“Let’s see what we can do.” He bowed her into the Mustang as if she was visiting royalty, and pulled out of the underground parking lot. “Great weather we’re having for November,” he said, knowing he was talking too fast. “No snow yet. I can’t take you back tonight, but you can stay in the apartment tonight. You can have my room. I’ll sleep on the couch. Is that okay with you? We’ll drive down after work tomorrow.”
Dola cocked her head. “You are going to ask me about how things are going at the farm,” she said, following his train of thought far too well. “Please don’t ask me again, Keith Doyle. I’m not supposed to talk about home. Please.”
Keith tried not to look disappointed. She had followed his train of thought far too well. “I won’t ask, if you promise me that there’s nothing I can do to help.” She hesitated, and he jumped on it. “There is something wrong. Is someone sick?”
“Well … no …” But she sounded uncertain.
“Is it me?” Keith pressed. “Something I’ve done?”
Dola reached over to the steering wheel and laid her hand on his, another surprisingly grownup gesture. “You must never think that. Never. It is not you. You are our friend. Will you trust me to say that, and ask no more?”
“Well … all right. Sure I will.”
“Thank you, Keith Doyle,” Dola said. She sat back against the ancient upholstery and relaxed for the first time since she’d gotten into the car.
Keith chewed on what little she’d given him all the way to the studio. All right; if no one was ill, and it wasn’t something he’d done, what was bothering the elves? Keith thought about the phone call Dennet had fielded, about the problem with the cable installer they wouldn’t let him straighten out. The chatter in the kitchen suggested they were being hounded by other people. Debt collectors? Maybe they didn’t want him to get involved because they were in over their heads. Could they be in debt? They weren’t accustomed to having a lot of money, and there were so many expenses involved in having a new home, it was easy to fall behind. They’d been dealing on eBay, for example—could they have lost money, too? He’d better get to work selling for them again. Make contact with those galleries, as Holl wanted him to do. He could even give up his commissions. His heart sank when he thought of his own mounting expenses, but there were 80 of them and only one of him. He could get by on less. An idea struck him: they’d mentioned selling to galleries. He’d ask around how you got started.
* * *
On the set, the chatter wasn’t focused on America’s Shoe’s new line as much as on the new gizmo in town. The director and product producer kidded Keith about not letting them in on the ground floor of the Origami craze.
“C’mon,” said the director, whose name was Gary Von Ard. “You knew all along! I could’ve told my broker and been rich this week.”
“I wish I had had a broker to call,” Keith said ruefully. “But as far as I know Gadfly’s not being publicly traded yet. This is their first big product.”
“It’s a doozer,” the producer, Gail Cohen, said. “I know Lana Tarleton who did the ad. She’s been grinning at the rest of us over lunch. It’s like a poker game, guess who has the neatest assignment we can’t talk about. She wins. I think eight of us owe her drinks.”
“So you’re taking it out on me?” Keith asked, flinging up his hands in mock fear.
“Why not? You’re handy. If you can’t rag on the one you want, rag the one you’re with.”
“To make up for it,” Gary said, “you can recommend me to direct the next batch of commercials for Origami. I’ve got some terrific ideas.”
“Sure,” Keith said. “I’ll mention it to Dorothy.”
He had nothing to do while waiting for Dola to run through her paces but watch her in action. She had the acting thing knocked. The director loved her because she was poised and professional, but still behaved like an energetic little kid once the camera was rolling. The only reason he was there at all was because Dola was under legal age. SAG and the child labor people were always pulling surprise visits to the studio, making sure they weren’t exploiting child actors. Keith shifted in the chair behind Camera Two. Underaged or not, Dola could take care of herself.
With time to himself, his thoughts drifted back to his poster. Who knew what magical being was looking at it right now? He hoped that Catra had gotten it right in describing how to get in touch with him. He didn’t know how he’d explain it to the neighbors. Maybe he’d tell them the building was haunted. He grinned. Funny how people were more willing to believe in ghosts than elves.
