"Ten jobs?" Stan asked.      

     Liz nodded.  She realized her voice tube on her telephone headset was directly in front of her mouth so she fingered it down.   She had become so accustomed to having it on at all times she had worn it out of the office yesterday.  Most recruiters wore their headsets all day at work.  "Two regional sales’ managers and eight sales positions all over the Western United States," she replied to Stan’s question.       

     "Uh-huh!  Uh-huh!"  Stan sank back into his swivel.   "And, what do you have to do to get a retainer contract, or at least, an exclusive contingency listing to handle the ten jobs?"       

     "I have to go to Las Vegas, meet Mr. Randy Wilcox, present him with our retainer agreement and explain how I'll handle the openings in a lot of different cities.  He told me he has to meet me in person to negotiate the fees face-to-face.”

     Stan looked over at Carl Goodman, who was sitting beside Liz.  He arched his eyes disapprovingly at Carl, and then turned his attention back to Liz.  "Biggest single job order in five years.  What's the catch?" he asked.      

     "No catch.  I have to compete with three other executive recruit firms.  Whoever makes the best presentation and gives the best fees will win the contract to fill the ten jobs."

     "Uh-huh!  Uh-huh!  I don't like it!"      

     Liz eyed Carl Goodman suspiciously.  She wondered what he and Stan had been talking about before her arrival.  She had not closed a deal since her first, and she had no hot prospective job orders.   Carl had barked at her several times about her poor performance but she had managed to stay away from him until now.       

     Liz said, “What's wrong?   It's a great job order if I can get it."       

     "That's what I don't like about it," Stan snapped.  "If you can get it!  Hell, we can 'get it' with a telephone and a FAX machine or an Email right here in our office.  We don't have to leave Beverly Hills.  We don't have to invade Las Vegas to place a few sales people.  We just placed somebody in Paris and in China last week and we didn’t have to go to either place.  I don't like it."  He stood and walked around behind his swivel, pausing to look out the glass window-wall.  "Smoggy as hell out there in Beverly Hills today," he complained.  "Nice to be in here with the air conditioning going so we can breathe.  Tell me about your conversation with Mr. Wilcox.  Go slowly and let me digest the details."

     Liz discussed her conversation.  She had been making "S.O.D." calls, “spin-of-the-dial” random calls to employers, old-timers called them, when she received a call from the secretary to the Vice President of Sales for Capitol Pulp and Paper Company’s corporate office in New York.  The secretary had informed her that the company would be hiring a lot of salesmen and was trying to find an executive recruiter on the West Coast.  She had then put Liz through to Randy Wilcox, the V.P. of Sales, who had confirmed the plans to hire the salesmen.      

     "You did a good job," Stan said.  "But, was there anything strange, unusual, or different from your normal calls?"      

      Liz thought about her conversation.  "Not much.  He did ask me a lot off questions about myself, how old I was, how long I had been a headhunter, where I lived.  He's very personable."      

     "Ah-h-h!" Stan said.  "Now I've got the picture!  Liz, why don't you take a hike a few minutes and let Carl and I discuss this."       

     Liz excused herself, closed the door behind her, and returned to her desk in the Circus area.  She watched Stan and Carl talking in the glass cage, and could have sworn that Carl was objecting to one of Stan's suggestions.  She   wondered what Carl would be objecting to, what all the mystery was about.

                                                                      #

     Liz had been waiting impatiently for Stan's decision on her ten job orders when "Vege-Burger" came out of her private office and waved at Liz.  Vege came over to sit in the single chair inside Liz's cubicle.  Her real name was Jean Burger.   Jean was in her mid-thirties, had fuzzy brown hair, and wide,   lazy brown eyes, a trim divorcee who had been labeled by Red Neck as "Vege-Burger", when he discovered she was a vegetarian.  Vege, a senior headhunter, was  popular with rookies because she taught some of the classes and always took time to answer their questions, which some of the seniors did not do because they thought it was a waste of time on a rookie who might burn out in three months. 

     "Heard you got a fabulous job order," Vege said.       

