by Jo Barrett
I type in carbon monoxide poisoning. There are 1.6 million sites so I’m guessing I’m not the first person who’s thought about this.
I choose a website called Fatal Carbon Monoxide Poisoning.
I rub my palms together. Like a praying mantis or one of those evil villains you see in the movies.
Now we’re talking, I think.
Carbon monoxide is a colorless, odorless, and extremely deadly gas—
Hmm. How can something be extremely deadly? I mean, are there degrees of deadliness? If it’s deadly, it’s deadly, right? Ain’t no extreme about it folks. Extremely deadly is extremely redundant in my humble opinion. But I guess I’m nit-picking.
Gas appliances should have a blue flame, not an orange one, it says.
I plod over to my kitchen stove. Turn the burner on. The flame shoots up and it’s blue.
The likelihood of Carlton’s new fancy-schmancy townhouse having a faulty appliance is pretty slim. Even if I knew how to block the ventilation, the guy never cooks for himself. I’d be lucky if he turned on the stove once a year to fry an egg.
I read further.
Fireplaces!
Terrific. I know Carlton has one. It’s not as if I’ve been doing late-night drive-by’s like a stalker, but I’ve been doing late-night drive-by’s like a stalker.
A fireplace where the flue is blocked is especially dangerous. If the flue is clear, the deadly gases will escape. But with insufficient ventilation, the gases enter the room. Even a bird’s nest blocking a chimney can pose a significant risk. A person who is asleep can die within several hours of exposure.
Okay. So all I’ve gotta do for this carbon monoxide thing to work is climb into Carlton’s chimney, a la Santa Claus, stuff it with a bird’s nest, and hope that Carlton builds himself a nice brisk fire. In the middle of summer. In Texas. And that he’ll fall asleep in front of the fireplace, on that ridiculous bear rug of his.
Carlton Connors, my sleeping beauty.
I think back to the bear rug. Complete with a bear head at the top and bear claws at the bottom. Carlton shot it with his father on a weekend hunting trip in Minnesota. Then he had a rug made out of the poor gal. (It was a female bear, go figure.)
At the time, he told me it was a clean shot, but I know Carlton didn’t have that kind of concentration. If anything, he probably took her down with a club and an Uzi for all I know.
I hated the rug, but Carlton loved it. So I made do, and placed the rug right in front of the fireplace.
One night, when we first started our company, Carlton came home late. I was waiting for him. Stark naked on the bear rug. Feeling sassy. I’d just hired a graphic artist, and together we’d designed a hot new company logo. Organics 4 Kids in rainbow colors. The 4 turned around in the opposite direction. Like a kid drew it.
I took the new logo to a local tattoo artist and had him draw it as a temporary henna tattoo across my bottom. Then I propped my buck-naked self on the rug and waited.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” Carlton had said, coming in the doorway. Dropping his briefcase.
“I wanted to show you our new logo,” I said, quietly. Then I turned over. Flashed him my bare bottom. “How do you like it?” I asked, in a sultry voice. I had candles burning, the lights low, the whole shebang.
“I need to take a closer look,” he’d said.
And we did it like animals on the awful bear rug. Afterward, I told him it was the best sex I’d ever had. The sad part is…
It was true.
I sit quietly at the laptop and breathe in and out. The house feels quiet and I can hear my own heart beating.
I hate that.
I decide to get some air.
I mean, why should I sit around and mope?
I hop in my car. Drive around aimlessly. I head toward an area of town that’s considered a hot spot. An “action” area. There’s a bookstore, a coffee shop, a spa. The usual suspects.
I park my car and stroll into the spa.
The woman at the counter looks up at me, and I must look a wreck, because she breaks out into a polite smile. The kind of smile you give to a disabled person when they roll by you in a wheelchair.
“Can I help you?” she asks, raising a pencil-thin eyebrow. She reminds me of Cruella Deville—or Sharon Stone. She’s got that cool, cold, polished look.
“I’d like a facial,” I say. And then I add, “Or something.”
Cruella looks me up and down. Sizes me up. I’m clad in jeans and Nikes, no less. But at least they’re my good Nikes. And not the muddy ones.
