“It’s a good deal . . .” Shapiro stuck to the script. The incentives: $18k up front and additional pension payments of $400 through the age of . . . Pat couldn’t pay attention. He knew the package. But he was still falling. Shapiro pushed the main terms across the desk so he could see. They would extend health insurance for a full year.

The terrible irony was that Pat had proposed buyouts to Crandall as a magical way to chop payroll. With a grumpy wave Crandall had dismissed it and asked for alternatives. But the Pharaoh had an elephant’s memory for cruel, penurious ideas. A 6 percent reduction of senior management, combined with layoffs, would result in a 10 percent payroll deduction, while—and this Pat had underlined in his report—adding employees to the AMR workforce at the current 12 percent growth rate.

And now Pat was starting to overcome the shock and question how he got hoisted on his own petard. If the airline was growing, then this must be about something else. The MS? The drinking? No, he had to save face: These were just cuts across the board. Pat was fifty-five—right where the senior actuary himself had drawn the line for buyouts to begin.

At that Pat did start paying attention to Shapiro. Let’s not forget that getting rid of Pat made it easier for him to save his own neck. His jowls flushed red like he had been drinking. But Shapiro didn’t drink. Didn’t know how. Not a hail fellow well met, Shapiro. You couldn’t get close. He wasn’t a better manager than Pat. He was just less risk, safer.

Shapiro continued to stumble through the package. “Also there’s a letter of recommendation from me and from Wallace . . .”

Bob Wallace, SVP of operations, and Crandall’s Crandall. A miserly Scotsman, he had put the fear of God into Shapiro for years. Pat knew Wallace was all bark, but he could smell it on his now-former boss—that nervous dread of the salaryman. And Pat realized he was already outside the bubble. Shapiro was talking and talking and explaining a bunch of shit that didn’t matter. And then he would tell Wallace that Pat took it hard, but he had coached him through it, managed it well. Gold star, Shapiro. It’s sad, but honestly: Pat Malone is a crippled drunk.

“The economy wobbled this quarter, but I think next year you’re going to find that you’re back on your feet in no time.”

Next year? Jesus, Christmas is coming. Fuck you, Bob Crandall. Twenty-seven goddamn years. I was here before you. Before deregulation, before you turned this place into a shit show.

“Really this could open up possibilities for you. You never know . . .”