     "I got it but I don't know if Stan will let me work it," Liz replied.

     "Why not?"      

     "Don't know yet," Liz said.  "I guess Stan thinks I don't have enough experience.  Stan and Carl are discussing it now."  She motioned toward Stan's office where they could see the two men inside the glass cage.

     Vege leaned over.  "Listen, Liz, you rant and rave and scream and raise hell, threaten to walk if they don't let you work that job order.  I've been here five years and I've never had a single job order for more than four jobs at the same time.  Four!"  She held up four fingers.  "Your job order's worth over a hundred thousand bucks minimum to Search America and at least fifty thousand to you personally.  You don't need many of those to hit six figures in this business, and I know you need the money.  Your husband find a job yet?"      

     Liz shook her head.  "Nothing."  She felt helpless, wished there was something she could do to help Doug find a job.  He appeared to have given up.  He had been bitter last night when she tried to put her arms around him and talk, to make up after the fight at the party.  He had said they should start thinking about divorce, then pushed her away and went off to silently sulk as usual, and continue drinking heavily.  Liz was scared.   Gina talked about divorce but Liz had not given the subject any serious consideration until Doug spouted the subject at the party Saturday night.  There were few options left.  Even appeasement, usually her final weapon, wasn't working.

     Vege asked, "How are you and Carl getting along?"      

     Liz felt her upper teeth come down hard on top her lower lip.  She decided to probe Vege, see if she could get some straight answers.  "Was Carl your first department manager?" she asked.       

     A pert smile appeared on Vege's face as she nodded.        

     "Did he try to sleep with you?"    

     "Wow!" Vege roared.  "You really are a headhunter!  Right for the jugular, huh?"  She looked away for a moment, then turned back to look directly into Liz's eyes.  "He sleeps with most of the girls in his department.  Have you been in his bed yet?"      

     Liz laughed.  "No, I haven't!  And, I don’t plan to.”

     She assumed from Vege's comment that Vege had slept with Carl.  "Sorry," she said.   "I didn't mean to offend you.  I just need help in handling Carl.  He's been . . . pressing me."  She sighed heavily.  "I wasn't certain if he was for real."       

     "He's for real all right!  Smooth as silk when he gets you alone.  I had just gone through my divorce when I was assigned to that SOB.  His latest girl friend, Grace," she nodded toward a rear cubicle, "just graduated from Carl's tutelage, so he's auditioning for another nighttime star!"  She leaned forward to whisper, "Be careful with Carl.  He’s one of only two or three real bad actors in the office.  Most of the other seniors are basically good people.  Carl has washed out other girls who didn't play along with his demands.  Stan’s a straight shooter.  He’d fire Carl on the spot if some gal produced any evidence.  But, none have.  Make certain you have ammo before you shoot."     

     "Thanks," Liz said.  "I really do appreciate the information.  "But, isn't he married?"      

     Vege laughed.  "Yes, he is.  He tells all the girls he and his wife are going to separate but for some strange reason his wife always shows up with him at all the parties."   Vege stood and pressed her skirt with her hands.  "Listen, if you want me to, I'll go with you to talk to Stan," she said.   "Sometimes, he discriminates against 'us' gals and we have to stick together!  Just don't let him take that job order away and give it to some guy.  It belongs to you.  Kill if you have to in order to keep it!" 

     "My!  My!" Red Neck chortled as he peeped over the top of the cubicle.  "What have we here?  Bod and Burger.  Would you two lovely ladies care to have dinner with me tonight?" he asked.  "My place, of course.  Violins, candlelight, and me!  What more could two beautiful ladies ask?"      

     "You want both of us?" Vege asked sarcastically.      

     "Yes, ma’am!  I certainly would like to have both of you.   I do believe the French have a word for a threesome.  Menage-a-something.  Whatever!  Know what I mean?"      

     Vege made a face at him, and then turned to Liz.  "He can't speak French or English!  You know, it's funny, his name is the same in both languages:  'Asshole'!"  She turned back to Liz saying, "C'mon! Let's go get a cup of coffee.”  As they walked, she whispered, “Red Neck’s harmless.  Retrograde.  I think his last date was in the seventh grade, which was also probably his last year in school.  Just kidding!  He has a degree in business.”         