“Do you have an appointment?”
Ah, I see how this works. They’re going to hit me with a technicality.
“No.” I shove my hands in my pockets and rock back and forth on the balls of my feet.
Cruella shakes her head. Flips through her appointment book. “We don’t take walk-ins,” she says, crisply. “But I can fit you in next Thursday. Say seven o’clock?”
“That’s all right,” I say. I turn and push the door open. A little bell tinkles. Cinderella has left the building.
I plod through the parking lot.
Now what? I wonder. I was going to turn this into a Day of Maddy. Get a facial. Maybe even a massage. But somehow, Cruella managed to cock-block me.
“Miss—MISS!”
I turn around and well, well, well. Speak of the Devil. Cruella Deville is racing toward me, her Chanel heels clomping hard against the asphalt. “Miss!” she yells. She’s got her arm in the air like she’s hailing a cab.
I turn around and go, “Ye-ss?”
“We just had a cancellation. We can take you now,” she says, breathlessly, her face cracking into a smile.
“I’d recommend our most popular treatment. The rainforest facial,” she says. I turn and walk with her back into the building.
“You’ve got a wonderful olive skin tone,” she says. She’s fawning over me now. Kissing my size 6 ass.
“I’m Italian,” I reply.
Cruella looks at me and flutters her eyelashes in a buttery sweet way. So I cut her a break. I reach the door and hold it open for her.
“After you,” I say.
Twenty minutes later, I’m lying on my back in a soft, white terrycloth robe. The aesthetician is exfoliating my nose with a coarse scrubbing pad.
“So why is it called the rainforest facial? Does this mud actually come from the rainforest?” I ask, as she packs this funky-smelling green clay on my face.
“Not exactly,” she says. “But the product line was ‘inspired’ by the rainforest.”
“So none of this mud actually came from the rainforest?”
“That’s right. But it’s got rainforest names. Like this mask is called the Costa Rican Howler Monkey Mud Mask.”
“Huh. So where’s this stuff actually made?”
She looks at one of the bottles. “Looks like New Jersey,” she says.
“What a scam,” I say.
She plops two cucumbers on my eyelids. I guess to shut me up.
But, oh well. I pay twenty bucks more than a regular facial and get to enjoy the background sounds of howler monkeys and toucans. From the rainforest “inspired” CD.
All in all, it’s a pretty good hour. An indulgent hour, but I figure I owe myself. And afterward, as I’m milling around the relaxation room, I feel shiny and gleaming, but still an interloper among the glossy women breezing by.
Like a used car in a new-car lot.
Cruella sees me and claps her hands together once. “Well don’t you look refreshed,” she croons, handing me a small bottle of Evian.
She heads to the cash register and taps her long, blood-red talon fingernails on the countertop.
Yes, this woman is definitely channeling Sharon Stone. And not the young, sexy Sharon. The older, scary Sharon.
“So is this going to be cash or credit?” she asks.
“Credit,” I say. “Always credit.”
“Tell me about it, hon,” she says, roll
ing her eyes. “I’m a bank’s wet dream.”
And that’s when I decide I like this woman. I like her very much.
Chapter 16
In preparation for the big investor meeting with Carlton’s father, I arrange a meeting with my own boss, Henry Wrona. Henry is Polish and like a father to me. And for these two reasons, but especially the Polish-ness, I decide to tell him what’s what.
Henry says Polaks don’t like surprises. He’s big into what he calls the whole “respect” thing. So he’d be offended if he thought I was holding out on him.
Fair is fair. And I don’t want to leave Henry in the lurch. Plus, I’ve worked for him for fourteen years. His company, Capitol Marketing, is one of the most prestigious public relations firms in town. It’s a boutique firm, a small but venerable powerhouse, owned and operated by a firecracker of a man who’s “been in the biz forever,” as they say. Henry Wrona is a walking, talking institution.
And the best boss I could ever imagine.
But if Carlton and I get the seed money for Organics 4 Kids, I’ll have to quit. Which is unfortunate because I’m a rare breed of employee. I love my job.
