Madison's Avenue

by Mike Brogan

  She hurried next door to Kevin’s suite and saw it was identical to hers.

  Kevin gestured around his room. “In French class we said, ‘Le luxe n’est pas un péché,’”

  “Huh...?”

  “Luxury is not a sin.”

  She checked her watch. “But being extremely late to a big event is.”

  “What event?”

  “The VIP, ComGlobe-sponsored cocktail party downstairs. It started forty minutes ago. I’m committed to go. You wanna come?”

  Fifteen minutes later, Madison, wearing her low-cut strapless black dress with its long, slutty slit up the side, handed her VIP invitation to a young woman who escorted her and Kevin in his classic tux into a palatial banquet room. She saw sixty or so heavy-breathers mulling about. Most were nursing drinks, schmoozing and undoubtedly gossiping about which juicy ad accounts were vulnerable, which CEOs were in trouble, which agencies were looking to buy agencies, and which agencies were looking to be bought.

  They took glasses of champagne from a white-coated waiter.

  “Obviously,” she said, “the Cannes festival is about watching commercials, and wheeling and dealing.”

  “And stealing creative directors,” he added with a grin.

  “What! Someone already approached you here?”

  “Three someones.”

  “You’re joking!”

  “Nope. They left kissy-kissy, come-work-with-us messages on my room phone.”

  She was shocked. “You told them you were happy?”

  “Yeah ... I lied.”

  “These headhunters have no shame!”

  “But they have money!” he said, grinning.

  And Cannes, she knew, was the place to flaunt it, the perfect venue to steal hot creative directors and executives with fistfuls of bonus money and fat salaries. The last thing she needed was Kevin working for a competitive agency.

  “Ah, you’ve arrived, Ms. McKean,” said a soft male voice.

  She turned around and saw a short, pudgy man in his mid-fifties wearing an expensive black suit. His silver hair was combed straight back from a high forehead and pink, jowly face. His red-rimmed eyes and stained tie suggested the empty champagne flute in his hand wasn’t his first of the night.

  “Peter Gunther of ComGlobe,” he said, extending his hand. “Welcome to our little soiree. It’s a delight to finally meet you, Ms. McKean.”

  She shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Gunther,” She remembered his name from her father’s ComGlobe file.

  Kevin introduced himself.

  Gunther turned to her. “Please accept my heartfelt condolences for your father’s passing.”

  “Thank you.” She knew his condolences probably weren’t that heartfelt, since her father wanted to block Gunther’s merger.

  “And congratulations for being named as the new chair of Turner Advertising.”

  “Thank you again.”

  “As you know, your father and ComGlobe were having excellent discussions on the mutually beneficial Turner-ComGlobe merger.”

  She nodded.

  “We believe that the merger would greatly enrich the depth and diversity of the services you could offer your fine clients.”

  “Except the four fine clients we’d be forced to resign.”

  “Well....” Gunther shrugged, then snatched another champagne flute from a passing waiter and gulped down half.

  Madison wanted to level with him. “Mr. Gunther, we’re flattered by ComGlobe’s interest in Turner. But to be fair, I should tell you I plan to vote against the merger just like my father would have. Our company is doing well, and our clients prefer our agency’s independence.”

  “Yes, but with ComGlobe you would remain perfectly independent. Nothing would change.”

  She marveled at how easily Gunther had just lied. “But ComGlobe’s history suggests things do change. When ComGlobe took over Ferguson-Felix-Folster Advertising, three-hundred twenty people wound up on the street.”

  Gunther’s jowls turned bright red. “Just a staffing realignment.”

  He made it sound like they rearranged some paper clips.

  Kevin’s cell phone went off. He pulled it out, listened a moment, then gestured for Madison to follow.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Gunther,” she said, “but business beckons.”

  Gunther started to speak, but she was already walking away.

  She followed Kevin to a quiet corner where he answered the call and mouthed to her that it was his secretary, Barb. His eyes grew serious. A minute later, he hung up and faced her.