                                                                           #

     "I don't think you should work this job order," Stan stated firmly.

     Liz squirmed in her chair as she looked across the desk at Stan.  She was alone with Stan in his office with the door closed.  "Why not?" she asked.       

     Stan rocked in his swivel.  "This one is a retainer: the 'Big Leagues'.  Not for a rookie.  You're simply not ready to handle a job order this large and complex."     

     "I learn fast!"

     "Not that fast!  You'd be going up against some real pros, people who have handled hundreds of retainer job orders.  There are myriads of details in the fine print to untangle.  And, the retainer field is the 'Good Ole Boy'   network, the golf and tennis and country club circuit.  You know the saying.  We use it here on our TV screens often: 'A wise man knows everything; a shrewd man everyone.'  That's the retainer field!  You don't play golf or tennis or belong to a country club, and you're certainly not a man.  It would be hard enough to handle your first retainer job order for one job, but not ten."      

     "I want that job order!" Liz stated emphatically.

     Stan had one finger over his lips again.  "Uh-huh!  Uh-huh!  Why do you want the job order?"       

     Liz breathed a sigh of relief.  If Stan had been serious he would have said, “No,” and sent her out of his office.  His response told her he was playing games with her.  "I need the money," Liz said.  "Very bad.  We could lose our house if I don't make more money."       

     "Uh-huh!  Uh-huh!  Motivation.  I like that.  Go on."

     “After all, it is my job order.  I don't remember anything in the Search America rules about taking away job orders from the recruiter who gets them."       

     "It's there in the fine print," he assured her.  "Sort of like some lawyers bring in the business while others handle it. Technically, the General Manager is supposed to assign every job order, so that, if he needs to reassign any job order he always has the right.   Otherwise, some headhunter in banking might accidentally get a great job order in chemicals, a field he knows nothing about, and the company would be the loser if he tried to work the 'J.O.' but didn't make a placement."  He waved his arm at   her.  "You're probing in the wrong direction, 'Bod'.  Go back to your motivation and give me your best shot."      

     Liz smiled.  She felt she had a real chance to get the job order if she could find out what Stan was after.  "Stan,"   she began, "I'll do anything to work that job order."       

     "Uh-huh!  Uh-huh!  You're getting closer."       

     Frustrated, Liz stood and walked as she talked.  She wasn't certain what she was saying.  She probed several times, got no reaction, and then she had an idea.  She turned to glance back at the craggy face.  "What do you want me to do to work the job order?" she asked finally. "I'm working my butt off over here guessing as I wear out the floor.  What do you want?"     

     "Ah!" he proclaimed loudly.  "You finally got around to me, your boss. I must admit, you are one of the cleverest, quickest communicators I've ever seen!  Ever!  You listen well, and you're damned sharp.  You don't miss much.  I knew you'd do well after watching you tackle that computer.  Those damned psycho tests are pretty good indicators.  Pardon me, but I do believe you asked me what I want!  Is that correct?"     

    Puzzled, Liz went to sit in the chair in front of his desk.  She leaned forward, propped her elbows on his desk, cupped her face with her hands and stared at him.  "Yes, of course," she   replied.  She had no idea what he was getting at.       

     "'Bod'," Stan snorted, "let me explain this as delicately as I can for gals who choose to do battle in the business world.  I’m not your enemy; I’m old enough to be your father and fathers like to protect their kids.  You would be engaging in guerilla warfare, where we find the birds and the bees of the business world.  Sometimes, in this or any biz we have a situation where a client is looking for more than what he says, in our case, more than just a good headhunter.  On occasion, I have assigned a handsome young man to work very closely--repeat: 'very closely' with a female client because, frankly, I thought that's what the situation called for.  I admit it's subjective.  A judgment call.  But hell, that's what managers get paid to do: analyze a situation and make a judgment call.  Are you following me?"      

     Liz nodded as she leaned back in her chair.

