Bizek made a couple of right turns and slowly drove past the industrial park I’d discovered that morning.
“I’m particularly proud of this,” he said. “The middle building, that houses Frank Communications. It’s a call center that handles inbound customer service calls and outbound sales calls, mostly for Fortune 500 companies. This guy, Ira Frank, millionaire, lives in Phoenix, has call centers scattered all across the country. I heard that he was from South Dakota, so I went to see him, went on my own dime, and talked him into moving a center here. It wasn’t hard. Frank likes South Dakota, likes the work ethic we have here.” Bizek looked into his rearview mirror again. “He said the fact that I drove down to Phoenix to talk to him without even an appointment was a good example of that.”
“We don’t need any more seven-dollar-an-hour jobs,” Tracie said.
“Microsoft and Apple are not going to waltz into Libbie with high-paying jobs for two hundred and fifty skilled, college-educated workers,” Bizek said.
Tracie had nothing to say to that.
“Would you like a tour?” Bizek said. “I’m sure we can arrange a quick tour.”
“Why not?” I said.
Tracie rolled her eyes.
Perry Neske liked his job. He managed the second shift at Frank Communications, the 4:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m. shift, and his smile became broad and his eyes shiny when Tracie asked him to give us the fifty-cent tour. That threw me a little bit, Tracie asking and not Bizek. Instead, Bizek kept his distance, like a child afraid of drawing attention to himself for fear the adults would ask him to leave.
“Business is ramping up,” Neske said. “We expect it’ll get even better as we get deeper into the political season, doing campaign surveys, opinion polls, trolling for contributions.”
I was surprised by how open Neske was. Tracie had explained to Bizek who I was and what I was doing in Libbie. She hadn’t said a word to Neske, though. Still, he proved as forthcoming as if we were old friends picking up a conversation that had been on pause for about thirty seconds. While Neske spoke, Bizek carefully surveyed the people around him as if he were looking for someone and didn’t want to be caught at it.
“In telemarketing, ninety-nine-point-nine percent of your success is the sound of your voice,” Neske said. “Can you read a script, can you talk well, are you outgoing, do you sound upbeat and sincere?”
All around us was the steady hum of conversation, and for a while I thought we had caught the employees conversing with each other during a shift change.
“Oh, no,” Neske said. “They’re working.”
Neske led us down a corridor between soft-wall cubicles and gestured at the men and women that we found there. They were all wearing headsets and talking to customers. Some of them were sitting at desks, others were standing, and still others paced while they worked. Bizek drifted away, looking over the top of some of the cubicle walls.
“We ask our employees to dress in what I call business casual,” Neske said. “You might think that’s odd. After all, they work on the phone. No one sees them. But I think you need to ask people to dress professionally if you expect them to act professionally. On Fridays, though—if you bring in a can of food or packaged goods for charity you can dress down on Fridays.”
“I notice that most of your employees are pretty young,” I said.
“They’re either young or old,” Neske said. “We have a high turnover. Partly it’s the entry-level pay that comes with the job. It’s not enough to support a family, so you get kids starting out or retirees looking to supplement pensions or Social Security. The other thing is, some people have a tough time handling rejection. You go a few days without a sale and it can get you down. Some people take it personally.”
Bizek glanced over the top of yet another cubicle. Neske spun to face him.
“Are you looking for someone?” he said.
Bizek took a tentative step backward.
“She’s not here,” Neske said.
The hum of conversation suddenly ceased, and heads peered over the walls of the cubicles.
Bizek’s eyes lowered until he was staring at the floor.
I glanced at Tracie, hoping for enlightenment. She pressed an index finger to her lips and watched the scene unfold.
“I should kill you,” Neske said.
“Maybe you should,” Bizek said. He raised his head. “But I don’t think the lady would like that.”
“I should kill you both.”
Bizek took a step forward. If he had seemed repentant before, he now looked defiant. “Try it,” he said.
Tracie grabbed my arm just above the elbow and squeezed. “McKenzie, do something,” she said.
“Want me to go out for popcorn? Milk Duds?”
Bizek took another step forward. Neske moved to meet him. They stood like that for a long moment, reminding me of professional wrestlers giving each other the mad-dog stare. Only nothing happened, and after about six seconds I knew nothing would. The more people think about a fight, the less likely they are to start one.
