The building was locked and empty, except for a scattering of custodians pushing janitorial carts. Figaro Thunders and Shane McClure flashed their company ID's and were admitted that Christmas Eve of 1988. Shane regarded this with wide eyes, standing around with his arms limply at his sides, letting his new mentor do all the talking. They rode the elevator up to the 31st floor, walked past the location they had originally met the day before, and opened the main office floor with a key.

The lights were off, the sky gray with snow, and the daylight shined across the conference tables with a white glare. Shane doffed his overcoat, folded it over his arm, and hiked to his cubicle. He opened and shut the black file cabinet-- curling his fingers around the silver hooks-- and wondered where he might find the necessary papers. Figaro Thunders stood by meanwhile, smoking a cigarette.

A daring idea crossed Shane's mind-- he should look through other employee's file cabinets. He was going to impress the boss good. Collar loosened, eyebrows arched, he rifled through the papers like a borderline white collar criminal.

Meanwhile, his mentor was also looking through file cabinets, perusing documents with interest. He tucked them in his coat pocket. Shane did not notice as Figaro took out burglar tools and pried open the door to John H. Patterson's office.

"Hey, look whose door is open". Shane said nothing, turned around at the waist, looking over his shoulder. What was this older man doing? Figaro walked in without hesitation, and Shane followed him cautiously-- papers held upright in his hands, against his chest. Wasn't this crossing the line

"Hey, look at the family man". Sure enough, there was a picture of John H. Patterson and the wife & two kids he certainly never saw. Shane doubted he would ever have a family as long as he was after the big three-- profit, youth, and power.

"Let's see what you got there". Figaro grabbed the papers and laid them over the desk, hands spread over the surface, and separated them. "Well, look what we got here. Now Shane, wouldn't you agree that people get exactly what they deserve-- if you know what I mean?". Shane swallowed.

"I guess so".

At that, Figaro rummaged through the desk, head bent down. A tight smile was sitting on his manta-ray mouth. Then he jimmied open the file cabinet with burglar's tools and took a peek. He ran his fingers over the folders, flipping them forward with a deft motion, as if he was sorting through CD's at a record store. He found what he was looking for with an "a-ha", and grabbed his quarry with vigor.

"It's fraud, you see. Dirty pool!". His voice had assumed the confident edge of a crusader, an expert cliff rapeller explaining "the ropes" to a novice. "Shane? We are going to cut John Patterson down to size". Shane gulped, eyes wide. At least Figaro seemed to know what he was doing.

But Shane was not prepared for what would happen next. They left the inner office and stood in the larger room, blue beaded carpet underfoot. He thought that it was all over-- that they could go home with relief. But not so! Figaro set the files down on the edge of a cubicle desk, produced a cigarette, and stalked down the corridor towards Orson M. Scrushy's office.

"W-w-what are you going to do?" Shane trembled, standing outside the formidable oaken door where Figaro Thunders was smoking. Dread kept him back a few steps, physically unable to advance further.

"But this is not legal! What if Mr. Scrushy should find out?" It was like being about to kill the sleeping giant.

"Relax. It's not going to happen", Figaro responded reassuringly.

"But--"

"Look, kid," Figaro hissed. "I've seen a million people like you. They don't have the backbone to take the'bull by the balls' and get ahead in the world. Quit fucking around and be a man for Christ's sake!".

This criticism warmed Shane through and thoroughly. He was terrified and ashamed of disappointing "his friend" who seemed so confident and self-assured. Figaro was the only one who seemed to tell the truth, who stopped and looked around and understood the depth of things while others were stooped over, chained to their cubicles and ignorant. So much of the corporate image was based on the illusions of public-relations, which hid the ugly undercurrents beneath it all.

Without inside knowledge, one could presumably slave on forever-- no chance of advancement, blind as a mole, oblivious to everything until it dawned on them near the end that there was no more than this. Dreams squelched, youth depleted, but before long you were too numbed to notice.

"O.K." his mentor breathed. With the cigarette clenched in his teeth, head bent down, he worked on the golden door knob with his burglar's tools. The door swung open on well-oiled hinges. What he didn't expect to see was the growling Doberman pinscher with a spike collar.