I started working for Henry as an intern when I was still in high school. Then all through college and grad school. Part-time during the school year, and full-time in summer.
As corny as it sounds, business and marketing is in my blood. I love it.
Henry was a friend of my father back in the day. A long time ago. Before the car accident.
“Your father was a prince of a man,” Henry used to say, before I told him I didn’t like to be reminded of my dad.
Sometimes, especially in cases of extreme trauma, a person needs to shelve certain emotions. Tuck them away in a drawer. It’s a good way to get through the day. Because reminiscing, sentimentalizing, all that crap, leads to alcohol and pills and other bad stuff. Stuff to make you forget, anyway.
It’s not like I want to forget my parents; it’s just that it’s easier not to remember all the details. Like the way my mother used to sing and brush her hair. Upside down. Her head almost touching the floor. Bobbing as she sang along to Mick Jagger. “I’m a honkey tonk woo-man!” she’d sing.
That kind of memory. It kills me.
I walk over to Henry’s office. Peek inside. He’s at his computer. Typing like a madman. He’s got a shock of white hair on his head, twinkling blue eyes, and an ornery smirk.
I tap on the door even though it’s open.
Henry is one of those bosses with an open-door policy. “My door is always open,” he says, his blue eyes twinkling. He’s like Santa Claus, without the beard.
He really is.
“Madeline!” he roars, looking up from the screen. “Come in, come in. How’s my FAVE-rite gal?”
I walk into the office, a big smile on my face. “I’m fine, Henry. Great, actually.”
“Good to hear, good to hear. Sit, sit,” he says, motioning to a chair in front of his desk.
I sit.
He swivels around and faces me. “You, my dear, are a genius,” he starts in, pointing a stubby finger at me. “The marketing plan you came up with for the Meyers Group—pure gold, kiddo.”
The Meyers account was the largest account Henry had ever entrusted me with. When the call came in, from Mr. Meyers himself, Henry informed him that I was in charge. He was putting his full faith in me.
“Aren’t you going to be involved at all?” I’d asked.
“I need a fresh mind on this one. Not my crusty ol’ ideas, kiddo. And I know you won’t disappoint me,” he’d added.
So, I met with the client. Mr. Meyers and twelve of his staff. I was the youngest person in the room by twenty years. And the only woman.
“She may look young, but she’s my top gun,” Henry had said, in the introductory meeting.
I spent several sleepless weeks devising a campaign. They needed something lightning-fast. And Henry promised them I would deliver.
Mr. Meyers was the CEO of an investment bank—J.P. Meyers and Company. He’d founded J.P. Meyers in 1964 but had recently suffered a massive heart attack. And since the stock price had fallen on the news, the company was trying to do split-second damage control.
My tag line for the marketing campaign I developed was: IF YOU THINK YOU’VE GOT TO TEACH AN OLD DOG NEW TRICKS—THINK AGAIN. Pictures of Mr. Meyers came on the screen, first as a young man, and then growing older as the company grew into one of the most revered firms on Wall Street, along with statistics of his accomplishments. We did a commercial and a glossy brochure for the company’s quarterly report to shareholders.
The bottom of the brochure read: J.P. Meyers and Company—Our Captain has weathered the Ship for the Past 40 Years. How long has yours been at the helm?
“I’m glad you liked it, Henry,” I say. “I worked hard on that.”
“Like it? I LOVED it, Maddy! And so did the client. Mr. Meyers actually clapped when he saw the commercial.” Henry drums his knuckles against the desk. “Rest assured, my dear. As soon as they pay their bill, you’re in for a very significant raise. Soon you’ll be making more money than yours truly,” Henry teases, his blue eyes moist from his morning hot toddy. I know he’s splashed some Irish whiskey into his coffee. I can smell it on his breath.
“Drinking before 10:00 a.m.?” I ask. “On a Monday?”
“Medicine, my dear,” Henry shrugs, with his smiling eyes. He’s got bright, shiny, mischievous eyes. The type of eyes that seem to know everything. And so even when I put on my game-face, he knows immediately something is up.
“But you’re not here to talk about Mr. Jack Daniels, I can see that,” Henry says. He folds his hands underneath his chin.