     "On other occasions, I felt it was best to use a female headhunter with, shall we say, certain types of male clients.   Are we still on the same rail tracks?"       

     "Yes," Liz agreed.  She folded her arms together.  "I think I see where your train is heading."      

     He nodded.  "You're a quick learner.  I don’t want to send a bright, beautiful gal like you out to be slaughtered by a con artist.”  Stan stood and went to stare out his window at the streets below, his back to her.  He stood there a long time without saying a word.                  

     Liz studied Stan's back, wondered what he was thinking.  Did he want her to make a suggestion?  Then, she remembered her training.  "You're in the Army now: volunteer nothing!  SOP.  The candidate should never take the interview away from the interviewer; the candidate should not attempt to break any silent spells by telling stories.  Be patient.  Wait."  Liz sank back in her chair and waited.  She finally realized that Stan was interviewing her, testing her, grading her responses.       

     It seemed an eternity before Stan broke the silence, muttered, "Rodeo Drive, where all the power players play.  The big leagues!  You're in the big leagues now, Liz.   This ain't Podunk!  We got thirty million people in   California.  Twenty million in New York, where your Mr. Randy Wilcox works. My problem with your big job order is that fees can be negotiated on the phone.  You know that.  So, what’s the real reason to get you to Las Vegas?  You just told me you would do whatever it took to work this job order," he said without looking back.  "Do you still feel that way?"      

     Liz swallowed hard as she thought about the implications.      

     "Your hesitation tells me you're having second thoughts.  Is that a fair assessment?"  He turned around and walked back to his swivel.       

     "Yes, it is."       

     "Truthful," he said as he sat down.  "Any other response would have been phony and I would have booted you the hell out of here.  That's why I like you."  He smiled.  "No problem.  I'll assign the job order to Carl, because you’re in his department and he was begging for it.”

     "Wait!  I didn't say, 'No'!  I said I was thinking about it."  She studied his craggy face.  He asked what it was she was thinking about.      

     She was really thinking about how Carl was stabbing her in the back, attempting to get the job order for himself, while trying to make her part of his captive sexual harem.  She was steaming at the thought but knew she had to calm down, allow reason to rule.  Finally, she said, “I was thinking about the fifty thousand dollars I'll lose if I don't work the job order."    

     Stan laughed.  “I really like your honesty,” he declared.   “You’re going to make it big in the headhunting world but perhaps not yet, not on this job order.  Let me tell you why.”  He opened his top desk drawer, reached in, and got something which he held in his hand.  "If this were the reverse," he began, "if we had a female client, and you, my headhunter, were a man, I'd hand you two of these and tell you to call me in the morning if you don't want to use them."  He held up two condoms, each neatly wrapped in a shiny silver package. 

     Liz sat stunned as she stared at the shiny silver condoms.    

     "Because, Liz, in my judgment, you’re going to need these if you work that job order with Mr. Wilcox.  I could be dead wrong, but my experience tells me I’m right.  My only decision here is to select the person who will best represent SAW if this is a legitimate job order.  My inclination is to use a man, reverse psychology, to send a man to meet a male client.  SAW does not put any employee at risk at any time.  My advice as your manager is to let me assign this job order to a man, to your boss, Carl.  However, the decision is yours.”

     Liz saw Stan's hand in front of her face.  He laid the two shiny condoms on the desk top right in front of her.  "As the old saying goes, 'Take two of these and call me in the morning!'  If you want to work this job order, keep   them.  If you don't want to work this job order, bring them back in the morning and put them in that blue bowl at the end of my desk so I'll know I need to assign Carl to handle the job order.  No explanation is required, and it’s certainly no reflection on you.  In fact, I’m telling you not to work the job orders.  You’ll have to volunteer to get the job order."

