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out my proposed org chart. His
position on the chart and suggested title, Systems Manager, seemed to please
him, especially since I had purposely elevated him to a direct-line of command
right below the Project Manager. The yahoo gave me a wink and a ‘so you do think I’m hot shit’ look. He didn’t
notice his little box of glory had no lineage to the rest of the project.
Anyone with a modicum of sense wouldn’t like seeing himself dangling off the
pyramid of command, so to speak. I winked back.
    “Let’s start with you, Mr.
Ritchie,” I said, making eye contact with the head dude. “As Project Manager,
you have overall control. Of course, with that responsibility you will be the
first to take it in the shorts when things go south.” Ritchie looked a little
surprised, then laughed with the rest of us.
    “Gee, Hetta” he said, “don’t feel
you have to beat around the bush.”
    “Not to worry. You guys hired me to
try to avoid cost overruns—that’s French for pissing off the client by spending
too much of his money—and by golly, that’s what I’m here to do. By doing so,
Mr. Ritchie, I am also trying to keep you from ending up a sacrificial goat to
the client’s displeasure.”
    Ritchie nodded. He’d been around
long enough to know that project managers, like professional coaches, have a
potentially short shelf life.
    I then encouraged each member of
the team to describe how they fit into the picture and what, specifically,
their particular talent brought to the project. I left Dale for last. When it
was his turn, the smug bastard spouted credentials, as I knew he would, but
little substance. An ally on my client’s staff asked key questions, supplied,
of course, by moi before the meeting.
By the time my mark quit blathering, he had bragged himself right off the
project. God, I love the smell of burned jerky in the morning.

6
     
     
    The next afternoon, still harboring
a satisfactory glow akin to post-coital smolder—as near as I remembered, that
is—I drove into the hills from the Oakland Airport. A huge leopard-spotted van
with paw, claw, and Tyrannosaurus rex footprints painted all over it was parked
in my driveway. When I hit the garage door opener, the ever so large and gay
veterinarian opened his slider.
    I wasn’t quite out of the car when
sixty-five pounds of happy Lab knocked me back into the front seat. I nuzzled
my dog and asked, “You two have a good time? And a bath? Oh RJ, you smell so
good.”
    “Smell his breath,” Craig prompted.
    “I’d rather have a root canal.”
    “Come on, Hetta, just do it.”
    I held RJ’s big red head still and
took a cautious sniff. “Have you two been into the York mints again?”
    “Nope. Something I invented,
peppermint dog biscuits. What do you think?”
    “I’ll take ten cases. Now can you
do something about his farts?”
    “I’m only human,” Craig joked, but
his tone fell a little flat. I wondered if he and his sig-other, Raoul, had
suffered a tiff. Guy problems. Something I can certainly relate to.
    “Want something to drink? You can
give me an RJ report along with your inflated bill.”
    Craig nodded, but didn’t smile at
my jibe. We went to the kitchen where he accepted a glass of Chardonnay, the
second alcoholic beverage I’d seen him take in ten years. The last one was when
his father died. Something was definitely amiss.
    “Well?” I said, as we settled onto
the couch. Craig’s uncharacteristically solemn behavior put an edge to my
voice.
      He sighed. “There’s a problem.”
    “With you and Raoul?”
    “No, with RJ.”
    “Well heck, Craig, I didn’t even
know you two were dating.”
    Craig finally smiled, but didn’t
laugh. Not a good sign. Neither was the deep sigh. Nor his large gulp of wine.
“I’m almost certain RJ’s got bone cancer.”
    My heart threatened arrest. The
mouth of the South, the gal with the glib comebacks, the queen of repartee,
could only manage, “No.”
    “I’m sorry, Hetta, but