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  “Barb played me a voice message from Craig Borden in Barbados. Craig’s banker friend, Philip Carter, dropped dead in a bar five minutes before Craig was to meet with him.”

  Her mind spinning, Madison sat in a nearby chair, praying his death wasn’t connected to the bank account, but knowing it somehow was.

  “They think it was stroke or heart attack.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Thirty-three.”

  “Jesus!” She looked at Kevin and whispered, “The Tall Man!”

  “Either he followed Craig to Barbados or had someone there do his dirty work.”

  She said nothing.

  “But Craig found a word that Philip wrote down.”

  She looked up. “What?”

  Kevin grabbed a paper napkin and wrote:

  Blanchectar

  They stared at the single word, wondering what it meant.

  “A name? A place?” she asked.

  “Maybe. But Craig couldn’t find Blanchectar in the phonebook or on the Internet. He tried to send an e-mail to it, but it came back ‘delivery failed.’

  “Still, it could be the account name we’ve been looking for.”

  “Or simply a friend of Philip Carter’s.”

  “Or ... the Tall Man.”

  Fifty

  Peter Gunther wasn’t worried. The EVP had promised him she’d deliver the Turner-ComGlobe Advertising merger, and for ten million dollars she damn well better deliver it. Gunther’s only fear was that one of his competitors might sneak in and offer Madison McKean a better deal – before Turner’s directors voted on the ComGlobe merger in a few days.

  After all, WPP, Havas, and IPG, at one time or another, had each tried to persuade Mark McKean to merge Turner Advertising with them, but he’d politely said no to each. Still, they might approach Madison, sweet-talk her, promise her the moon, and because she was young, and because IPG and WPP had fewer client conflicts than ComGlobe, there was a chance they might persuade her.

  Which meant it was time for Gunther to launch his torpedo of disinformation into the Cannes festival.

  He strolled into the Carlton’s famed Bar des Célébrités, a lavishly decorated bar with mauve Baker chairs tucked in small hushed alcoves, soft yellow lighting and even softer jazz filtering over from the piano player.

  Gunther saw who he was looking for immediately. The boys. His competitors from IPG, Havas, WPP and the other advertising conglomerates. Like him, they’d spent the night schmoozing their major clients and sniffing around parties for disgruntled clients with fat ad budgets.

  Gunther picked up a Bowmore scotch from the bartender, then walked over and joined the boys.

  “So, Gunther, hear any juicy gossip tonight?” asked Yves Tournier, the tall, handsome director of acquisitions for Publi-Service, a Paris-based global advertising conglomerate.

  Gunther tossed down half his single malt and felt the wonderful heat.

  “Yeah, very juicy.”

  “Let me guess,” Tournier said, grinning, “ComGlobe is buying Exxon Mobil!”

  The boys laughed and clicked their glasses like athletes giving each other high-fives.

  You bastards won’t laugh when I pull off the Turner merger! Gunther thought. He turned to make sure no one else was listening, then leaned forward and whispered, “Turner Advertising has big trouble.”

  Their smiles vani
shed and they leaned forward.

  “What trouble?” Tournier asked, all business now.

  “They’re about to lose three major clients.”

  The boys froze.

  “Who told you this?” Tournier whispered.

  “A very reliable source.”

  “Who?”

  “I can’t reveal his name.”

  “OK, OK, which clients?”

  Gunther leaned close to them. “One is World Motors. Another, MedPharms. I don’t know the third.”

  They reacted as he knew they would, like sharks smelling blood. He could almost hear their greedy little minds devising schemes to scoop up the two big profitable accounts for their own agency system.

  “But that’s crazy! C’est fou!” Tournier said, “Turner Advertising is an excellent agency. They have two World Motors commercials up for a Lion D’or. And Turner’s MedPharms ads won several Effie Awards last month. Why would these clients leave an award-winning agency?”

  Gunther shrugged. “Who understands what clients do?”

  “How much money are we talking?”