     Liz watched as Stan walked out of the office, leaving her sitting there staring at the condoms.  Tears came to her eyes.  She wanted to scream.  She wanted to get up and storm out of his office, shout that it was wrong to fight a guerilla war in business like a clandestine operation everyone knew existed but no one would admit.  At least Stan was a straight-shooter, told it like it was.  She respected him for that.  But she wondered how Carl, a man, would handle the job order until she thought about Vege’s comments and realized that Carl would take a rookie female from his harem with him to Las Vegas and sacrifice her without a moment’s remorse.  She found herself in the same scenario as Balla, when Balla had come to Naples as an uneducated country bumpkin who arrived with a fairy tale dream and finally conceded defeat by becoming a prostitute.  Liz had always vowed she would never allow herself to become Balla and found it ironic that she was now in the same situation Balla had found herself in in Naples.  They were both "bumpkins", both trying to play hardball in the big leagues, both way over their head, both confronting the same crucial decision.  An inner voice was raging, haunting echoes reverberating: "I have become what I swore I would never allow to happen!  I have become my own mother!"    

     Liz suddenly discovered her hands locked together, squeezing, her upper teeth biting hard on her lower lip, her eyes fixed on the two shiny condoms sitting on the desk in front of her.  The two shiny condoms loomed larger and larger in her eyes, blotted out everything else in the room.   Indignant, she reached out for them but did not pick them up.   She withdrew her hand as she thought about how desperate her situation was.  She felt herself being seized by the fear of personal failure.  Stan had fired two rookie headhunters last week.  One of them had been with Search America for over two months.  Debbie had told her the failure rate was very high.      

     Her hand inched back out toward the condoms again. She had to have that money.  Without the money, they would lose the house; she would lose everything.  It was becoming obvious to her that Doug was not going to get a good job, possibly any job, for a long time, and even if he did, their   marriage was on the rocks, with divorce now looming on the horizon, leaving her to bear the financial burden not only for herself but for Timmy.  That money could pull her out, provide her security for months.     

     "How'd it go?" a voice called out.       

     Startled, Liz looked over to see Vege standing in the doorway.  "Fine," she said.  "Just fine."   She reached out, grasped the two condoms in her hand, and stood.  She fingered the moisture from her eyes.  "I'm going to work the job order," she said as she walked toward the door.  

     "That's great!" Vege declared.  "You must be a good salesman to convince Stan."       

     "Yes," Liz murmured.  "A good salesman . . . "  She walked silently through the Circus area back to her cubicle where she paused to glance up at a new saying for the day just flashed on the TV screens, red letters on a black background, which reminded her of the devil: "Good judgment comes from experience; experience comes from making bad judgments."

                                                                            #

     Tony reminded Liz that he wanted her to sing “Guaglione” after she ate so she nodded at him then turned back to Gina, who was sitting across from her in their back booth in Casa del Opera.

     "So, you're going to 'Vegas' on business?" Gina queried.   "Sounds like fun."      

     Liz sipped her vino as she stared at Gina.  "Business is work, not fun," she stated.  She told Gina about her conversation with Stan, and Carl's demands and back-stabbing.  Then she asked,   "What is sesso?  A mind game or a body game?  I've been giving the subject of sex a lot of thought in the past several weeks.  So tell me, professor, what's your analysis?"

     Gina scowled.  "Betta, some things you analyze and some things you just do.”

     Liz looked out at a full house, many people singing along with a gal on stage.  She sipped her wine.  "I've got some hard-nose decisions to make, Gina.  Either I sleep with my direct boss, Carl Goodman, or I get fired; either I sleep with Randy Wilcox or I lose a big business deal, which could cost me my job and my house--everything!  What's the difference between my decision to sleep with a guy for business purposes in order to survive and your decision to sleep with a guy?"      

     "Pleasure!" Gina roared.       

     "Gina, we're both Catholic.  Neither one of us is a saint!  We will both have to go to confession and say we slept with a guy, you for pleasure, me for business.  Both are sins!  Agreed?  Is one sin worse than the other?"       

     "Christmas, Betta!  You want to get philosophical after my third glass of vino?”       

     "You have absorbed a lot of 'grape' tonight!"  

     Gina sighed.  "Listen, I've trashed two husbands.  I'm not married, so pleasure is acceptable for me; you're married so it's a problem for you.  At least, morally.  I don’t know where you draw your line; I can only draw mine."  

