Mr. Powell's large desk dominated a corner, from where he could observe the entire office. Most of the time, though, Mr. Powell was in other parts of the building, occasionally dropping in to check with the faithful Ms. Talmand. She re-routed phone calls, took messages and did something at her computer. There was no invitation to engage in small talk.

Finally, about 4:30 that afternoon, a visitor broke through the quiet efficiency of the office. She walked in with a determined gait and placed herself in front of Ms. Talmand's desk.

"Hello, Betty," she said.

"Hello Ms. Burrows," Ms. Talmand responded politely but with a hint of ice in her tone.

Diangelo surreptitiously eyed the person who'd induced such a response from the usually reserved secretary. The newcomer was attractive but had an air about her that spoke of mid-to-late thirties and motherhood. Still, she had a good figure encased in conservative clothes: Red jacket over a white, collarless blouse and dark skirt. Diangelo noted the practical shoes, straight brown hair cropped short and minimal make up. A professional look, easy to maintain.

"So formal, Betty?" said Ms. Burrows, and then sighed. "I need to talk to him," she continued.

"Mr. Powell said he's at a conference, Ms. Burrows," Betty explained. "I told you over the phone, I don't know where he's gone and he hasn't called in. If he does, I'll give him your messages."

"It's just that ? it's important that I talk to him as soon as possible," said Ms. Burrows. She seemed hesitant to explain further, then turned as Mr. Powell entered the room.

"Start with your eyes, Mrs. Jensen," Mr. Powell gently chided. He was grinning. "His car's not in the lot, his door is closed and locked. "

Ms. Burrows looked at the office manager with obvious distaste.

"Where is he Ed?" She asked pointedly. "Tom's late with his support payments again and it's affecting ? other things."

"I'm sure Mr. Jensen would never deny his son the things he needs in this world," Mr. Powell said derisively. "What he would or wouldn't do in his personal life has never been your concern," Ms. Burrows said bluntly. "This is business between Tom and myself. Where is he?"

"Ohio, I think," Mr. Powell said as he sat behind his desk. "I talked with him just yesterday. He said he wouldn't call in again until Thursday and left no number. If he calls again before Thursday, we'll give him your messages."

"But that's all we can do for you," Mr. Powell said with a shrug.

Ms. Burrows set her jaw ? as if to stifle a comment ? and glanced around the room. Diangelo had kept typing, but saw her notice him momentarily before she turned sharply and left.

"Tsk," was all Ms. Talmand managed, but it was enough. Obviously, Mr. Jensen's ex-wife was not welcome in the happy company family.

"Don't worry about that, Ms. Talmand," Mr. Powell reassured her. "Isn't it about time ? ?"

"Oh! Thank you, Mr. Powell," she said, and produced a gym bag from somewhere below her desk.

"David, you'll have to call it a night. I leave early for yoga class on Tuesdays!" she said brightly.

She escorted him outside, and he walked down to the corner and, after a short wait, caught an eastbound bus. He rode it down the road a few miles to the steakhouse where he worked as a busboy. Ashes to ashes, bus to bus, he thought. He'd have preferred to wait tables ? better money doing that. But he wasn't old enough to serve alcohol to patrons.

It was at the steakhouse where he'd met Ms. Talmand ? taking her an ashtray as she smoked outside with a friend. She'd been talking about the invoice job, and his thoughtful, quiet manner had helped him get a tryout.

He finally got home around midnight. Home was an old couch and a tray table at a friend's apartment. The rent was cheap, and it didn't hurt that Diangelo brought leftovers home from the steakhouse.

He took off his work clothes ? laying the white shirt and black pants neatly on the back of the couch ? and pulled out a laptop computer and textbook. The textbook was his ? he was teaching himself programming. The laptop was his sister's, but she was in a coma in a nursing home and wouldn't need it anytime soon.

He forced himself to work for at least a half-hour, until his eyes burned and he could no longer concentrate. Then he set the alarm on the laptop, and was asleep in moments.

The next morning, he spotted Ms. Burrows before the bus even stopped. She must have seen him leave the office the evening before.

He walked over to her and said, "They don't talk much in front of me, Ms. Burrows. I'm a temp and have been there one day. I don't know where your husband is. I've never even met him."

She wasn't flustered by his manner. "Let's sit in my car for a minute," she said.

Diangelo flirted with the idea that it was more than an invitation to sit, but put those thoughts aside. She wasn't interested in jumping an 18-year-old.

"I need to get in contact with Tom ? Mr. Jensen," she said, once they were in her car. The backseat had a stack of file folders and two metal "for sale" signs with her name printed under the logo of a reality chain.

"I have a business opportunity, a chance at my own franchise, and it would be helpful if he'd clear up some outstanding payments," she explained. "Quickly, like as in this week."

"I'd like to help you," Diangelo said slowly. "But I'm hoping for more than just a temp job out of this. I don't think being seen with you would go over very well in that office."

She laughed.

"Yes, I am that woman who manipulated the innocent Mr. Jensen into a loveless marriage," she said, staring off down the road. "I think that helps them deal with the idea that Tom failed at something."

She turned to him. "I failed too. That's just how it worked out. I thought marriage was one thing, he thought it was something else and neither of us changed to accommodate the other."

"But we had a baby, a son. I didn't take Tom's house or any part of his business. But I have his son, and I work hard to provide for him."

She bit her lip, then said, "He's usually pretty good with support payments. But lately - I think he's involved with someone else. And now ?"

"Now he's distracted, and the checks aren't on time," Diangelo said, finishing her sentence. "So what are you asking me to do, Ms. Burrows? Do you want me to find out where he is, or do you want me to find out who he's seeing?"