***
Chapter 18
“I tell you that it is more than an ‘impression,’ Beach,” Maria said impatiently. “I have received word of a burst of great magic. It is in the south, south from here.”
Beach was getting bored with her. Technology had proved more reliable for leads to their goal than her psychic mumbo-jumbo. At this stage he was keeping her and Stefan around for amusement as much as anything, but the novelty was wearing thin.
Ming had not come up with any fresh hits from their predator program, and he was becoming impatient. If he had not been so certain that the language was tied to arcane knowledge and devices that defied physics, he would have been away from that tedious city and elsewhere in the time it took to buy a ticket.
“Where, specifically, did your ‘word’ come from?” he asked, handing her a map of the state. “Can you pinpoint it within a few miles?”
She drew her pendulum from her handbag. Stefan leaped forward to bring her a chair. She closed her eyes and let the gold weight swing. Beach had only one eye on her. The other he kept on the computer screen, in case word came from Ming. Maria’s act would never make it on the stage. She didn’t sigh or fall into a trance. She just closed her eyes and allowed her hand to move of its own volition. If he hadn’t been such a cynic her lack of showmanship would have inclined him to believe in her and her spirits wholeheartedly. But, real or not, her spirits weren’t talking to her that day.
“I cannot,” Maria admitted, after several swings and twirls. She let her hands drop to her lap, like a ballerina describing a dying bird. “Perhaps a week ago, when I told you it occurred. It is almost as if the magic hides itself. I can only tell you when it allows itself to be seen.”
“Very convenient,” Beach said.
He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, thinking hard. Sooner or later he was going to figure out a way to make the magic show itself. It would be the best tool he could ever wield, but he wasn’t going to wait a lifetime for it. There had to be something he could do to tweak his odds. A little arm-twisting, perhaps, if he could figure out whose arm to twist.
* * *
Keith slogged into the farmhouse kitchen after Dola. Marcy came to meet him as he dumped the bags and his backpack next to the counter.
“You look awful,” she said.
Keith saw the worry in her eyes, and straightened up. “It’s nothing,” he said, clutching his heart and coughing melodramatically. “The walk across the desert was a piece of cake. It was the climb up the cliff that did me in. Seriously, it’s just been a long week. Did you see the ads?”
“I can’t miss them,” she said wryly. “They’re all over Midwestern. I drove Delana in to the Ag Department on campus for a seedling sale. You should have seen her jump when she noticed the writing on the billboard next to the hotel, right out there in front of everyone. She had to read it a couple of times before she calmed down. Everyone’s been talking about it.” Marcy glanced around her before she continued in a lower voice. “Not all of them are happy.”
“That’s a shame,” Keith said ruefully. “But there’s no other good way to get the word out. I could wear a sandwich board, but it would really limit the guest list to how far I can get on foot between now and April. Right now,” he added, yawning, “that’d be about thirty feet.”
“Well, come and sit down,” Calla said, bustling up and taking charge of him in her motherly
way. “Borget, go and tell Holl that Keith Doyle has arrived.”
“Don’t bother him,” Keith said, sitting down at the table. One of the cooks brought him tea in his special mug. “Thanks. This commuting is turning out to be harder on me than I thought.”
“That’s only natural,” Calla said, sitting down with a cup of tea for herself. “A body can only do so much.”
“I feel like I’ve hardly done a thing,” Keith said, spreading his hands before wrapping them around the warm cup. “Most of the week I sit in the office writing copy. They’ve got me doing ads for a new function the Origami has that they want to push. That’s fun. On my lunch breaks I study. That’s interesting. At night I just go home and collapse. I haven’t even been hitting the Nerd Bar with Dunn and his programmer buddies. Oh, but today I did a lot of walking around. My mom came into Chicago to take Dola shopping. I checked out a bunch of galleries that might be interested in looking at your high-end stuff.” He fished in his inside jacket pocket for the list. “Here’s all the contact names. All the ones with stars next to the name are currently carrying sculpture. Like yours but not as good. In my humble opinion.”