     Liz disagreed.  "I'm desperate," she declared.  "Really desperate!  And, I'm serious.  If my marriage is over, my status is the same as yours.  I have a right to experience pleasure just like you do; I also have a right to choose to have sex with either or both of these guys for business reasons, for economic survival.  Why should I feel guilty about a business decision when I wouldn't feel guilty about a personal decision?  I find it more compelling to make the business decision over the pleasure decision because I am   desperate!”

     “The Neanderthal is grappling with modern real world problems.  You know, I kept telling you these things through the years when you didn’t work but you didn’t believe me.”

     “I wonder how many businesswomen have gone through the same thought process I’m going through.  It’s mind-boggling.”

     Gina said, “You remind me of the assembly-line worker who went to see the company psychologist with a serious problem.  ‘It’s like this, Doc,’ the worker grunted.  ‘All day long I have to select small oranges to put into the small hole; medium-size oranges into the medium-size hole; and large oranges into the large hole.’  The Doc says, ‘So?’  The worker replies, ‘Decisions!  Decisions!  Decisions!  Decisions are killin’ me, Doc.’”

     Annoyed, Liz said, “You are high.”         

     Gina sipped her vino.  "I don’t want to think right now.  I just want to feel loved.  My heaters are heating.  I feel a cozy, fuzzy glow.  My boy friend will be waiting for me at home.  We’ll go to bed and tell each other we love each other as justification for going to bed.  I don't really care about all those logical reasons or guilt.  Does that answer your question?"

     Liz nodded.  "Yes," she said.  "It certainly does.  See you in confession in several weeks.”

     Gina stood and put on her sweater.  “Go sing ‘Guaglione’  before I get mad at you,” she said.  “If I recall dear old Long Beach High, your IQ score wasn’t much below mine.  You’ve been hiding behind Doug all these years, hiding that brain power.  Time for the Neanderthal woman to disintegrate and Zingara to invade the modern business world if you’re going to survive.”  She sighed.  “But, I’ve told you this before.  How will you survive in Vegas?”

     Liz shrugged.  “Guerilla warfare,” she said.  “Hit and run like hell.”

                                                                         #

     McCarran airport was crowded at noon when Liz arrived in Las Vegas.  She didn't see any empty slot machines in the waiting rooms or corridors as she weaved her way through heavy traffic to the baggage claim area where she got her bags and hustled out to catch a cab down to the "Strip".  She had been to Las Vegas often and knew her way around.

     Her room at Caesar's Palace was on the third floor.  She had two hours to prepare for her meeting with Randy Wilcox at three o’clock.  She took all her papers out of her brief case and laid them across the bed before calling Stan. 

     "Have you reviewed everything?" Stan asked, when she called.

     She told him she had.

     “I looked up your company.  Capitol is a three hundred million dollar subsidiary of a New York Stock Exchange conglomerate.  Randy Wilcox, the Senior Vice President of Sales, is forty-two, an MBA from an Ivey League college, and he played pro football.  You’re dealing with a mover-and-shaker."

     As she listened, Liz wondered if Stan was offering her a chance to back out.  She doubted it.  She had already gone too far to back out now.

     “ . . . so you have three separate written agreements you can use.  One at twenty-five per cent, which I doubt you can get; one at twenty-per cent, which I hope you get; and one with a sliding scale of fees that averages eighteen per cent, as a last resort.  Any questions?"

     "No."

     There was a long silence.  Finally, Stan said, "Good luck, Liz."

     She hung up the phone and said, "Luck?  Ha!  Luck won't have anything to do with this one!  Che Guevara, I need your help!"

     She pulled her black business suit from her bag and hung it up.  Then she got out her silky white blouse, examined it, and placed it on a hanger.  It was time to dress to meet Mr. Randy Wilcox.

                                                                          #

     Randy Wilcox was as advertised when he came to meet Liz at the door to his hotel room: Ivy League, button-down collars, expensive charcoal silk suit with a red-and-gold Paris creation for a tie.  He appeared to have a perm, as every black hair in his head fit into a precise curly mold as if it had been glued into place.   He was a sinewy six-three, walked up, on his toes, which he said was from his football training.  People who walked on their heels were losers, he assured her, because they had to first waste time shifting their weight to the balls of their feet before they could start.  He admitted he did wear out a lot of shoe soles. 