"Holy fuck!". Before Figaro could shut the door, the guard dog leapt out and chased after Shane.

"Help! Help!". The junior cub employee dodged left and right with uncertain motions, the dog jumping and snapping, then he jogged while looking over his shoulder and then finally broke into a lumbering run. Up and down the rows of cubicles, hollering all the way. It was a merry chase, that was for sure!

Heidi Thunders served premium Christmas cookies-- the kind shaped like pine trees, with green sparkles and red cinnamon buttons-- on a silver platter layered with rustling wax paper. She smiled with her overbite, and lowered her eyes. Shane was impressed with her beauty and easy charms. He would probably never do as well, because he wasn't much of a smooth-talker.

His mentor sat across from him on a couch, outfitted in a Christmas-themed ski sweater. Figaro invited him over as way of atonement-- ripped suit pants, minor gashes, and all. The winter wind had blown through the shredded fabric after they had made their way down to the office lobby as inconspicuously as possible. The Doberman was put out of commission when Figaro had beaten it with an umbrella. He had rolled the unconscious dog on to his overcoat and carefully dragged it back inside the CEO's office. Orson Scrushy was certainly a wily one!

The parlor was suffused with soft light, almost like a stage set. The overhead lights were cylinder-shaped, hanging from a hinge, and pointing down like security cameras. They could be dimmed or lit by turning the circular light switch with subtlety. The wall panels were rich, stained cedar wood with swirls and knots that looked like the "eye" of the planet Jupiter. A twelve-foot high Christmas tree leaned against the wall merrily. (-- Certainly Figaro had paid for its delivery and assembly, for he lived in the Hamptons. Those scratchy branches certainly wouldn't abrade the paint on either roof of his twin black Jaguars). On the window sills sat pastel bowls, ridged like potato chips, impractical, but the tell-tale signs of a woman's touch.

"She's dynamite in the sack", Figaro said, leaning over to gently slap Shane on the knee. "If you know what I mean". Heidi was in the kitchen, out of hearing. Shane could imagine as much, and tried not to out of respect. He owed this man nearly everything. His mentor's mood could shift from gregarious to contemptuous in a heart-beat, but seemed mostly inclined to lead Shane forward with beguiling argument; spelling out the facts and doing the fortuitous thinking for the both of them; buttering the generous path before them with a blunt knife and sharing in the wealth.

"We'll get through that assignment in time".

The files (-- both the legal and misbegotten) sat on a sanded table, legs splayed out. Heidi had surely purchased it out of an exorbitant home-furnishing catalog. Figaro, as a provider, duly paid for it. He wasn't that particular about what she bought (-- being away at the office so much), just so long as it was of premium price. This "trophy wife" was well-taken care of, Figaro made sure of that. It was 8:00 in the evening, dark outside, and the trees were draped with icicles. But Figaro was unshakable. He held up his tumbler of topaz alcohol and downed the rest of it with one swallow.

"C'mon. I'll show you my computer". Shane followed him through the roomy house, up the grand wooden steps, walking along the palatial banister that looked over the entrance foyer, to a small cluttered alcove. It was an IBM Commstar 64 with a Hitachi color printer. Figaro snuggled down into a leather-bound revolving chair and invited Shane to take a seat on an oriental foot stool, hemmed in by an overflowing file cabinet. Shane dropped his hands down in front of him and watched as Figaro produced a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. His mentor could have been anywhere between thirty-five and fifty years old, crinkles and pouches around the older man's eyes. "Let's see now. . . . ." as Figaro flipped through the files.

It was 1 AM in the morning when they finished. Figaro had kept a calculator in front of him, one that dashed out a scroll of paper, and murmured to himself as his fingers danced across the keys. Golden lamp light shined over everything, and the man was tireless. Shane did little, except assent to the figures. And now the report was done, color bar graphs, bonus pie charts, and all.

"Couldn't have made it without the Jessica Saunders file, am I right?", elbowing Shane in the ribs. The junior cub employee was drooping, fighting to stay awake. The events of the last two days were a whirl, and Shane was falling into a feathery sleep.

"Crash on my couch, if you want".

