Read Online Service Dress Blues by Michael Bowen - Free Book Online Page B

chair to silence a talk-radio host blaring from a boombox on the cabinet behind him. He gave Rep a good-natured, what-can-you-do? smile as silence replaced the yack.
    â€œâ€˜Know the enemy,’” Laurel Wolf said, shaking her head and wagging her finger as she slipped what looked like a world-class digital camera over her left shoulder on a wide, embroidered bandolier strap. She walked past Carlsen’s work-area toward the door.
    â€œIs ‘the enemy’ me or the talk-jock?” Ole asked her.
    â€œSee ya,” Wolf said. “Back at one-thirty.”
    â€œIsn’t three hours a little long for a cigarette break?” Carlsen asked.
    Wolf flipped off her boss while she tugged at the camera strap.
    â€œThat’s right, you’re the Laurel who
doesn’t
smoke,” Carlsen said as he snapped his fingers theatrically. “I should know that by now. My bad.”
    Wolf said something in a language Rep didn’t recognize. She smiled while she said it. Sort of.
    â€œDo you understand the Chenequa dialect?” Carlsen asked Rep.
    â€œNo, but I bet I can translate that.”
    They were on the south half of the third floor of a long red brick building on Milwaukee’s near south side. The building had been a rolling mill for eighty-five years and an eyesore for thirty-five. Now, tuck-pointed, re-glazed, and otherwise spruced up, it housed an odd-lot collection of twenty-something artisans who wanted ample room and low rent: silk-screeners, photographers, web-site designers, bookbinders, commercial artists, sound- and video-recording producers, and Gary Carlsen’s public relations company, Future³ (pronounced “Future Cubed,” as Carlsen carefully explained).
    Rep had mentally nicknamed the premises the Carlsen Archipelago. What Carlsen called “islands” dotted an open expanse of what had once been nineteenth-century shop-floor, with no enclosures between them. Carlsen’s desk and computer table and a two-drawer, lateral file cabinet formed his “work island” under western light streaming placidly through an elegantly slanted skylight. Looming at random intervals on either side were “creative islands” where people could fuss with customized digital printers and lay glossy prints out on long tables or oversized easels; “teamwork islands,” defined by four conference tables arranged in a solid square, without chairs; “activity islands,” featuring DVD players and layout materials; “research islands,” with CD-Rom racks and file cabinets sporting very long, very thin drawers; and lesser work islands for lower ranking employees. Carlsen had explained that the island concept was “the latest thing from the coast.”
    â€œThe application for copyright registration on Lena’s song is filed,” Rep said. “Phase two is capturing your theme in the same kind of artistic expression the song gives to your hook.”
    â€œI’ll call Ms. Gephardt and tell her to get to work on a book,” Ole muttered.
    â€œWorked for Obama,” Carlsen said.
    â€œNot a book,” Rep said. “Pictures, images, music. If you rip off a political idea expressed verbally, you practically have to copy it word for word before a court will even pay attention. Your theme is that there’s a new sheriff in town: bring an unsullied, energetic amateur in from outside the system to clean up the mess made by professional politicians. That’s like having a murder mystery where the crime is solved by a private investigator whose cynical exterior masks an idealistic soul, working in uneasy collaboration with a gruff but grudgingly respectful police detective. It’s a neat idea, but you can’t copyright it. It doesn’t belong to anyone. It’s just part of the genre’s furniture.”
    â€œSo in real world terms, what am I supposed to do?” Ole demanded. “Dig up an art student