     “Sit over there,” he ordered, pointing to a chair.

     She instantly sensed that Randy was used to being in command, to directing people, as he took a seat near a window across a small table from her chair.  She felt he was definitely rating her as his expansive blue eyes roamed and roved her body constantly.  She was irritated that the sun was on his back but in her face, a definite power play she had heard about in a training session, where the power player always put his opponent at every conceivable disadvantage he could gain, no matter how miniscule.  She deliberately got up and moved her chair to the side of the table, saying, "The glare, you know."  She smiled at him, decided to take a first shot at him.  "But, of course you know," she added.  “You put the chair there.”

     Randy arched his eyebrows, mumbled, “So you read the book too.”  He made small talk a while, told her he had played for three different NFL football teams, and was surprised that she had never heard of him.

     "I don't know much about sports," Liz admitted.

     Randy nodded, said he was there for the Trade Show, then abruptly switched to business, asking her to tell him about SAW, which she did.

     “Liz,” he began, “have you ever handled a hiring project this large?  A regional manager in L.A. and Denver, and eight salesmen in L.A., San Francisco, Denver, Seattle, Phoenix, San Diego, Portland, and Albuquerque?”

     “No," she replied.  "I have not handled a project this large.  But, I'm a hustler and I know I can do a good job for you."

     "You're pretty blunt!" he said.  "I like that."  He stood, stripped off his charcoal suit jacket and slung it on top the bed.  "Hot in here," he complained.  He sat down, fingered the knot in his tie and jerked it down.  Then he rolled up his sleeves, exposing enormous forearms, the result of weight lifting, he mentioned casually.  "I like hustlers,” he said.  “Anyone in sports will tell you that hustlers usually win.  Please, take off your jacket and relax and let's just chat a while.  You're the third headhunter today and frankly, I'm getting tired."

     Liz could feel his blue eyes roving again, focusing on her white blouse as she removed her black jacket, folded it neatly and carefully laid it on the bed.  When she turned back to the table she saw a grin on his rugged face.  She noticed he had a powerful neck and wide shoulders, and huge white teeth that flashed when he spoke.  She told herself he was a shark in an Ivy League suit waiting for the chance to devour her, that she should tread carefully.

     “You’re Italian,” he said.  When she nodded, he added, “My mom is Italian, but I don’t speak the language very well.”

     Liz gave him her proposal and waited patiently for him to read it.

     Randy Wilcox took his time.  He nodded once or twice, grimaced once and then turned to Liz to say, “Now, Liz, I really like you.  You're a very nice gal.  But, this twenty-five per cent fee you propose is ridiculous.  Your competition has done much better than that, and you're going to have to reduce those fees.  Are you prepared to negotiate or do you have to call your boss and get a clearance for every move?"

     "I can handle this myself!" Liz stated firmly.  "I have the authority to write my own deal."

     "Really?  Interesting.  Your boss must have a lot of confidence in you to give you that much authority. If you don't get the deal, your company could stand to lose a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in business, and you personally seventy-five, or more.  That’s a lot of money.  Doesn’t that rattle you?”

     Liz smiled politely.  She knew from her training that he was attempting to psyche her; it was time to return the favor.  "I don't plan to lose this deal," she stated firmly.  “And I don’t rattle easily.”

     He sat back in his chair and stared at her.  "I'm an athlete," he began.  "As I told you, athletes play to win.  Coming in second sucks.  And, I love confidence.  I love what you just said.  You're off to a good start.”  He checked his watch as he stood.  “Got to call corporate,” he said.  “Let’s continue this discussion over dinner.  Say, seven-thirty?  Meet me in the lobby.”

     Liz smiled as she stood.  She had survived round one, which had been mild, but surviving round two would be her ultimate test in guerilla warfare tactics with a savvy opponent.  “I’ll meet you in the lobby,” she agreed.

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