Madison's Avenue

by Mike Brogan

  She nodded at the standard release time in most agency agreements. “At least we’ll have Nat-Care’s revenue for three more months.”

  “During which time I’m going to find us another health care client.

  “I’ll help,” she promised. “My college friend is with a Los Angeles-based HMO.”

  “Good.” He shook his head and looked out the window. “I’m sorry, Madison. This is a hell of blow for your first day.”

  My first hour....

  And despite what the client told Evan, she knew why Nat-Care left.

  They left because I was elected chairperson!

  Eight

  They’re all in the small conference room now,” Christine Higgins said.

  “Do they know about Nat-Care?” Madison asked.

  “Yes.”

  Madison had called the follow-up meeting of the directors to get a closer look at each individual in the hopes that her father’s nemesis might reveal himself or herself inadvertently.

  She stood up and headed toward the smaller conference room near her office. The directors were seated around a polished walnut table with yellow legal pads and pens in front of them. As she walked in, the directors stopped whispering and looked at her.

  Clearly, they knew about the loss of Nat-Care. Some eyes seemed to suggest that Nat-Care left because of her appointment.

  She sat down and said, “As you probably know, Nat-Care just gave us three months’ notice.”

  Everyone nodded.

  “They said their decision to go with Kearns & Marcotte was made some time ago.”

  A few nods.

  “I would like to thank all of you who worked hard on the account. And be assured, we’ll work hard to get a new health care client in the agency as soon as possible.”

  “Did Nat-Care say why they left us?” Leland Merryweather asked, his unpatched eye riveted on her.

  “They told Evan they wanted a smaller agency that specialized in social media and consumer-generated communications. Evan told them we’re winning awards doing that, but they weren’t specific about what they really wanted. He’ll try to find out more.” She sipped some water.

  “Meanwhile, as you know, I called this meeting to answer any concerns or questions you might have. So please, ask away.”

  Karla Rasmussen raised her hand.

  “As you know, Madison, the big ComGlobe merger vote is coming up soon. ComGlobe has made a very generous offer to Turner Advertising. We directors have been firmly divided, five for and five against, not counting your father. But just recently he said he planned to cast the deciding vote against the merger. Do you know yet how you will vote?”

  Madison knew that Rasmussen was her father’s most vocal critic on the ComGlobe merger.

  “Like my father, Karla. Against the merger. Just two weeks ago, he told me that ComGlobe had sweetened their offer price for Turner. They’d also promised him much more stock and an initial public offering which would have greatly increased the value of his holdings. But still, he planned to vote against the merger.”

  Rasmussen’s jaw line tightened. “Did he say why?”

  “He said the merger would require us to resign four of our longstanding clients due to conflicts with ComGlobe’s clients.”

  “But two of those clients are small,” Rasmussen said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

  “Size wasn’t his main concern. Loyalty to clients was.”

  Karla Rasmussen frowned as though loyalty was an Aesop fable. “Why should we be loyal to clients? They drop us like used Kleenex. Like Nat-Care!”

  “Yes, but it’s their money.”

  “But in today’s mergers, it’s quite common for agencies to resign clients’ accounts where there are brand conflicts.”

  “I know. But he said these four clients helped Turner grow large over the last thirty years. Releasing them, after all they’ve done for us, he felt, was betraying them.”

  Rasmussen’s expression suggested that betrayal was standard business practice.

  “My father was even more concerned about loyalty to our own employees. He’d seen what ComGlobe did after other mergers, like the Hartzell merger. ComGlobe executives rolled out champagne and fat bonuses for themselves, while Hartzell rolled out three hundred forty-six heads.”

  The room was silent for several seconds.

  “Are there any more comments?” Madison asked, cracking her knuckles, something she did when nervous.

