Free The Anniversary Man by R.J. Ellory

full pages, but let′s see what we′ve got, okay?′
    Karen Langley smiled, rose from her chair. ′Thanks, Leland, that′s great . . . we′ll get something together by the middle of the week.′
    John Costello stood up, took a step forward, extended his hand.
    Leland Winter shook it, smiling. ′How long have you been here, John? At the paper, I mean.′
    ′Here?′ Costello turned his mouth down at the corners. He turned and looked at Karen Langley.
    ′Eight and a half years,′ Karen Langley said. ′John′s worked for me for eight and a half years . . . started about six months after I arrived.′
    ′I′m surprised we′ve never met . . . I mean, I′ve only been here half that time, but even so—′
    John Costello nodded his head. ′No-one told me you had bonsais, Leland, or I′d have been up here a long time ago.′
    Leland Winter smiled some more, and showed them out of his office with a self-satisfied expression.
    ′You′re unbelievable, John,′ Karen Langley said. ′That was just the most outrageous thing I ever saw.′
    ′So maybe you get your pages, eh?′
    ′We′ll see . . . you gotta help me put something together now, okay? Gotta have something for the planning meeting, latest Wednesday.′
    ′I′ll check my calendar,′ Costello said.
    Langley swung the leather portfolio she was carrying and connected with Costello′s arm.
    ′Check your calendar . . . Jesus, you should do a half-hour stint at the Comedy Club on Saturday night, get it out of your system.′
    They reached the elevator, she pushed for down.
    ′Question,′ Costello said. ′Why did you tell him I′d only been here for eight and a half years?′
    Karen smiled. ′I didn′t say you′d been here for eight and half years, I told him that′s how long you′d worked for me.′
    Costello raised his eyebrows.
    ′John, seriously. I tell people that you′ve been here for nearly twenty years it bothers them that they don′t know who you are. It - well - it makes them feel awkward.′
    Costello opened his mouth to say something but seemed to change his mind. He shrugged his shoulders, then turned toward the stairwell.
    ′Oh right,′ she said. ′No elevators.′
    He smiled unassumingly, then made his way through the doorway and started down the stairwell. He counted the treads as he went, same as always.

FOUR
    M orning of Monday, June 12th, Max Webster was caught in a jam on Franklin D. Roosevelt Drive. Had planned to take the Queens Midtown Tunnel, changed his mind when he saw the depth of gridlock at the end of East 42nd, figured that the Williamsburg Bridge might be a safer bet, and took it. Max was middle-aged, whatever the hell that meant. Salesman out of the lower east side, small but profitable chemical firm on Rivington Street that hawked its wares as far north as Waterbury, Conn., as far south as Atlantic City. Max was a regular guy; a guy that would never be known for anything but his decency and basic goodness. Part of that fraternity of simple people with simple lives, long beyond the point of frustration about what might have been, could have been, should have been, never would be. Not complicated, just limited.
    Max had two client visits, and then back to the office to cold-call some prospects. His firm, Chem-Tech, didn′t have to fight for the trade any more, and in some small way Max was aware that the challenge had slipped right out of the business. He wasn′t hungry these days, not like ten years ago. Back then it was closing pitches, ′buy nows′ and lead-times faster than the competition. Back then it was arguing with stock managers and delivery crews and warehousemen. Back then it was three Hail Marys as he climbed from his car and made his way toward the site office, pumping hands, grinning wide and foolish, making the prospect think he was calling the boss to see if they could shave a point off the dollar if the order exceeded three grand and change. Back then it seemed like something to get up for.