Monday, March 25, 2013

Threats, paranoia, and sartorial style

This morning I received a call from Tony*, a client for whom I have done a few jobs previously. You can read about the first time here, which should give you some kind of indication as to the problems Tony has been having.

Tony has a small contracting company, TWA*. Given the nature of the industry, finding suitable employees has been a bit of a challenge for Tony, and some of his hiring decisions made have come back to haunt him - particularly when his erstwhile employees have been stealing from the company or the clients.

Just the day before I had backed Tony up in a carpark meeting with another recently-fired employee. Tony said he wanted me there to 'document the proceedings' but I think he really wanted me there if the proverbial shit hit that fan since there had been threats.

It didn't. At least not right then.

So then I received that phone call from Tony, clearly nervous...

Monday, March 11, 2013

Surprise! Or maybe not...

Seems like I'm always the last to know but about a year ago Forbes published an article on the 10 most surprisingly low-paying jobs

Compiled from data sourced from the US Bureau of Labour Statistics, Forbes determined that to make the list the average pay of employees had to be under US$50,000 per annum yet commonly perceived as being more lucrative than in actuality.

Private investigators made the list.

Of course the criteria for selection were entirely subjective and based on what the writers thought the various occupations were worth. Ironically, and yet somewhat satisfyingly, reporters also made the list.

Perhaps someone at Forbes was angling for a pay rise?

Tuesday, March 05, 2013

The Informant

I heard her before I saw her. 

Her heels on the cobblestones sharp in the otherwise muted sounds of another fog-shrouded night at the docklands.      

Click clack, click clack.

I checked my watch one last time; ten to midnight. Right on schedule. A solitary dark figure loomed out of the mist ahead of me and stopped, one hand hidden from view in her coat pocket. 

"Are you the dick?" she asked.

That's never how it happens.