Sitting cross-legged at the edge of the pool was a large marzipan Zen master. The rest of the table was covered with themed appetizers including little goat cheese stereo systems and big-screen TVs fashioned from pate.
The bars at both ends of the room were stacked three deep with thirsty executives. The mood was high and the room was filled with much toasting and self-congratulation. The bar was generously stocked with the finest Seagram products, including five vintage-dated single-malt Scotch whiskies produced by the world-renowned Glenlivet Distillery, Crown Royal, Boodles gin, Captain Morgan’s Private Stock rum, Perrier-Jouet.
“Can I help you, sir?” the bartender asked.
“Yes, please,” a handsome executive said. “Do you have any cognac?”
The bartender smiled. “Not just cognac, sir, Martell Cordon Bleu.”
The handsome executive nodded knowingly. “Perfect.”
Dan put on a great face, selling his excitement and enthusiasm like so much breakfast cereal, but he was starting to fade. Tired of mingling, Dan stood off in a corner watching the celebration but not enjoying it. Dan knew he couldn’t keep Scott in the dark forever, and when he found out whathad happened, well, Dan didn’t want to think about it. All he was thinking about right now was getting some sleep. He stifled a yawn and lifted his Armanis to rub his eyes.
“I can help you out with that,” a voice said. It was Andre from the production studio. Andre was an adequate artist and a hard enough worker, but he was kept around mainly because of his reliable cocaine connections which allowed the production studio to respond to rush orders like the one they had done the night before. Andre smiled slyly, brushed a finger past his nose. “It’s the quicker picker-upper.”
Dan hesitated. He hadn’t had a bump since he couldn’t remember when, and right now it sounded like a great idea. He just wondered if it was good stuff or if it had been stepped on a dozen times. “Stronger than dirt?” he asked.
Andre winked. “A little dab’ll do ya.”
“What are we talking?” Dan asked, rubbing a thumb against fingertips.
Andre put a hand on Dan’s shoulder. “On the house,” he said as his free hand slipped the small amber vial into Dan’s coat pocket. “Congratulations, big guy. Just remember me when you get that corner office.” Andre turned and headed for the men’s room.
Dan was more alert already. He went to the bar, freshened his drink, and was about to sneak off for a jolt when Oren stopped him. “So, did you already write the press release?”
Dan looked confused. “About the account?”
Oren smiled and put his arm around Dan. “About The Prescott Agency’s newest partner.” He gave Dan’s shoulder a firm squeeze.
Dan’s roller coaster of a life was suddenly going up. “Partner? Are you shittin’ me?”
“I don’t kid about that sort of thing,” Oren said. “You just doubled our goddamn billings. I figure if I don’t let you in, you’ll go start your own shop and take Fujioka with you.”
Dan rubbed his beard as he soaked up the moment. It was the moment he’d been waiting for, the one he felt he had earned. “Oren, just let me say—”
“You motherfucking thief!”
That is not what I was going to say
, Dan thought. There was a commotion at the door and Dan saw something out of the corner of his eye. It was Scott Emmons in midair, flying at him like a round-eyed refugee from a Hong Kong action movie.
Oh, shit!
“You stole my fucking idea!” Scott crashed into Dan and sent him reeling backward into the conference-room table. His glass flew from his hand and decapitated the marzipan Zen master before skittering off the table. “I’ll gut you with a goddamn chain saw!” Scott screeched.
Oren, shrinking from the battle, thought Scott looked as though he meant it.
“Get him off of me!” Dan yelled. “Somebody help!”
It turned out that after delivering the Shaftem, Dickem spot to the
The bars at both ends of the room were stacked three deep with thirsty executives. The mood was high and the room was filled with much toasting and self-congratulation. The bar was generously stocked with the finest Seagram products, including five vintage-dated single-malt Scotch whiskies produced by the world-renowned Glenlivet Distillery, Crown Royal, Boodles gin, Captain Morgan’s Private Stock rum, Perrier-Jouet.
“Can I help you, sir?” the bartender asked.
“Yes, please,” a handsome executive said. “Do you have any cognac?”
The bartender smiled. “Not just cognac, sir, Martell Cordon Bleu.”
The handsome executive nodded knowingly. “Perfect.”
Dan put on a great face, selling his excitement and enthusiasm like so much breakfast cereal, but he was starting to fade. Tired of mingling, Dan stood off in a corner watching the celebration but not enjoying it. Dan knew he couldn’t keep Scott in the dark forever, and when he found out whathad happened, well, Dan didn’t want to think about it. All he was thinking about right now was getting some sleep. He stifled a yawn and lifted his Armanis to rub his eyes.
“I can help you out with that,” a voice said. It was Andre from the production studio. Andre was an adequate artist and a hard enough worker, but he was kept around mainly because of his reliable cocaine connections which allowed the production studio to respond to rush orders like the one they had done the night before. Andre smiled slyly, brushed a finger past his nose. “It’s the quicker picker-upper.”
Dan hesitated. He hadn’t had a bump since he couldn’t remember when, and right now it sounded like a great idea. He just wondered if it was good stuff or if it had been stepped on a dozen times. “Stronger than dirt?” he asked.
Andre winked. “A little dab’ll do ya.”
“What are we talking?” Dan asked, rubbing a thumb against fingertips.
Andre put a hand on Dan’s shoulder. “On the house,” he said as his free hand slipped the small amber vial into Dan’s coat pocket. “Congratulations, big guy. Just remember me when you get that corner office.” Andre turned and headed for the men’s room.
Dan was more alert already. He went to the bar, freshened his drink, and was about to sneak off for a jolt when Oren stopped him. “So, did you already write the press release?”
Dan looked confused. “About the account?”
Oren smiled and put his arm around Dan. “About The Prescott Agency’s newest partner.” He gave Dan’s shoulder a firm squeeze.
Dan’s roller coaster of a life was suddenly going up. “Partner? Are you shittin’ me?”
“I don’t kid about that sort of thing,” Oren said. “You just doubled our goddamn billings. I figure if I don’t let you in, you’ll go start your own shop and take Fujioka with you.”
Dan rubbed his beard as he soaked up the moment. It was the moment he’d been waiting for, the one he felt he had earned. “Oren, just let me say—”
“You motherfucking thief!”
That is not what I was going to say
, Dan thought. There was a commotion at the door and Dan saw something out of the corner of his eye. It was Scott Emmons in midair, flying at him like a round-eyed refugee from a Hong Kong action movie.
Oh, shit!
“You stole my fucking idea!” Scott crashed into Dan and sent him reeling backward into the conference-room table. His glass flew from his hand and decapitated the marzipan Zen master before skittering off the table. “I’ll gut you with a goddamn chain saw!” Scott screeched.
Oren, shrinking from the battle, thought Scott looked as though he meant it.
“Get him off of me!” Dan yelled. “Somebody help!”
It turned out that after delivering the Shaftem, Dickem spot to the
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