Warhol's Prophecy Read Online Free PDF Page A

You’ve just sent us headed notepaper that says BEE GEE TRUCKS, which makes us sound as if we only do removals for that pop group who did the soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever. It’s a spelling error, understand?’
    The person at the other end was having difficulty.
    ‘BG TRUCKS is different to BEE GEE TRUCKS,’ Rob said, spelling out the disparity. ‘Are we clear now?’
    The voice at the other end still couldn’t see the problem.
    ‘I’ll make it very simple,’ Rob continued. ‘If this headed notepaper isn’t replaced, then you get no money. N-O. No. Know what I mean? Or should I say k-n-o-w what I mean?’ He hung up.
    ‘Dickhead,’ Rob snarled at the phone, then he leant back in his seat and stretched his arms, feeling the beginnings of a headache gnawing at the base of his skull.
    The responsibilities of management, he mused.
    Eight years earlier he wouldn’t have needed to deal with such petty concerns. Eight years ago, his only concern with the haulage business was in driving trucks, not working out where they should be at what times of each day, for fifty-two weeks of the year. His and his partner’s decision to start up their own business had been vindicated by its success, and so far they had encountered few problems. Business had been plentiful to the point that they’d had to employ two more drivers the previous year, and there was certainly no sign of that business drying up. And why should it? They provided a good service for their customers, and at cheaper rates than most of their competitors.
    At thirty-four, Robert Gibson could, if he wished, consider his life to be a success. A thriving business, an expensive house and a loving family. Life didn’t get much better, did it?
    He exhaled deeply.
    Did it?
    He looked across his desk.
    A photo of his daughter smiled back at him. It had been taken at her birthday party just nine months earlier.
    Hailey had taken it. The two of them there together, laughing happily.
    The perfect dad.
    He smiled, then his thoughts were interrupted as his office door opened.
    ‘Every time I walk into this bloody office you’re staring at that photo,’ said Frank Burnside.
    ‘Do you blame me?’ Rob asked.
    Burnside shook his head. ‘No, I don’t. She’s a beautiful kid. It’s a good job she got her looks from her mother and not you.’
    ‘Ha-bloody-ha. What do you want?’
    ‘You know those two other vans we were after? I spoke to the boss at the garage, and he now wants five grand each for them.’
    ‘Tell him to fuck off. No, better still, give me his number and I’ll tell him to fuck off. Three and a half each, we said. He agreed it.’
    ‘Well, he’s changed his mind.’
    ‘Then we’ll change our supplier, sod him. Come to think of it, Frank, don’t ring him. Put it in writing. That makes it more official. Just don’t put it on any of this new notepaper.’ He grimaced.
    ‘I’ll get . . . um . . . her to type up a letter,’ Burnside said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.
    ‘Sandy, you mean. You can use her name in front of me, you know. She is our secretary after all. Don’t try being tactful now, Frank. It’s a bit late for that.’
    ‘Yeah, well, if you want my advice—’
    ‘I don’t.’
    ‘If you were going to have an affair, then why have it with someone who works for us, Rob? For Christ’s sake, talk about shitting on your own doorstep. I mean to say, that’s why her bloody marriage broke up, isn’t it? She was always knocking around with other blokes, and her old man finally gave her the push. You weren’t the first, you know.’
    ‘Give it a rest, Frank. OK, so she’s divorced. So she’s been around a bit. If it’s a problem, it’s my problem.’
    ‘Not entirely, Rob. If it affects the running of this firm, then it’s my problem too.’
    ‘And did it? No. I tell you what, Frank. You stick to worrying about your fucking cholesterol, let me worry about Sandy. That’s all over now anyway, you know that.’
    ‘Does