Donna rolled her chair away from her desk and stood. “His bark is worse than his bite. Are you off to the deli?”
“Yeah. Pastrami today.”
Donna pulled on her jacket. “I’ll walk with you. I need a break.” She grabbed her wallet and we made our way out into downtown New York. Of course, Max didn’t like any of the sandwich shops near the office. Instead we had to head five blocks northeast to Joey’s Café. At least it was sunny, and too early in the year for the humidity to make a trip to the deli feel like a midday hike along the streets of Calcutta.
“Hey, Donna. Hey, Harper,” Joey, the owner, called as we entered through the glass door. The deli was exactly the opposite of the type of place where I’d expect Max to order his lunch. It was very clearly a family-owned place that hadn’t seen a remodeling since the Beatles were together. In here there was nothing of the slick, modern, ruthless persona that made up Max King.
“How’s the bossman?” Joey asked.
“Oh, you know,” Donna said. “Working too hard, as usual. What was his order, Harper?”
“Pastrami on rye. Extra pickle.” Nothing like passive-aggressive revenge.
Joey raised his eyebrows. “Extra pickle?” Jesus, of course Joey knew Max’s preferences.
“Okay.” I winced. “No pickle.”
Donna elbowed me. “And I’ll have a turkey salad on sourdough,” she said, then turned to me. “Let’s eat in and we can talk.”
“Make that two,” I said to Joey.
The deli had a few tables, all with mismatched chairs. Most customers took their orders to go, but today I was grateful for a few extra minutes out of the office. I followed Donna as she led us to one of the back tables.
“Extra pickle?” she asked, grinning.
“I know.” I sighed. “That was childish. I’m sorry. I just wish he wasn’t such a . . . ”
“Tell me what happened.”
I gave her the rundown on our meeting—his irritation that I hadn’t spoken to his contact at the WTO, the lecture about typos, his lack of appreciation for any of my hard work.
“Tell Max the Yankees deserved all they got this weekend,” Joey said as he placed our order in front of us, sliding two cans of soda onto the melamine surface, even though we’d not ordered any drinks. Did Joey talk baseball with Max? Had they even met?
“I’ll tell him,” Donna said, smiling, “but he might move his business elsewhere if I do. You know how touchy he is when the Mets do well.”
“He’s going to have to get used to it this season. And I’m not worried about losing him. He’s been coming here for over a decade.”
Over a decade?
“You know what he’d say to that?” Donna asked, unwrapping the waxed-paper parcel in front of her.
“Yeah, yeah, never take your customers for granted.” Joey headed back behind the counter. “You know what always shuts him up?” he asked over his shoulder.
Donna laughed. “When you tell him to come back after his business has lasted three generations and is still going?”
Joey pointed at Donna. “You got it.”
“So Max has been coming here a long time, huh?” I asked as Joey turned back to the counter to tend to the line of people that had built up since we’d arrived.
“Since I’ve been working for him. And that’s nearly seven years.”
“A creature of habit. I get that.” There wasn’t much spontaneous about Max from what I’d seen.
Donna cocked her head. “More a huge sense of loyalty. As this area built up and lunch places opened up on every corner, Joey’s business took a bit of a hit. Max has never gone anywhere else. He’s even brought clients here.”
Donna’s description jarred with the cold egomaniac I encountered in the office. I bit into my sandwich.
“He can be challenging and demanding and a pain in the ass, but that’s a big part of what’s made him successful.”
I wanted to be successful but still a decent human being. Was I naïve to think that was possible on Wall Street?
Donna pressed the top layer of bread down onto the turkey with her fingertips, pushing the layers together. “He’s not as bad as you think he is. I mean, if he’d said your report was good to go, what would you have learned?” She picked up her sandwich. “You can’t expect to get it all right your first time. And the stuff about the typos—was he wrong?” She took a bite, and waited for me to answer.
“No.” I bit the inside of my lip. “But you have to admit, his delivery sucks.” I pulled out a piece of my turkey from under the sourdough and put it in my mouth. I’d worked so hard; I’d expected some kind of recognition for that.