Shane awoke at 6 AM, to the smell of cooking flap-jacks. And frying eggs. He snuggled deeper into the beige comforter, yawned, and closed his eyelids for a last few minutes of rest. A moment later, he swung his gangling limbs to the floor and pulled his shoes over his black office socks. His feet were persistently itchy, but he didn't have replacements. The living room was no less palatial then the night before, and the soft morning light let in a peachy glow.

Figaro was standing in the kitchen over the stove in a bath robe. Three glasses of orange juice sat upon the surface of the round, white table. Looping metal curled beneath like a French vine design. He turned around and flashed Shane a winning grin.

"Up so soon, sport?". Shane rubber-mouthed and ran a hand through his short hair. He arched his eyebrows and rubbed his eye sockets with knuckles. Figaro thought of everything.

"Bathroom's upstairs, fourth door to the left. You'll find a stick of deodorant in the cabinet to the right. Just throw it out, if you want. Oh, and Shane? Don't accidentally peek in on my wife; I'll punch you out!" with that, the older man held up the spatula and flashed his teeth in a snapshot grin of mock fury.

Shane endeavored nothing less of nonexistence, to be robbed of physical substance, as he sneaked down the hallway to the fourth door on the left. He gently closed the door, but heard a knock. Arching his eyebrows, he opened the door. Heidi was standing there, her bathrobe open, exposing her bare breasts and privates.

"I'm sorry!" she blurted. Shane turned away wide-eyed, bewildered, and shut the door before he could blush to the tips of his ears. He heard the soft padding of slippers down the hallway. Shane wanted to collapse on the closed lid of the toilet seat. He panted hard, and tried to push the striking image out of his mind.

Later, Shane turned to the cabinet and manually stumbled when he picked out a deodorant from Armani that cost $50, knocking over the neat standing stack. He ran water in the sink and splashed water in his eyes, trying to recover from the shock. He was dreading coming back downstairs.

When Shane returned to the kitchen, he saw Heidi with her arms wrapped around Figaro, who continued to flip flap-jacks with a casual air. Her overbite was as prominent as ever, her eyes half-closed in a contented smile. Shane made his presence known by pulling out a chair with a scraping sound.

Already, the flap-jacks were piled high on the counter. Heidi did not meet Shane's eyes as she laid out a bottle of premium syrup. A pot of coffee sat on the table, along with a carton of milk and a carafe of orange juice.

And how much did that carafe cost? Shane wanted to know, but didn't dare ask. What munificence, picture frames hanging on the wall, clipper ships and all! It was a lot better than his ratty Bronx apartment. He didn't leave much clutter because he scarcely lived there. His surroundings didn't bother him; no matter where he sat, what space he took up, he was a creature of greed. The only accoutrement he had was a giant framed picture of a dollar bill.

Shane was usually more accustomed to unreflective silence, but he didn't like this silence one bit. It seemed ominous-- did Figaro know? He was about to compliment his host for being a good cook when Figaro interrupted him.

"I learned it-- the cooking-- when we took our vacation to Tuscany. The best chefs of Europe, I'm telling you. I studied them intently, had to learn their secrets. Of course I worked as a short order cook during my days at Swathmore college, over in Pennsylvania".

"Where did you meet Heidi?", Shane asked, trying to keep his voice completely absent of inflection.

"I met her on a Clamp company ski getaway in Aspen, five years ago. She was a real 'ski bunny'". At that, he turned around and gave Heidi a grinning pinch. "Heidi was a cocktail waitress I 'picked up'. I showed her my Rolex. We dined by candlelight in the very same restaurant she worked in. Heidi's coworkers were so envious", as he spoke, he constricted his voice as if a canary was perched on his finger, but still possessed a hint of violence and exclusion. "She came with me back to New York, we lived together for two years, and then got married".

Shane merely nodded, his arms folded into his chest, as he leaned forward on the white table top. He looked like a furry woodland creature, with his black pupils and shiny eyes. There was surely a life lesson here. . . . . one had to be confident and wealthy to win over the ladies. Being a junior cub employee on a starting salary simply wouldn't cut it. On the weekends he went to night clubs, looking around for approving eye contact.

