Chapter Eleven
Griffin
“I don’t even know what to say.” Charles has traded stentorian in for ponderously important.
After all, he’s the head of the econ department.
Right now, he’s seated at the desk in his office, which is four times the size of mine, his thick, Vienna-wiener fingers steepled. His over-gelled wig stays rigidly on his skull to cover the huge bald spot on his bowling-ball head, and his cheap charcoal-gray suit sits slightly crooked on his body, saggy from decades of parking his ass in a chair. Behind the rimless glasses he loves so much—they make him appear “intellectual”—his beady brown eyes are judging.
Not that it isn’t undeserved. It’s just that I didn’t earn that judgment.
The price you pay for being Ted Lasker’s son.
Having a Hollywood movie producer dad isn’t as cool as people assume. I’d rather be the son of an occupant of some premium real estate under a bridge or pier.
“She probably made a mistake,” I explain in my calmest voice. “Most likely got lost or confused.”
I’m going to murder Joey.If he was going to send me a hooker, he should’ve done so at my place, just like he did with all my other brothers. This is blatant discrimination.
That bastard knows how important it is to maintain a certain image, especially in my profession. Being seen as a disreputable hooker-banger would be a death sentence.
I wager he’s still holding a grudge over that time I told him—actually Dad—to fuck off. But that was deserved.
“A mistake, you say. Mmm.” Charles gazes up at the ceiling for a moment. “According to some of the students, the woman referred to you as ‘Professor Lasker.’ That does sound rather specific.”
“I didn’t hire her, if that’s what you’re implying.” There is a ball of pure acid lodged in my throat. Sexual misconduct can be viewed as just cause for loss of tenure—and termination. If I become unemployed, I’m going to run Dad over with a car. Not my Tesla, but my Prius. Dad isn’t worth banging a Tesla up for. “If I had, I wouldn’t have asked her to come by during my office hours. And most especially not right after the midterm grades were handed out.”
Charles nods ponderously. “Of course. That does make sense. Still, it would be difficult let this go without some…stipulations.”
“Such as?” I ask.
“We could call a departmental meeting about the incident, but as you say…perhaps you weren’t entirely to blame. So a less, ah, publicly visible act of atonement might be fitting… Not that you would be admitting that you had anything to actually atone for, of course. But something I could hold up in the event that someone decided to make an issue out of this little peccadillo. Some small service, say, that you could perform to restore the dignity of the economics department.”
Dread knots my gut. When Charles says “service,” what he really means is indentured servitude. “Such as…?”
“As it happens, the Fullilove family would like one of the professors here to bring their students over and do a case study for the company.”
You have to be kidding. “This is an econ department, not undergraduate business. We don’t generally do case studies.”
“You’re correct, of course. But finance and marketing students shouldn’t be the only ones learning about how real life works. Our students deserve the same opportunity. Besides, we can’t overlook the importance of the Fullilove family to the college.” Charles gives me an I’m-sure-you-take-my-meaning smile.
How could I forget? Every time I teach my class, it’s inside Fullilove Hall. It’s nauseating how Charles—and everyone else—acts like simply because the family gave some money to the college, we should all kowtow and kiss their billionaire feet. Screw that.
The Fullilove family bought respect and their name on the building, just like Dad did at a film and acting school by donating a tiny fraction of his bank account. It’s a shortcut cop-out, a cheap way to hide how corrupt and disgusting they really are. They’re beneath my notice.
“Don’t you think the case would be better handled by a professor teaching law and economics or financial economics? Or maybe behavioral economics? The economics of marketing?”
“Perhaps, but they already have their semesters planned out.”
It’s all I can do to rein in a scream. “And I don’t?”
“Not that you don’t, but you can probably be more flexible. Those professors are set in their ways.”
Right. They’ve all been at the college for over a decade as tenured professors. So let’s mess with the newly tenured lackey.
“Also, of course, none of them have recently suffered the embarrassment of having a professional, ah, escort in their office.”
I sigh. “How about Benson? The micro-econ guy we hired last year?”