Chapter Six

Generally, I would beat both Dena and Tater to the office, but that morning, I was full half an hour late.� Dena looked up as I burst in, and she pointed at Tater's coat hanging up in his office.

"He's here, already?" I was dumbfounded.

"Was here when I came in," Dena answered. � "Some sort of big pow wow upstairs in the Research and Quality Control Labs.

I rolled my eyes and relinquished the tempting thought of a quick doughnut and coffee in the cafeteria.� There was no telling when Tater would be back, and he'd probably come looking for me, immediately.

But it was nearly ten-thirty, and Tater was still upstairs, when Dena came into my office, grinning as she brandished two Styrofoam cups and a diet Pepsi.

"I know, I know.� I'm contributing to Eco-waste," she said, forestalling my usual lecture on the use of environmentally friendly resources.

"Share a can of instant energy with me.� I've got a juicy one," she tempted me, edging the door closed with her foot and perching on the arm of my visitor's chair.�

"Guess who's sporting a shiner today," she teased.

"Come on, Dena, out with it."

"Well, I forgot to take that report back to Mick's office yesterday..."

"Dena," I interrupted, "You've got to improve your memory or write things down."

Dena's convenient memory lapses coupled with a truly heavy work load, made for several times I got the short end of the stick as far as clerical support was concerned.� But I had to admit, with computers, today most people (except Tater) were pretty self-sufficient.

She waved her white cup in mock surrender.� "I promise to reform, but you'll forget about that, when you hear this one."

I nodded, and she continued.

"Anyway, I went to his office a little while ago to give the report to Millie, and she's all a-twitter.� Mick's in his office with the curtains drawn.� She says he's wearing his shades because he's got a dandy of a black eye."

"No kidding?� Did you see it?"

"Naw, but Millie told me how he got it," Dena paused for effect, waiting for me to urge her on.

I complied.� "So, O.K., how did he get it?"

"Marlena's brother Julio, from the Lab, remember him? � He's that hunk who asked nearly every single chick at the last Christmas party to dance.� He sambas like a dream.� Well, apparently, he came by Mick's office last night after most everyone had gone.� Millie was still there catching up on data entries and saw him.� He just bopped into Mick's office and pow - right in the kisser!� Millie thinks it's because Mick's been sniffing around Marlena to much, and Julio doesn't like it with that Latin temper," she ended, having run out of breath.

"At least this time, only Mick was the one to suffer the consequences.� Julio's technique is a little more direct than Fred Miller's tactics."

"Fred Miller?" Dena looked puzzled.

"Oh, that's right.� You've only been here a year, haven't you?"� Fred Miller's the foreman in maintenance and the father of Ava Miller Daniels, Mick's second wife."

"Before Jenny?"� Dena asked.

"Before Jenny," I agreed.� "Or rather during Jenny.� Mick was still married to Ava, his second wife, and Jenny was Mick's secretary then.� Fred got wind of the fact that Mick was romancing Jenny and began a little campaign of revenge.� At the time, nobody knew what was really going on. � All we knew was that Mick was on the receiving end of some weird practical jokes: � important papers came up missing from his desk overnight, dial-a-porn numbers were charged to his office phone bill, and his car in the reserved lot suffered damage to the finish."

"Fred was doing it?" Dena inquired.

"Initially, everybody figured that Mick was just being careless, or that Jenny didn't have her mind on her work.� The calls had been written off as mis-dials, and birds got the blame for the car.� But the crowning touch was time time that somebody on the night shift ate their lunch in his office, even left the crumbs on his desk, and smeared Limburger cheese all over the bulb of his oversized lamp."

Dena laughed.

"It wasn't funny," I hold her.� "The smell permeated the entire office for days, and somebody forced an investigation.� It turned out that Fred was trying to get even with Mick for Ava's sake.� The divorce came along pretty soon after that.� Fred wasn't fired, but he was banned from entering the office area for a while.� He never forgave Mick, either, since he figured that Mick was the one to turn him in.� Things were pretty grim around here for a while.

Just then, I looked out my window to see Tater getting off the elevator down the hall.� My excellent far vision often serves as an early warning system.

"Better scoot," I warned Dena, who drained her cup.� "Tater's coming."

As expected, Tater made a bee-line for my office.� He tucked his prim little behind carefully into my visitor's chair. If he'd been wearing a skirt, he'd have smoothed it out under his knees.� As it was, he had to be content with plucking at the creased in his pant legs.� His eyes were brown and bug like, and his graying hairline was no longer receding, but had completely capitulated. He was probably the shortest man in the office, and his neck seemed to have developed a permanent tilt, perhaps from having to constantly stare up at other people.

Today, his lisp was more prominent than usual as he attempted to make small talk.� His attempts at casual conversation were always a prelude to an unreasonable request, impossible assignment or out and out passing of the buck.� This morning's chat was no different.� By the time he'd left, my head was spinning with 37 loose ends, unfinished, or never begun projects for me to follow up on. � Only one pearl of wisdom had fallen from his lips.

"Quality Control's had a shake-up," he'd announced.� Only as he pronounced it, "shake-up" came out more like "thake-up."

"Newton Sizemore's been officially reprimanded, and a couple of others, suspended."� He smiled as if the personal misfortunes of others cheered him.� Then he retreated into the glum inner sanctum of his own office.

That must have been the disciplinary action that G.O.D. was talking about, I thought to myself.� Dr. Newton Sizemore, or Dr. New as he was usually called, had been the wunderkind of the Research and Quality Control world at Potts.� He stood out from the score or more of immovable test tube heads in the lab, because he could usually be counted on to be reasonable.� I'd planned to solicit his help on my secret project for G.O.D., discreetly, of course.� I thought about the others in the lab who could be called upon for a favor.� There was Derek, of course, and Julio Randoza, the fabulous Marlena's brother.