  “If all three clients leave, Turner’s will lose $397 million in annual billings.” He loved stuffing big numbers into their gullible minds.

  The men shook their heads in amazement. Two of them drained their drinks and signaled the waiter for another round.

  “This is a fucking hémorragie! Tournier said. “A blood bath, no!” Gunther nodded.

  “Why are these clients leaving?” Tournier asked.

  Gunther checked over his shoulder and whispered, “They’re nervous because Mark McKean’s daughter took over as CEO.”

  “Why nervous?”

  “She’s too young. No experience. Doesn’t have Mark’s savvy. The Nat-Care client has already left. I also hear Mason Funds Ltd. is talking to another agency. And, she’s a loose cannon.”

  “How so?”

  “She resigned their FACE UP client, a nice guy named Maurice Dwarck, just because the guy wanted to change his ad a bit.”

  The boys looked shocked.

  Gunther nodded. “At any rate, we at ComGlobe have lost all interest in Turner Advertising.”

  “Publi-Service just did, too,” Tournier said.

  Gunther silently congratulated himself.

  He was enjoying this. He could see them crossing off Turner Advertising as a merger candidate, and spreading the rumor as soon as they left the bar. Within minutes, everyone who mattered in the business would know big clients were bailing out of Turner Advertising. Even though it was just gossip, and even though the clients would deny it, everyone knew clients always denied rumors. The damage would be done. The big conglomerates would back away from Turner Advertising like it had leprosy, leaving ComGlobe as Turner’s only suitor.

  Mission accomplished, Gunther thought, signaling the waitress for another scotch.

  Fifty One

  Madison sat with Kevin in one of the five lecture auditoriums of the Palais des Festivals, preparing to give her presentation. She was also recovering from this morning’s vicious rumor that three of her major clients were about to yank their business out of Turner Advertising.

  She feared the rumor might be true. After all, she’d lost the Nat-Care business her first day, and a good agency was trying to steal her Mason Funds account.

  She immediately phoned her World Motors and MedPharms clients in a panic. They assured her the rumor was absolutely false and that they had no intentions of leaving Turner Advertising. They also promised to kill the rumor with the media and at any festival parties they attended. Meanwhile, Kevin had phoned their other clients and learned all was well with them.

  But was it really? she wondered.

  Today, a client might tell you “We’re delighted with your agency,” and next week tell you, “We’re moving our ad account to Frick & Frack.” When you ask why, they’ll say, ‘Oh ... our chairman’s girlfriend started working there.’

  Madison looked around the nearly-filled auditorium and felt herself growing more anxious. In minutes, she would make a presentation to hundreds of people who probably knew more than she did about her topic, namely the advantages of smaller independent agencies versus the giant conglomerates. Fortunately, her father, an expert on the subject, had written a superb rough draft of the speech that she and Kevin had polished.

  After her speech, they would attend the big awards show to see if either of Kevin’s television commercials was lucky enough to win a coveted Lion D’or.

  “Nervous?” Kevin asked her.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll probably make some horrible faux pas.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like passing out or frothing at the mouth.”

  He smiled. “Far worse faux pas have been made here.”

  “Really?”

  “Did you ever see the shocking commercial for a Norwegian newspaper that they showed here?

  “No.”

  “A guy in the men’s nude sauna peeks through a hole in the wall into the women’s nude sauna, and wouldn’t you know it, he becomes sexually ah....”

  “Aroused?”

  “Yeah, that’s the word. Then one of the women confronts him and he hides his arou ... you know, by drooping the Norwegian newspaper over it ....”

  “Over his arousal?”

  “Yeah. Like he was hanging clothes on a line.” Madison laughed.

  Behind her she heard a young woman say, “Mademoiselle McKean?”

  “Yes?”

  “Ees time for to check your microphone.”

  “OK,” Madison said, feeling less anxious thanks to Kevin’s story. They stood and strolled toward the podium at the front of the auditorium.