Problem was, Shane couldn't think of anything to say. How could he get across his life story, where he intended to be in ten years? You couldn't have confidence if you weren't a success, you couldn't have success unless you were confident. There was the wretched paradox. But with Figaro, it seemed that he was on his way to success. And yet he had seen his wife naked!

Heidi began laughing with her overbite, putting her hands up to her mouth as they all sat around the table. Shane's eyes nervously darted between Figaro and the wife.

"What. . . . . am I missing something?", Figaro asked, smiling. Looking on benignly, as if nothing was up. Heidi continued to giggle. He looked to Shane, as if he knew what was going on. "Just because you've seen my wife NAKED is no reason to get wrought-up!", his voice cynical, knowing, triumphant. Shane's heart began pumping pure adrenaline. This surely would be the end of the mentorship. "How did you like seeing my wife in THE NUDE, eh, Shane? Think she's sexy?" There was rising anger in the voice, growing imperiousness.

"Uh, no", Shane lamely answered.

"What, you don't think she's 'hot'?!".

"Yes. . . . . well, I don't know", Shane muttering.

"Well, I'm going to let you on to something, Shane. I told Heidi to 'surprise' you". With that, his voice mellowed out. The storm had passed. "It was all a prank. That expression on your face when I just confronted you was priceless!".

The office was abuzz with activity. Rumor and scandal to the highest levels shook the very building, it seemed. Documents were mysteriously missing without explanation-- even from the boss's office. The police were involved too. Industrial espionage, civil war amongst the senior board room? No one could say. . . . .

But the allegations against Orson M. Scrushy were particularly damaging. Accounting irregularities, embezzlement, shortfalls in profits, and most telling of all-- that he had used the company health insurance policy to get a hair transplant. The fancy, pricey method-- one follicle at a time at a thousand dollars per shoot!

Matters weren't sweetened any, because a tax shelter (-- which works until the government says it doesn't) was yanked out beneath Clamp Inc. over the holiday.

Orson M. Scrushy sat in his office. Taking out a bottle of booze, the embattled corporate chieftain slammed down a shot glass and poured himself another serving to the very brim.

"Ahhh", he sighed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He had weathered storms before. . . . . he had been an aide in the Nixon administration once.

His fraught secretary called in from the speaker phone, asking what to do about the detachment of reporters waiting in the ground floor lobby, swarming around, asking questions of the absent CEO.

"Fuck 'em".

"Excuse me, sir?".

"Just hold them off. Oh, and send Miss Rosborough down to the press room. She'll know what to do".

A knock on the door. John H. Patterson stuck his head through with behumbled, but worried, camraderie.

"John," using the boss's nickname, "we found out where some of those missing files had been. Shane McClure-- the new kid-- had brought them home over the holiday".

"What?!"

"He said the Xerox machine was broken. He had the forethought to check through that thick file we gave him and figured out what was missing".

"What MOXIE! Now that takes SPUNK! Maybe hiring him wasn't such a mistake after all!".

"I suppose so, sir".

"Well, send him in!".

Shane walked through the door, looking frightened and overwhelmed. A "shake-up" at the company, that was for sure, and he was singled out as a "person of interest" by the police! Figaro had coached him on what needed to be said as they drove to work that very morning, though he mentioned nothing about law enforcement. Shane was left to figure out that he must absolutely deny his Christmas Eve whereabouts, because he was an accessory. And in the midst of this conspiracy, this intrigue, he was standing before Orson M. Scrushy himself, titan of the corporate world!

"Shane! Shane, my boy!". The junior cub employee arched his eyebrows, and stood with his hands clasped before him. Between the two of them, there was no mention of the circling problems at present.

"What did you think of that assignment that Mr. Patterson gave you over the weekend?".

"It wasn't too difficult. I stayed up on Sunday, sir".

"And what did you do on Saturday?".

"I read your book, sir".

"Splendid! Splendid!"

"It is my understanding that the file Patterson gave you was fragmentary. How did you figure this out?".

"I perused the file during the office party, sir".

"That quick! How did you get the files?"

"I was the last one to leave, sir. Everyone else was heading home".