Diangelo admired the way she took it. She smiled wryly and nodded her head.

"I won't say I'm not ? curious," she said. "But I need to know where he is."

She reached for her purse. "I'll pay you ?"

"Wait," Diangelo said. He was sick of living on a couch.

"I don't need your money, I need a place to live," he said.

"You don't live at home?" She asked suspiciously.

"My mom's dead. I never met my dad. Here ?" Diangelo grabbed one of her business cards from the floor and a pen that jutted from the car's ashtray. "Father Phil Ciccione, at Our Lady of the Immaculate. I don't have the number ? you can look it up. But he'll vouch for me."

He handed her the card.

"I work two jobs, and take temp work like this one. I can pay rent, but I'm only 18 and have no credit and no car. And if I take time off to look for a place, I don't earn money to pay rent," he said.

"You're a realtor, " he said indicating the signs in back. "You know people. Help me find as decent a place as I can afford, and I'll help you."

She considered this. "I'll check this out, you know," she said, holding up the card.

"That's fine," he said.

She nodded. "OK, yeah. If he does vouch for you, it's a deal. Will you help me now, though?"

"Yes, but I can't see Mr. Powell telling me anything," he said.

"He won't need to," she said, and held up a key. "This is the key to Tom's office. His day planner will be sitting In the middle of his desk, open to the current week. It'll have every event in his life written down." Diangelo was skeptical. "How do you know this key still works, or that the planner's there?"

"Because nothing changes in his life or in that office," she said. "Betty left early for yoga, yesterday, right?"

She didn't wait for Diangelo to reply.

"Tom never changed the keys to the house, or the code to the burglar alarm," she said. "I've already been to the house. He's not away ? the suitcases are still stored away and his toiletries are in the bathroom."

Then she frowned.

"His new lady friend moved some of her things in though. She's a ? plus size," she said. "I didn't know Tom went in for big women."

She turned her body toward him, her breasts pushing against a silk shirt. "I like a slimmer body," she said. Diangelo had impure thoughts and accepted the key.

"When do I do this," he asked.

"Volunteer to stay late tonight. After Betty leaves," she said. "Ed ? Mr. Powell will let you. Hell, he'll love you for it."

Diangelo left her, and made it into work on time. The day passed slowly. Finally, when Ms. Talmund got up to leave, Diangelo asked to stay late. Just as Ms. Burrows predicted, this made Mr. Powell very happy.

"Go ahead, Ms. Talmund, I'll be here a while yet," Mr. Powell said. "I?ll keep an eye on young David." He smiled approvingly.

Diangelo continued working and Mr. Powell stepped out of the office twice, but for only a few moments at a time. When Mr. Powell left the third time, Diangelo strode over to Mr. Jensen's office door and used the key to unlock it. He didn't move tentatively - if anyone besides Mr. Powell wandered in it would appear that he was supposed to be there.

He flipped on the light switch by the door and walked to the desk. The objects on it mirrored the other desks in the office save for one thing: An executive planner lying open, facing toward the place where a chair should be but wasn't.

As Diangelo moved around the desk to get a better look, what he saw in a corner froze him in his tracks in spite of the sudden surge of adrenalin that kicked his system into overdrive.

The office was wider than it was long, and the way the door opened had hidden this portion of the room from his view.

He forced himself not to flee.

It had to be Mr. Jensen. He was somehow attached to the missing desk chair - Diangelo would have thought "tied" but that would imply the man was there against his will. An elaborate network of bright white rope covered the man's mostly nude body. Garishly colored silk scarves were tucked in places to keep the hemp from chafing skin, and a skimpy black bikini top, lightly trimmed in red lace, was stretched across his hairy, flabby chest.

Mr. Jensen's head lolled back against the chair's headrest, the whites of his bulging eyes showing while the man's pupils stared into the back of his skull at some hidden nightmare ? or secret fantasy.

Now that Diangelo was aware of it, he could hear shallow intakes of air past the leather strap that held a hard red plastic ball in the man's mouth. Then the chest muscles stiffened underneath shivering rolls of fat, and the bonds creaked almost imperceptively.

Diangelo saw why: on the floor beside the chair sat a dark wooden box with a cord snaking from it to a nearby wall socket. A single, small green bulb on the side of the box facing Diangelo had lit and a slight electrical buzzing could be heard.

A timer in the box had flipped on, now it turned off and the light dimmed, the buzzing stopped. Then, seconds later, it turned on again.

The light from the bulb reflected from a set of wires that appeared from the top of the box and looped around and up to Mr. Jensen's crotch.

At first he thought the wires were wrapped around a small dark and wrinkled sock, but he choked back a surge of revulsion when he realized the wires carried an electric current that must have been surging through Mr. Jensen's penis for days - until the member resembled a shriveled, charred bit of meat that had been stuck on a burning hot grill for far too long. So long that there was no healthy flesh left on the penis, causing the skin to crack and separate revealing a thin spider web of bloody openings like red hot lava seen underneath crumbling volcanic rock.

A noise, and Diangelo turned to find Mr. Powell filling the doorway, his eyes wide with outrage, sweat glistening on his forehead.

"Why are you in here?" he demanded.

Then, almost regretfully, the man said, "You don't love Mr. Jensen," and started forward - arms outstretched: hands open and twitching, ready to grasp and hold and control; his crotch bulging and pants stained with pre-ejaculate.

Diangelo picked up the ever-present paper spike from among the items on Mr. Jensen's desk, calmly considered the defensive uses of its long steel point and sturdy base, and as the office manager drew near, Diangelo decided to start with Mr. Powell's eyes.