  At his desk, Detective Pete Loomis bit off a big chunk of his juicy New York Stage Deli corned beef sandwich and watched a huge glop of Russian dressing splatter down onto his case file. He wiped the glob off, leaving a pink skid mark. His desk phone rang and he answered it.

  “Loomis...”

  “Detective, my name is Alistair Johnstone. I’m a detective with the Royal Police Force down in....”

  Static crackled in Loomis’s ear. “Sorry, where?”

  “St. Kitts ... in the Caribbean. Madison McKean gave me your name.”

  “Oh yes, she gave me yours as well.”

  “We’ve just identified the man who attacked Ms. McKean down here.”

  “That’s terrific!” Loomis said, grabbing a pencil.

  “The name on his passport is Arnold P. Nichols.”

  Loomis wrote down the name.

  “But that’s only one of his seven aliases according to Interpol. I’ll e-mail you their entire file on him. His birth name is Eugene P. Smith.”

  Loomis jotted down that name too.

  “Mr. Smith is a very nasty chap indeed. Ex-CIA. Been a paid, freelance hitman for years. Multiple felony indictments pending against him in seven countries. All professional assassinations.”

  “Any recent photos?”

  “No. Just an old one from his CIA days years ago. It’s been computer-updated, but that won’t help.”

  “Why not?”

  “Mr. Smith is a master of disguise. Probably why we couldn’t find him down here. All we know is, he’s forty-one, six-feet-two, thin, and commands huge fees as an assassin. He can be very charming if need be, but it’s a facade. In Qatar, he blew up a home he thought was a terrorist’s, but it was a small orphanage. Seven children died.”

  Loomis pushed his half-eaten sandwich away. “We’ll put out a state-wide APB for him now.”

  “Good idea, but you may not find him.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Barbados customs officials just told me that a man using one of his aliases, Antoine Cravatte, flew out of there yesterday morning.”

  Loomis felt his gut churn. “Flew where?”

  “Paris. Then down to Cannes.”

  “Shit!”

  “What’s wrong?”

>   “McKean’s in Cannes.”

  “Good Lord!”

  “I’ll alert her immediately!” Loomis said.

  They hung up and Loomis called Madison’s cell phone. He heard a clicking sound and realized her phone was switching him to voice mail. He left her a voice message warning her about Smith. Then he called Kevin’s number, got voicemail again and left him a similar message.

  Loomis reached into his coat pocket for the paper with the name of their hotel.

  The paper was not there.

  Fifty Two

  Eugene P. Smith finished his Glenfiddich as he sat in the elegant L’Amiral bar of the famous Martinez Hotel in Cannes. A few feet away, a pianist, who looked like Sam in Casablanca, sang “Ramblin’ Rose,” in a voice as buttery as Nat King Cole’s.

  The bartender pointed at Smith’s empty glass. Smith nodded and moments later the barman placed a fresh scotch in front of him. Smith sipped some, then scanned the well-dressed customers surrounding him. He recognized a couple of French movie stars at a corner table.

  Smith checked his watch. A little later, he’d go handle Madison.

  He liked Cannes, the glamor and glitz, the unapologetic wealth that personified the town. But sometimes it went too far. Like the penthouse suite seven floors above him. It was one of the world’s most expensive hotel accommodations. The per-night rate was $37,200 dollars. Obscene!

  But not as obscene as the pudgy Saudi prince he’d watched in the Cannes casino a few hours ago. The prince, about twenty-five, was playing roulette, betting thirty thousand dollars with each spin of the wheel, barely noticing if he won or lost, barely noticing the busty blonde carefully placing chocolate-covered strawberries in his mouth. A cute waitress told Smith that the prince had lost seven million dollars over the last three weeks, but never once tipped her for all the champagne she’d brought him.

  Cheap bastard! Smith thought. Probably supplied money to terrorist groups. Maybe I’ll eliminate him for free.

  Sipping more scotch, he noticed three nice-looking women walk in and sit down at a nearby table. His eyes zeroed in on the tall brunette. He blinked to be certain. It was Nina. Incredible. After all these years she still looked terrific.