  Leland Merryweather raised his hand. “I must say that this merger makes good financial sense for our company. Especially now! Look at our industry. Consolidation, buyouts and mergers. Why? Simple. Our business is a numbers game. Agency mergers result in more media buying power, and more media buying power means lower media rates, and lower media rates means more ads and happier clients.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Madison said. “But my father’s view, and mine, is that there is a better merger candidate for us than ComGlobe. Maybe Interpublic, WPP, Publicis or others.”

  Merryweather shook her head. “But an offer on the table is worth two that don’t exist.”

  “Point taken, Leland. And clearly, we need to discuss this merger much more. Let’s meet tomorrow. Christine will set up the best time for everyone.”

  Heads nodded.

  Madison wanted to ask her big question and see how each director reacted.

  “I have just one question.” Madison sipped some water and took a deep breath. “The day my father passed away, he phoned me in Boston. He told me someone here at the agency had accused him in an anonymous e-mail of misappropriating company funds.”

  Several people gasped. Merryweather’s gold pen banged onto the floor.

  “His accuser demanded that he retire immediately.”

  Silence.

  “Does anyone know anything about this?”

  Silence.

  Madison studied them closely, looking for any hint of guilt, or anyone averting her eyes or using defensive body language. Only blank, stunned faces looked back at her.

  Is one of you that good an actor? Apparently so.

  “My door is open if anyone wants to talk about this in private.”

  No one looked like they did.

  * * *

  After the meeting, Leland Merryweather sat in his office, toying with his eyepatch as he brooded over Madison’s decision to vote against the ComGlobe merger. Her decision was bad news for him, especially in light of his broker’s warning that the stock market would not rebound for several months.

  Merryweather needed money now. Both his stock money and the ComGlobe merger money.

  His private cell phone rang. He fished it from his briefcase, saw ‘Jarvis Smythe’ on Caller ID. Merryweather knew why the man was calling from London.

  “Hello, Jarvis.”

  “I hear Madison McKean is your new CEO?”

  Merryweather was amazed that Jarvis already knew.

  “Not for long, Jarvis. And don’t worry, your money is coming.”

  “But I hear she plans to vote against the merger.”

  “Don’t worry, Jarvis.”

  “I am worried. And don’t forget, I’ve got two other prospective investors over here begging me to let them buy into our agency. And they’ve got the money now.”

  Smythe was talking about the hottest new agency in London, Smythe-O’Rourke. Jarvis Smythe and Liam O’Rourke wanted a third, equal partner, an American who might bring them some big U.S. multinational clients. They wanted Leland Merryweather and his lucrative clients, plain and simple.

  And Merryweather wanted to buy into their fast-growing agency.

  “Remember, Jarvis, I have one thing your other prospects don’t have.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Two big international clients who’ll follow me from Turner to your agency. They’ll make us all wealthy.”

  “I hope so, Leland. But you’ve got two weeks. I’ve promised the other prospects an answer by then.”

 
“You’ll have the money.”

  They hung up.

  Merryweather sat back and looked out the window at the Manhattan skyline. He wasn’t worried. The ComGlobe merger would pass.

  Like her father before her, Madison McKean would go away.

  Nine

  Still shell-shocked over the loss of the agency’s Nat-Care client, Madison walked with Evan Carswell under the canopy of the famous ‘21’ Club for their lunch with the CEO of Mason Funds, Ltd., a global investment company.

  Inside, the maitre’d greeted Evan like an old friend and led them through the crowded lounge area to a table in the exclusive Bar Room. The Bar Room was everything she’d heard it was. Corporate heavy-hitters hunched over delicious smelling meals on tables covered with red and white checkerboard tablecloths. The ceiling was unique – like someone’s attic had exploded and a bunch of model planes, trucks, footballs, tennis rackets, phones, ice skates, ballet slippers and more got stuck up there.

  Madison found herself seated directly under a New Orleans Saints football helmet which would bounce off her head any second the way her luck was going today.

  “President Nixon often sat at this table,” Evan said to her.

  “And look what happened to him!”

