Ed Gorman: Rough Cut

"Meaning he takes orders," he said.

"Meaning he does what's appropriate."

He grimaced, much as the man in the commercial had grimaced. Then he leaned toward me a bit. "Maybe someday I'll do what's appropriate."

"Get the hell out of here, Gettig."

We were both starting to lean toward each other when the door opened and Tommy came in. He saw what was happening and his young Norman Rockwell face-complete with curly blond hair and freckles-got tight.

"Shit," Tommy whispered loudly enough to hear, as if he'd just stumbled between participants in a western gun battle. He glanced longingly at the door, obviously wishing he could put himself in reverse and get out of here.

Most people around the agency liked Tommy. I wasn't quite sure I did. He was a college intern, a twenty-two-year-old trying to learn the agency business so that when he graduated in a year he could have a job waiting for him. He worked hard, all right, but there was something nervous and a little sweaty about him for my tastes-he was always finding ways to remind you of how hard he worked, and he could butt-kiss shamelessly, praising a piece of mediocre ad copy until it sounded like a sonnet of Bill Shakespeare's. The only thing that redeemed him in my eyes was the fact that he wasn't very good at all the political games he tried to play- his failure giving him a vulnerability that kept him likable. He was given to a lot of "Gee's" and "Goshes" and the hell of it was, despite all his puppy-dog careering, you knew he meant them.

"Is everything all right?" Tommy asked, coming down the aisle. He knew things weren't all right, but he also knew that simply by asking the question, he could interrupt us and calm us down.

Gettig opted not to take the opportunity for a truce. He turned to Tommy and sneered, "Things'll be all right as soon as Mr. Vice President learns that Denny Harris gives the orders around here."

"Meaning what?" I snapped.

"Meaning I screened the spot for Denny and he liked it fine."

If Denny Harris had okayed the spot, then what I planned to do in half an hour was going to be even more of a confrontation than it already promised to be. It only increased my rage.

"Aww, you guys," Tommy said. "It's people my age who're supposed to act like that."

"The Little Drummer Boy," Gettig said sarcastically.

"He's right," I said, calming down. I paused. "I suppose we're being a little less than professional."

"I like the spot. I've got no apologies to make," Gettig said.

"As I said, I'll take it up with Denny."

"Yeah," he said, "you do that." Gettig looked up the aisle at the door. "I've got an appointment." He nodded a chilly goodnight and left.

I turned to Tommy. "Sorry Gettig and I are such jerk-offs. Great role models, aren't we?"

He smiled. "I understand. Psych's my major."

Now it was my turn to leave. "See you tomorrow."

"Yeah. You be good to yourself."

In the twilight gathering in the windows employees threw on scarves, hats, heavy coats. You had the impression they were about to face the Arctic. Actually, it was still above twenty degrees outside. I said maybe half a dozen goodnights, then went into my office, grabbing my phone messages and taking them along with me. Probably more than in any other profession ad people are surgically attached to their phones. When clients need you, they need you.

None of the calls looked especially urgent, so I allowed myself the luxury of sitting with my face in my hands and calming down from my scene with Ron Gettig. He was typical of the tension in the Harris-Ketchum offices-part of the staff was loyal to Denny, the other half to me. That the larger share belonged to me wasn't as comforting as it should have been-Denny had enough true believers to make life up here, at least on some days, really miserable.

Glancing at my watch, I lifted the receiver and quickly dialed the number of my personal accountant, Tony Hauser. Tony himself answered. "Hi, I was about to call you," he said.

My stomach did some unpleasant things in anticipation of bad news. Given what the private detective had told me, I didn't see what could be any worse.

"You find anything?" I asked.

"Boy, you sound wound up."

"Just had a bad scene."

He laughed. "Why don't you get one of those honeys I always see walking around up there and tell her you need to relax-if you know what I mean."

Like too many people, my friend Tony believes that because ad agency types occasionally work around models and actresses, we're always spilling our seed. Unfortunately, that's not generally true. Denny Harris, my partner, being an exception to that particular rule.

"So," I said, wanting to get it over with, "did you find anything out?"

"Not yet; that's why I was going to call. Kind of a progress report."

"So you haven't had any trouble geting in?"

"Not a bit. I may take up burglary."

For the past three nights, thanks to master keys I'd given him, Tony Hauser had been sneaking in up here and going through the books.

Denny Harris and I shared a genuine bond of trust, as you can see.

Tony yawned. "I'm a little tired, though. I mean, working from midnight till three isn't my idea of a good time."

"Well," I said, thinking of what lay ahead of me, "keep me posted, will you?"

He laughed again. "Hey, relax, Michael. What's the worst thing I could find out?"

"That the bastard's robbing me blind."

He chuckled. "You got a point there."

I hung up and leaned back in my chair and let my eyes roam the chain of electric lights spreading across the city below. You reach a certain age, or state of mind, and what you find yourself doing is clinging-clinging to things that you once would have scoffed at as mediocre, things that are now embarrassingly important. Stokes, the private detective I'd hired, had already told me some of the things Denny had been up to. On my own, I'd come to wonder about how Denny was handling the business end of things and whether my investment was safe. Mediocre to worry about retirement, which is not, after all, a very romantic subject. But I was of the age, clinging, maybe too tightly, to the few things I could call my own.

In minutes it was my turn to bundle up against the waiting cold night. I dressed just as excessively as everybody else. All I needed was a damned husky to complete my getup.

All the way out there I planned what I was going to say to Denny, and just how I was going to say it. In my mind it was a speech equal to Churchill at his best. The only difference was that mine had a few more expletives.

Ten years before, Denny Harris had taken what was left of a once-large inheritance and bought himself the kind of stone-and-wood home Hugh Hefner probably dreamed of about the time he was buying his first box of Trojans.

Situated on a tract of land that lies somewhere between the suburbs and the country, Harris's home is hidden by deep stands of fir trees on both sides. It is an ideal rendezvous for a lifelong bachelor whose only pleasures are alcohol and other men's wives: there are no neighbors in any direction for at least half a mile; Chicago is several miles away.

Wind promising snow whipped the firs as my headlights speared the driveway. The double-stall garage doors were closed. A Mercedes coupe sat in the drive. I cut the lights, afraid that I recognized the car.

The lights in the house were out. As I left my car, pulling my collar up as I moved, I thought I saw something blur in the second-floor window but I couldn't be sure.

I knew I was being watched. Probably they thought it was amusing, my coming out here this way. Denny always likes portraying me as old-fashioned and unhip. Coming here was the sort of thing that would give him good material for cocktail chatter.