Johnny Fargo - Hero_s mistress

"Yes, Miss Brooks, please tell him I'll be right there!" He was on his feet with the same blinding speed, checking his tie in the mirror-image of his glass door, nervously looking over his suit for spots or noticeable wrinkles. If it is convenient! Christ, it would be convenient at four in the morning on Christmas Eve if D. B. Randolph wanted to see him! Randolph was the big boss. The really big boss! Technically, he was chairman of the board of Randolph and Phitts, with ol' J. R. Phitts running the offices. He was in to see J. R. practically every day and they were as close to being friends as any top executive could be with one of his account men, but D. B. Randolph was something else again! He'd seen the top man only once, the day he came to work here and he was taken in like a new kid in school and introduced to the dour-faced senior officer who gave him something resembling a smile and a lukewarm handshake followed by a snorting grunt and that was it.

And now he was being summoned to the ol' boy's suite! Around here that had to mean one of two things… the boot or a promotion. Nobody ever saw Randolph for any other reason!

He tossed the account men's shared secretary, Linda Brooks, a wan smile as he hurried out the door of his tiny office and turned down the long paneled corridor that led to the executive suites.

"Good luck, Eddie," the pretty redhead offered and held up her hand to show that her fingers were crossed.

"Thanks… I hope I don't need it." Man, that little girl got better looking every day! He could remember when she had first taken the job – pudgy with baby-fat and her hair all teased and covered in a mist of hair spray. But somebody must have given her a few pointers! That rich red hair spilled over her shoulders and she had lost at least ten pounds. He cast her a quick appraising look as he rounded the corner – maybe she didn't lose it at all… she just shifted it around!

But there was no time for that now. He had to get himself in the right frame of mind for D. B. Randolph. The old man was a real pro, hell, he practically invented public relations, but he was serious about his work. That much he knew from talking to people who had met with him in the past… those who were still on the staff after their meetings, that is.

He was almost there now, a few feet from the private office door of Randolph's secretary, a gray-haired spinster who, rumor had it, had once been the ol' boy's mistress back in his spryer days. It was hard to imagine, as heaven never created a homelier woman. She was nearly bald with age like a man, but refused to wear a wig or even to style her hair so that the thinned-out spots would not show. And she sported a thin smear of a mustache that looked like some teenager's first attempt at being continental.

"Mr. Randolph will see you in a moment," she said dryly, without even looking up from her typing.

"Yes, Miss Guralnik," he answered and took his seat unobtrusively in the plush reception office. It could best be described as turn-of-the-century posh. Everything had the look of opulence, but it was well-worn richness, rather like the interior of a distinguished London men's club. Or at least how he imagined the interior would look, as he'd never seen one. Not even the exterior.

He could not escape the nagging feeling that he was a school boy back in elementary school and he had been summoned to see the principal for some dastardly act. Like fighting at recess. Or hitting Johnny Bowers with a spitball when the teacher's back was turned. That was just the way this office affected him and he suspected he was not the first to have such thoughts.

Randolph and Phitts was certainly a bit of a shock after the outfit he had worked for in California, but they were reputable and long-established on the east coast and that was why he had taken the job. That stint with Modern Pacific Promotions had left a bit of a blemish on his otherwise spotless record and he needed a couple of years at least with a good conservative firm like R amp; P to smooth it over. Not that it had been his fault that Modern Pacific folded after less than three years; it developed at the bankruptcy hearings that the treasurer of the corporation, a hot-shot Harvard MBA sort, had dipped his sticky fingers into the till on a number of occasions, and more scandalously, apparently with the full knowledge and encouragement of the president's wife, an overtly amorous sort with a more-than-business interest in the young treasurer. It seemed that they had plans to take off for the south of France or somewhere together, but only after he had squirreled enough away to assure them the sort of life that people usually aspire to in that special part of the Mediterranean. But as luck would have it, Modern Pacific ran out of money before they were satisfied that they had enough and, well, like they say, the shit really hit the fan!

Luckily, Eddie had seen the handwriting on the wall in time and was clear of the whole shaky operation before it collapsed like a house of cards in a windstorm, but just the mention of Modern Pacific now caused eyebrows to arch and tongues to wag in the public relations world.

And to top it all off, like rubbing salt in a still-smarting wound, this company change had been forced on him smack in the middle of the Seventy-Seventy One drought in the advertising and public relations business. That was the bottoming out period that followed the booming late Sixties and, as always, luxuries like advertising and promotion were the first items axed on the corporate budget requests when the going got rough. He could have taken his pick of a dozen jobs a couple of years earlier, but as luck would have it, he found himself up against the wall… a dying, scandal-ridden job on one side and the ceaseless perils of unemployment on the other. So it had really been a bit of unaccustomed good luck to stumble across this opening, even if it meant a three-thousand mile transcontinental move and selling their almost-new suburban home in a depressed market. Eddie had just about given up on finding anything decent and was nearly reconciled to joining the ranks of the almost-unemployed… those in the profession who listed themselves on job applications as "free-lancer" or "consultant".

Actually, Eddie had not found the opening himself. A friend of his in Los Angeles, out of work like Eddie himself was soon to be, had been receiving the Sunday editions of several of the east coast newspapers from his wife who was staying in Baltimore with his parents until they had successfully weathered the job-hunting crisis. He had actually gone so far as applying for this job, but changed his mind at the last minute in favor of a lesser-paying opening in the more hospitable climes of San Francisco. But for Eddie Mangum, it was just what the doctor ordered – respectability, good opportunity for advancement, and a fair salary. Who cared if it meant moving out of California, right? A man could stand anything if it was for his career. Or so he had thought… it was Dottie who saw it all in a different light.

"Virginia! Are you kidding me, Eddie Mangum?" she had screeched when he told her he was going to be interviewed at company expense at their offices. "How could we live in Virginia? We're both Californians, Eddie! We'd wither up and die in the east!" But she got over it quickly enough when he told her quite frankly it was this or nothing. Dottie was a lot of things, but when it came to money, she was as level-headed as they build 'em.

And when he arrived for the interview at their impressive offices, it soon became apparent why they had expressed such an interest in him and were willing to foot the bill for a cross-country flight. His main account here was going to be a real estate firm that specialized in suburban shopping centers… just what he had done for Modern Pacific!