“But this is a tremendous job,” Calla protested, scanning the sheet of paper. “You are far too kind. It’s more than you should be doing for us.”
“Never enough,” Keith said gallantly. She looked worried. Their money troubles must run deeper than he thought. “Has … er, has Diane called?”
“No,” Marcy said. “Why?”
Keith looked sheepish. “She’s mad at me. She’s been complaining that I can’t tell her anything about my work, but she figured out from the poster of the Origami that I must have told you about it in advance. I tried to explain that I needed the text for the invitation. That wouldn’t have been covered by the nondisclosure agreement, but I guess the niceties just don’t translate well.”
“Give in,” Holl said, coming to join them. “You lose the argument.”
“I have,” Keith sighed. “I rolled over and showed my throat, although total and abject surrender loses something over the phone.”
“Tell her what you can,” Calla said. “She’ll understand the omissions if you don’t hold back where you don’t need to.”
“I should have,” Keith admitted. “I really clammed up after that man came up to me in the park with the copy of the ad. Probably too much. Now it feels like I’m banging my head against a stone wall. Speaking of which, am I imagining it, or is the barrier spell stronger?”
Holl didn’t answer for a moment. He swung his leg over the bench and sat down, carefully, almost gingerly. Keith jumped up with an exclamation of concern. Holl held up a hand to forestall him.
“I’m all right. I’m just tired. Pay no attention. What’s this I hear about galleries?”
Keith was eager to show him the list. “I have to make an appointment to meet with the buyers. If you can give me some photographs, or one of the pieces to bring with me…?”
“It would be a pleasure,” Holl said at once. “We would be very glad to have them do our selling for us.” He caught Keith’s dismayed expression. “Oh, it’s not against you, Keith Doyle. It’s become a wearisome task to keep track of the auctions on line. We missed a good sale because the line … went down. It would be worth it to have the selling overseen by a person. We will research this list of yours and settle on which ones are our best prospects.”
“Right you are, sir!” Keith said, tossing him a salute with all the energy he could muster. “By the way,” he added tentatively, “let me know if anyone would like to make some extra money. PDQ is auditioning kids to play Santa’s elves in holiday spots filming now.”
“Hmph,” Holl snorted as his mother’s smooth face dimpled with laughter. “And will I never be able to convince you that we’re not interested in perpetuating a stereotype? It’s bad enough that I know four months in advance you’re going to ask us if we want to be leprechauns for the St. Patrick’s Day sales.”
“Okay, so it’s typecasting,” Keith said cheerfully. “I’d do it, but I’m too tall.”
“And why should you not? Are you not the one who’s always telling us about the magic of television?”
“Why use me when they could have the real thing?”
“Is it worth it,” Holl asked, “knowing that we must disguise the reality for the sake of not provoking a riot?”
“You know,” Keith said thoughtfully, “it’d be a whole lot easier if we didn’t have to.”
* * *
“Tell me more, Mr. Doyle,” Professor Larsen said, leaning forward with interest. “What’s an example of the small niche handcrafts manufactory you speak of? You sound as though it’s a business you have had personal experience with. Considerable personal experience.”
“Oh, it’s more theoretical than anything else,” Keith said, wishing he’d had a tape recorder running while he made his presentation about the operational structure of a small industry. Since it was always on his mind, he’d described Hollow Tree Industries as best he could, naming no names, giving no clue as to location. From the amused and keen looks on the faces of his fellow students he must have waxed very lyrical. “I’ve just been, er, thinking about it for a long time.”