  Evan managed a weak smile. “You’re doing fine, Madison, honestly. You had nothing to do with Nat-Care.”

  Then why didn’t they drop us last week? she wondered.

  “Evan, about my father....”

  Evan waited.

  “Any more thoughts yet on who might have accused him?”

  “Madison, I’ve racked my brain again and again and still came up with no one. Hell, several board members, including me, have had serious professional disagreements with him over the years, but nothing serious enough to accuse him like that. I loved the man!”

  Suddenly, Carswell jumped up as the waiter led a tall, thin executive in his late fifties toward them. The man had steel-gray hair combed straight back above half-rimmed, tortoise-shell glasses that gave him a distinguished look. His charcoal suit looked custom tailored, his navy blue silk tie looked expensive. Tucked beside his gold Rolex was The Wall Street Journal.

  “Madison, meet Daryl Hanson. My favorite client.”

  “You say that to all your clients!”

  “And I mean it.”

  Hanson laughed, shook hands with her and sat down. “Madison, it’s nice to meet you. And please accept my condolences. Your father was a very good friend. I will miss him dearly.”

  “That’s very kind of you to say, Mr. Hanson.”

  “Daryl, please.”

  The waiter took their drink orders and handed them luncheon menus. They chatted a minute and ordered. Seconds later, the waiter brought the two men their scotches, neat, and Madison her Chardonnay, chilled.

  “I valued your father’s counsel greatly.”

  She nodded. “Thank you. Evan is acting CEO and overseeing your business.”

  “That’s very assuring. By the way, how is Dan Davies doing in Afghanistan?”

  Davies had been the Turner account director on Mason Funds, handling the day-to-day activities for years until six months ago when his National Guard unit sent him as a major to Afghanistan.

  “Dan’s fine,” Evan said. “He’s east of Kabul, near the Pakistan border. Our prayers are with him,”

  “Ours too,” Hanson said. “By the way, my marketing people tell me that Dan’s replacement, Scott Breen, is a good guy and works hard.” Hanson paused and sipped his scotch. “But, they say he doesn’t yet have the all-around Mason Funds knowledge and expertise that Dan had. They miss that expertise.”

  There it was. A subtle but real complaint, Madison realized. Hanson’s people were complaining about Scott Breen. Her stomach began to tighten.

  Madison leaned forward. “Why don’t Evan and I talk with your marketing people and decide how best to give them the additional expertise they want.”

  “Sounds like a good idea.”

  “Other than that,” she asked, “are we handling your ad business satisfactorily?”

  He sipped more scotch, then nodded slowly. “You are from my perspective.”

  But not from someone else’s, she heard.

  “I’ll be frank. My new marketing director tells me he and his team are being seriously courted by a strong competitor of yours.”

  Madison’s mouth went dry.

  “This other agency says we should be spending much more money in ads for the new technologies because the Internet’s accessible virtually everywhere today. They recommend we drastically cut our spending in traditional media, like TV, magazines and newspapers.”

  “Who’s the agency?” she asked.

  “Anthony & Longo.”

  Madison’s stomach tightened. A & L was an excellent, fast-growing agency, specializing in creating ads for BlackBerrys, cell phones, iPods and the like.

  “Well, my understanding is that your primary audience is skewed toward people forty to seventy-five.”

  “Right. But we have some younger customers.”

  She nodded. “May I suggest that we review your audiences in much more detail, then develop a new proposal that reaches your older audience and your younger tech-oriented buyers. We’ll also look at new ways Mason Funds can benefit from these new technologies.”

  He nodded. “When can you show us your proposal?”

  “Is next Thursday okay?”

  Hanson checked his Blackberry and frowned. “Anthony & Longo are presenting to us on Thursday.”

  Her stomach did another flip. “Could we present Wednesday?”

  He checked his screen, then looked back at her. “How’s 7:00-8:00 in the morning?”

  “We’ll be there.”