I take a deep breath. “Carlton and I have a new business idea. Organics 4 Kids. It’s a healthy school lunch program. He’s gotten his father and a bunch of investors together. They’re planning to invest three million dollars in start-up money. The meeting is next week. I didn’t expect it to happen so quickly, Henry. So, things are already off the ground and running.”
Henry whistles through his teeth. “Woo-wee. Must be some phenomenal business plan,” he says. “If they’re making that kind of financial commitment.”
I hold up my thick black binder. “I thought you might like to see it,” I say, plopping it down on his desk.
He adjusts his bifocals and peers down the end of his nose. I wait as he flips through the pages, slowly. Sopping up each word. Taking it all in. The clock ticks away. Fifteen minutes go by. Then twenty.
Finally, Henry looks at me over the top of his glasses. “You’re a piece of work, Madeline Piatro,” he says, shaking his head.
“Thanks Henry. That means a lot.”
He bites his bottom lip and I can see his mind whirling. He’s devising something. “Are you sure you want to give this away to Carlton’s dad and all his cronies? I mean, once they invest their money, Maddy, you won’t be in control. You’ll just be a hired gun. Like a consultant. And the company will belong to them.”
“Carlton and I talked about that. We’re both going to protect our interests.”
“Well of course Carlton will be protected. Daddy Warbucks will make sure of that. But what about you?”
I twirl the Juliet ring on my finger. Look down at it. Remember the engraving. “Forever, my Juliet,” it reads.
I look up at Henry and smile. “Carlton and I are in this together,” I say. “And plus, a lot of this was his idea.”
Henry shoots me a look. A real zinger. “Sure,” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You can use that line on other folks, but I know My Madeline.” He slaps my notebook down on his desk. “And this has her name written all over it. Christ, it’s brilliant, kiddo! Why don’t you let me set up a few meetings on my end? I know some angel investors who may step up to the plate. I mean, it probably won’t be three million dollars, but it’ll be something.”
“That’s a great backup plan, Henry. If this meeting doesn’t work out. You know, Carlto
n’s dad and his investors could always say no.”
“They’re not gonna say no to this,” Henry says. “By the way, who is Carlton’s old man? He must be a man of consequence if he can arrange this kind of cash.”
“Forest Connors. Heard of him?”
Henry smacks his palms on the desk. Whap!
I jump in my chair.
“Heard of him? Jeez Louise, Maddy! What do you think? I was born yesterday?”
I watch Henry as his face reddens from exertion. He’s really getting riled up.
“I can’t believe you never told me Carlton’s father was Forest Connors!”
“I didn’t think—”
“Forest Connors would steal from his own mother if it helped his bottom line,” Henry informs me, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Wow, Henry. So you have no strong feelings whatsoever,” I say.
Henry is a little dramatic sometimes. And stubborn as a bull. He doesn’t like a lot of people. “I’m not a people person, Maddy,” he always says. To which I reply, “That’s odd considering you own a p.r. firm.” Which gets him every time.
So this doesn’t surprise me.
“What did Forest Connors ever do to you, Henry?” I ask.
Henry’s face is red and blustery now.
Uh-oh. Here comes the rant.
“Listen up, Maddy. Forest Connors was a client of mine. A long, long time ago. We were both young bucks. Bull-headed back then. I was running my own one-man show and I was happy for the business. So I gave him a great deal on my usual hourly rate. In the end, he ditched on my bill. Got some vampire lawyer involved. Calling and threatening to sue me for breach of contract and all this nonsense. Cause I was two days late with his marketing plan.
I decided it wasn’t worth the headache to fight him, Maddy. Come to find out later, he used my entire marketing plan. Word for word. Every inch of it. Didn’t pay me a dime.”
I sit back in my chair. “Wow,” I say. “I barely know Mr. Connors. I’ve only met him a few times.”
Henry pokes his finger in the air. “An old Polish proverb is ‘forgive your enemies, but never forget their names.’ I’ll never forget Forest Connors. Granted it was twenty-five years ago,” he says. “But I hear he’s still a ball buster, plain and simple.”