My train of thought was broken by Dena's signal for a call on my line.� It was Sonja Nielsen, a sister-in-the-trenches, fellow lower level executive cross-over from the clerical to the management ranks.

"Heard about Q.C.?" she asked.

"A little from Tater," I replied.

"Oh, you have..." she seemed disappointed.

"Only about Dr. New - who else?"

"Your little protege, Derek, that's who."

"What happened?"

"Suspended for two weeks, I hear."

"For what?"

"Screwing up some batch records, or something."

"Well, what about Dr. New?"

"Don't know, some QC mix-up or another.� The world is that your boss's old college buddy, Marlin Yarlborough really has it in for New, since Yarlborough was promoted to Director last month."

"Darn, just when I needed a favor, up there. � And Julio?"

"What about him?� Hot stuff, huh?"

"Come on, Sonja, you know what I mean.� Is he still working in the lab or not?"

"Apparently he's unscathed for now."

"Good," I replied.� "Look, Sonja, I've got to get up there on the double.�� I need some releases signed.� Catch you later, O.K.?"� I hung up.

It probably wasn't O.K.� I can tell when she just wants to yak, but I didn't have time now.� Sonja can be a good ally when it suits her, and I consider her my best fresh source of office gossip, next to Dena, who always has her ear to the grapevine.�

I opened my drawer to get a pad and pencil, and stopped suddenly as I saw Derek's little bottle in my desk drawer.� Picking it up, I studied it carefully.� The computer generated label affixed to it read: "For stress. � Take one tablet up to 6 a day."� I opened the bottle and poured a couple of irregularly formed tablets into my hand.� They were a grayish white with imbedded green specks.� The faint odor clinging to them was herbal, but not unpleasant. I put the tablets back in the bottle.� I was puzzled.

I knew that the lab guys occasionally ran test batches of tablets or even made vitamin C pills for their own use.� But I'd never seen anything like this.� Herbals were an emerging� segment nationally, I knew, but conservative old Potts Labs had been so anxious to bury their past connections to patent medicine, that we hadn't yet gotten into the market.� I wondered vaguely if Derek had made these, as I returned the bottle to my drawer.� I guessed I'd have to wait until he came back to work to ask him about them.

Grabbing the pad and pencil, I headed off for the third floor QC labs.� It wasn't really surprising that turmoil had hit them again. � Perhaps there was something compromising the air quality above the second floor level.� Or maybe they were breathing in some kind of mind-altering gas up there. � QC was a real bottleneck in getting product out the door and could be a thorn in the side of sales who needed product out the door and in somebody's else's warehouse as frequently and in as much volume as possible.

Everywhere you turned was another test to run, another approval to be gotten and more papers to present.� Government requirements were tough to be sure, but it often seemed to be our own gatekeepers who were our worst enemies when it came to timely response to the climate of the marketplace. A couple of times, new products languished because we weren't able to get them out in time to beat the competition.� Then everybody wondered why they failed.

�I entered the lab to find Julio alone.� He reminded me of a young Latin soap-opera star, but a sullenness about him spoiled his good looks.� He sat behind a desk and wore a lab coat, but he made no attempt to appear busy, absorbed in a Hispanic newspaper.

"Hi," I ventured.

He glanced up at me, and a flicker of recognition passed across his face, but he didn't reply.

"I'm looking for the file releases for Spritzie," I began again.� "Can you tell me where they would be?"

"Try the plant room," was his curt reply.

"Pardon?"

He made a disgusted clicking sound with his tongue as though addressing a not quite bright child, and pointed through the open doorway into another lab.

"The plant room - where Derek the Dim works," he answered.� "The releases are on his desk."

"Thanks," I muttered.� Walking behind him, I stuck out my own tongue before I looked up to catch him watching my reflection in the mirrored glass doors of the cabinets across the room.�

Recovering my dignity, I went into the adjoining lab. � Plant room was an apt description for it.� Over several counters, shelves filled with plants had been mounted, and grow lights hung from above.� I knew Derek was a bit of a plant freak, we'd talked about his goal of getting his degree and doing plant research, but I hadn't realized that he'd been working on them here, as well.

I poked through the semi-orderly jumble on his desk. � In a basket marked "OUT," I found the file releases on Spritzie. �� All I needed was the status of the batches.� But records on batches one and two were missing.� Only the currently scheduled run for batch three records were there.� I searched a little more and found the other two files at the bottom of a pile of magazines.� Thank heavens, I thought, maybe I could get some answers, now.

I scooped up the files and prepared to vacate the premises, but before I did, I accidentally brushed a plant with a long, trailing vine. � A strange odor was released.� I inhaled carefully but didn't recognize it. � Making sure that I hadn't dislodged the plant from the shelf, I left, passing behind Julio who still poured over the newsprint.� My Spanish wasn't really up to the test, but I thought it looked suspiciously like a racing tabloid.

Back in my office, it was almost noon.� No messages awaited me, no offers of whisking me away for a second day's welcome release from institutional food.� Just then, Sonja stopped by.

"Come on," she said.� "The food wagon's doing business on the front lawn.� Let's grab a burger and ogle the men."

I grabbed money and followed her.� Sometimes it was just easier to go with the flow.� Sonja was chattering away about her job, her boss, her ex-boss, and her ten-year younger new husband.

"You really ought to try younger men, Jayne," she said.� "You don't know what you're missing."

"I don't think I'm up to younger men," I admitted.� "I'm not even sure I'm up to older men."

She shook her head, frizzy brown curls bouncing, bright button eyes sparkling and urged me into the food line.

"Jayne, you just aren't looking for the zing in life. � You gotta go for the zingers."

I settled for a burger - with onions.

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