  He nodded and sipped his scotch. “Good.”

  Beneath the table, she wiped her damp hands on the tablecloth.

  The waiter placed their meals on the table. Her Ahi Tuna tartare and crab cakes looked delicious, but her stomach was thinking Maalox. She’d have to make a show of eating.

  Madison looked around the Bar Room and saw a group of men leaving. Behind them in the far corner, she noticed an attractive woman holding hands with a handsome man. The woman was Dana Williams, one of her Turner Executive VPs. Dana managed some very large Turner clients.

  What concerned Madison was whom Dana was holding hands with. Lamar Brownlee, CEO of Griffen-Girard, a large, well-respected ad agency. Was their lunch just romantic?

  Or were they also discussing business? Turner business maybe. The more she watched them, the more concerned she grew.

  The waiter handed Evan’s American Express card back to him and smiled.

  As they left ‘21’ she thought, What a day! One client leaves us, another is being courted by a very good agency, and one of my EVPs looks like she might be sleeping with the enemy.

  And I’ve still got the afternoon left....

  * * *

  When the fat man at the next table burst out laughing, Dana Williams turned around. She was surprised to see Madison McKean and Evan Carswell with Daryl Hanson of Mason Funds leaving the Bar Room.

  Had Madison or Carswell seen her?

  Dana scooted her chair around quickly so they couldn’t see her face. If they had seen her with Lamar Brownlee, they’d worry. Frankly, they should worry. Because Dana was looking out for herself.

  All she wanted was her fair share of the money she deserved in this crazy business. She’d contributed to the success of Turner Advertising over the last seventeen years. She’d brought in new business, kept clients happy, even slept with a couple to bring their accounts into the agency.

  But the company hadn’t compensated her adequately.

  And Mark McKean hadn’t treated her fairly. When Dana had again made it clear that she cared for him a few months ago, he treated her like a high school girl with a crush. She’d been enraged.

  But now he was gone.

  And his daughter soon would be.

  Ten

&nbs
p; Harry Burkett watched Madison McKean’s yellow cab roll to a stop next to some trees near West Seventy-Ninth Street. She looked around, probably checking for creeps the way women do before they get out of a car. She couldn’t possibly know he’d followed her. His military training had taught him to avoid detection.

  He pulled out his silver flask, and took a long hard pull of the Norwegian aquavit. The strong liquor burrowed a nice warm feeling down to his gut.

  Like the warm feeling he’d have when Madison was no longer a problem.

  * * *

  “It’s down there,” the cab driver said, pointing toward a thick cluster of maples.

  “Down where?” Madison said, squinting through the trees.

  “On the river!”

  Dean Dryden lives on a boat?

  Madison bent down and saw dozens of yachts strung out along the pier jutting into the Hudson River. She hoped Dryden, Kevin’s friend, could access the agency’s backup e-mail that accused her father.

  As she stepped from the cab, she turned to see if the dark Lincoln that had followed her taxi was nearby. She saw no Lincolns, but still had the odd feeling she was being watched.

  She walked into the shady wooded area, heading down toward the water. Across the river, the dark sky hung low over the New Jersey shoreline. Suddenly, two squirrels scampered past her and disappeared into the bushes. Behind her, movement. More squirrels?

  No. Footsteps....

  Footsteps snapping twigs.

  She walked much faster.

  So did the footsteps. Then they ran ... toward her.

  Her heart pounding, she spun around and glimpsed a tall man hurrying through the thickset trees, rushing toward her! Seconds later, he pushed through a leafy branch in front of her.

  “Jesus, you walk fast!” Kevin Jordan said, huffing.

  She breathed out and smiled. “A girl needs her aerobics.” She decided not to tell him she’d only been seconds from sprinting away.

  “So tell me about your friend, Dean.”

  “My friend the CEO.”

  “A CEO like me?”

  He smiled. “Well, yeah, but there’s one big difference.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Why not?”