"Splendid! Splendid! I could use someone with the, ah, as we say-- the adroitness-- as you have clearly demonstrated that Friday in the office. And uh, of another matter. . . . . what do you think of all the scandalous charges being levied at the moment?"

Shane was smart enough. "I believe that you will be cleared of all charges".

"You really think so?"

"Of course".

"Well, matters are tense out there".

"But you must remember that part in your book, about a man up against fate in the boxing ring, holding up his fists like an 'Irish scrapper', getting knocked down but getting back up again".

"That's right, Shane. Keep fighting!".

"Yes, sir".

Just then, the door burst open with his fraught secretary. Curly locks of red hair, catty black glasses.

"They're coming, sir!" A mob of reporters darted in, cameras rolling, lights glaring, demanding answers. To Shane, looking over his shoulder with his hands clasped before him, it was the overspill of the categorical "snake pit".

"Boys, boys," Orson M. Scrushy rose from his leather-backed chair, smiling, glad-handing, "May you refer all of your queries to my new personal assistant!"

Later, Shane and Orson Scrushy dined at "The Four Seasons" restaurant in downtown Manhattan. There was an uncomfortable hush, if not whispering, from the patrons who recognized the CEO from breaking television news. Orson kept on a tight little smile, making eye contact as if he had nothing to hide, acting as if zero was wrong.

To Shane, the man didn't seem quite as imposing and immortal. But still, the junior cub employee showed due respect. . . . . even if his boss was a scoundrel. Orson lead the conversation, trailing off into genial stories ranging from country clubs to national Republican conventions, tales of "young do-gooders" going out into the world, his humble origins from an Irish-Catholic family, impressing the boss "good", standing tall against "communism", and other beguiling reminiscence of sunny hillsides and winding, verdure roads. Shane's part in this was the "yes man", merely hanging on to every word.

After a while, Orson seemed to sag. . . . . getting more drunk with each tumbler of whiskey. . . . . distracted within a far-off prospect that certainly eclipsed the present moment, and repeating his point over again as if to fortify himself.

". . . . . Yes, that's how it is. Yes, sir. Always been. Let me be the one to explain, oh yes. Tell me, Shane. What's your philosophy in life, what dictates your actions?"

"Early to bed and early to rise, sir". It was the only thing he could think of.

"Splendid, splendid".

Shane excused himself to go to the washroom. Peach marble counters, the fineries of geologic miracle, golden faucets, an old Italian man in a suit drying patrons' hands with a wash-cloth. He arched his eyebrows at the lavish treatment.

He did not know that Orson M. Scrushy was looking to "throw someone to the wolves", and just as well.

"Not a golden parachute, but a silver one" uttered Donald O' Herily, Orson Scrushy's erstwhile conscience and chief investor, in front of the boardroom of solemn executives. No longer, if ever, would Clamp Inc. adhere to the gentleman's agreement that poor performance was no reason to be "given the boot".

Of course, Orson Scrushy could get a plum severance package if the boardroom figured that it was "in the best interest of the company", a sly rearguard consideration from the "old boy" network. Yet Donald O' Herily euphemistically described the former CEO as "out of touch".

"Perhaps it is 'time to go'", an understated British gallantry. After all, making a soft putt from "A" to "B" was his style. As for the company-funded portrait of Orson M. Scrushy looking over the boardroom, it would no longer hang there like a dishonorable vapor over the proceedings. Along with unsold quantities of "Straight from the Gut" on company premises, and the Doberman guard dog he kept in the office on the weekends, it would go home with him.

At last, poor Orson sought to salvage by prestige whatever remnants of shredded respect he still had left. He resigned quietly and had left with one final brave speech that circumvented any admission of wrong-doing, yet all the while referred to newer and greater frontiers to be conquered; that is, with the sweep and flourish of the archetypical "salesman"-- tipping his hat and carrying a brief case off into the horizon. Sitting in on the proceedings, Shane's eyes misted up.

It was raining outside as the junior cub employee walked the former CEO to his limousine, holding up an umbrella. The last thing Orson M. Scrushy said, confiding into Shane, was "look out for that Figaro Thunders. He's a real bastard".