“Really? Then, please, tell us more about your theory,” Professor Larsen said, tenting his long fingers on his lectern. “What kind of woodworking factory has no concerns with pollution control? I’ve looked over the balance sheet you provided. It shows material statistics, detailed down to the types of wood and sizes of nails. It details safety measures including the minimum thickness of goggles to be worn whenever power tools are used, but I do not see any provision for worker’s compensation, not even a claim for bruised shins.”
“Well, there haven’t been any … yet,” Keith said.
“But according to you, this company has been operating for several years. In all that time, you want us to believe that they haven’t had a single accident?”
“No, sir,” Keith answered truthfully. The elves were incredibly careful, and used magical safeguards as well as physical ones, but he couldn’t say that.
“That’d be a miracle, wouldn’t you say? The workers must be of supernatural skill, turning out a myriad of toys and gifts without ever getting so much as a splinter.”
“Oh, they are, sir,” Keith said, as inspiration lit up his eyes. “You see, when you’re talking about an international reputation, the workers take particular pride in their safety record. Their target market would get upset if there was a suggestion that the goods came to them at the expense of someone else’s well-being. The training program lasts several years, and the employees are always getting additional education. The turnover is very small. They’ve never had a strike.”
“International reputation?” a male student asked curiously.
“Sure. And as for distribution … their entire output is shipped only once a year. Admittedly it sounds very limited, but they do cover every single country on Earth. The CEO is also the Chief Operating Officer. He handles product distribution personally.”
Keith’s classmate shook her head. “One of those small businessmen who can’t delegate, huh?”
“Well, there are some things that you can’t really delegate,” Keith said. “I mean, where are you going to replace a guy that can make toys, handle public relations, oversee the workforce, and drive the reindeer?”
The class burst into laughter. Professor Larsen raised his eyebrows.
“We’re talking about Santa’s workshop?” he asked dryly.
“Why not?” Keith asked.
“That’s a captive workforce,” an African-American woman said sternly.
“No, it’s not,” said a Hispanic woman in a tan shirt-dress, getting into the swing of things. “They don’t have to work for Santa. They’d like it.”
“They’d have to want to work for Santa,” Keith said, warming to his topic. “I mean, think of the Arctic climate. Nonstop snow all year, and part of the year the sun
doesn’t rise at all.” The class burst out laughing.
“Where else could elves work?” asked a man.
“Hollywood?” suggested Keith glibly. “Think of all the movies starting from The Wizard of Oz that used little people.”
“Hey, woodworkers with talent can get a job anywhere in the world,” another called, grinning. “Santa ought to be glad they stay with him.”
“People, people!” Professor Larsen shouted over the hubbub throughout the room. “Let’s get back to Mr. Doyle’s defense of his thesis. It’s a fascinating fiction, but it’s not really viable, is it?”
But it was hopeless. Everyone was talking and laughing about the idea of Santa Claus as a small business owner.
“If you’re talking about clear leadership, customer interaction, and a good product, that’s an ideal model for …” Keith’s female defender exclaimed, only to be interrupted by a man with a deep voice.
“You have a spreadsheet here showing manufacturing costs against income!”
“Well, Santa must pay something for materials,” Keith said happily, tapping a pen on his palm. “He’d never cheat.”
“What about the income? He doesn’t charge for those gifts. Where’s the money come from?”
Keith thought furiously for a moment, looking at the expectant faces of the class. Maybe trying to equate the elves’ business with Santa’s workshop hadn’t been such a good idea. “Corporate sponsorship!” he exclaimed, then shouted over the resulting laughter. “You don’t think it’s a coincidence that millions of kids get Sony Playstations or Cabbage Patch Kids all in the same year, do you?”
“Since we’re not talking about a cash economy, where’s the opportunity for profit sharing?” an older male student asked. “There’s no decent possibility of personal enrichment.”
“What about all the milk and cookies?” asked the woman in the tan suit.
“No profit-sharing per se,” Keith offered, “but you’d have to guess he couldn’t consume all that by himself. The elves’d clean up on goodies.”
Advanced Mythology Page 21