“They’ll never hear it from me,” Holl assured him. “Ah, but you’re right. So much of life is fleeting. That which we have known and loved … could vanish in the next moment. For this reason we have to be prepared, to move on, to sever ties, to start over again.”
It was so melancholy a sentiment that Keith was alarmed. “I hope you don’t ever send me away.”
Holl shook his head. “One day you may absent yourself of your own purpose.”
“Never,” Keith vowed. “Not if there’s anything I can do to prevent it.”
***
Chapter 22
Keith looked down at the lapel of his new shirt. He was used to wearing colored shirts, but the black under the jacket of the dark suit took a little getting used to. The price for good designer clothes had been a revelation, even though he thought he was prepared. The cost of the outfit had put a deep hole in the house-buying fund, but Diane had been so pleased when he called to say he’d bought it he decided it was worth the money. He wasn’t sure he liked so many dark colors together. The outfit was too chic to be funereal. Instead he felt like a Mafia don or a game show host. He straightened his pewter-gray tie, feeling like he was wearing a grownup Halloween costume, all the more stark against the pure white walls of Galleria Tony. The outfit did the trick, however, as it had at the last five places he’d visited. The young woman with black, moussed hair and a fringed shawl behind the high counter focused on him right away. She glided out from behind the desk and came to a graceful halt beside him.
“May I help you?” she asked.
Keith introduced himself. “I represent Hollow Tree Studios,” he said, offering one of the new business cards the elves had run up on their computer. “Your buyer, Mr. Albert, reviewed our portfolio and wanted to see some of the artwork.” He indicated the rolling luggage cart beside him. Three of the best pieces were in a box on its platform. The paperwork and the portfolio were in his briefcase, which he had polished for the occasion but was beginning to acquire salt splashes from being pulled along the sidewalk in the slush. He’d had to make the journey from his office by bus. His car was in the shop having the bumper repaired, something that was cutting into his house-down-payment account, the only surplus savings he felt he could sacrifice. Dipping into it depressed him because it meant he was moving away from instead of towards his goal. “I’ve got an appointment. Is he here?”
He didn’t feel optimistic. In spite of the fact that he had arranged to meet with the buyers from seven galleries that day, two hadn’t been around, and one had been busy with another meeting and dismissed Keith without speaking to him.
“Ah, yes,” she said, sounding like an extra in a vintage British movie. “He is here. Please wait.” She sashayed away behind a white partition wall and returned shortly with a man dressed exactly like Keith, except that his tie was electric blue. It was a good omen. Keith began to feel hopeful. The man’s brown hair and short, clipped beard had been spiked with mousse. Keith wondered if he ought to use some on his hair. He might fit in better.
“Well?” Thom Albert asked, raising his eyebrows at the bundles on Keith’s luggage cart. “Don’t stand there, darling, open them up!”
* * *
Like anyone else who saw the elves’ work, Mr. Albert couldn’t wait to get his hands on them, and didn’t want to let go of them once he’d touched them. Keith watched him carefully as he moved the pieces around the broad table in the back room of the shop, holding them to catch the light, studying their construction, touching the smooth curves of wood. Still, this was the point at which the last two had decided not to buy anything. Keith had a better feeling about this man. He was not disappointed.
“This is mine,” the buyer gloated, his long, pale hands battening onto the figure of a fan-tailed koi rendered in warm, golden cherrywood. He petted it gently, running his fingers around the elaborately carved dorsal fin and tail. “Magnificent for feng shui. I know just where I’m going to put it, on the north side of my condo. I’ll take the others for the gallery, the bull and the abstract—what did you say the artist called it?”
Keith peered at the master list Catra had given him. “Winter Sunset.” This was a piece of ragged oak burl shaped into the form of a wild, old tree whose upper branches surrounded a small, open circle. Placed against the white wall, the tree seemed to capture a pale, watery sun.
“Now, the bad news,” Albert said, reaching for the invoices Keith handed him and examining the numbers. “Darling, you really need to charge more for these. Unscrupulous art dealers will pay what you’re asking and quadruple the price. I might do it, too, but I’ll tell you about it first.”
“Maybe next time,” Keith said, guardedly enthusiastic. “Think of it as an introductory special. The artists want to establish a relationship with a gallery.”
“Well, you’re mine,” Albert said firmly, setting the papers down and putting his hand on them. “Don’t go anywhere else. I want to see everything you’ve got. The pieces you showed me in the portfolio—how many of those are still available?”
Keith opened the book and gave it to him. “Anything without a red dot on it.”
“These photos are terrible,” Albert complained, thumbing through the pages. “They look as though they’ve been taken with one of those cheap electronic cameras. They don’t do the work justice. You should take them to a professional. They’re worth it. Is Hollow Tree connected to an art school?”
“Independent crafters,” Keith said. “They have an apprenticeship program, but they’re really fussy.”
Thom Albert laughed. “Well, so am I. I would be very pleased to display their work. I am sure we can do them justice. Let me show you the space I have in mind.”
“This is great, Mr. Albert,” Keith began.
“Thom, please.”
“Thom. I’m Keith. The … people I represent are going to be really happy.”
“Wait until we see dollar signs,” the buyer assured him, “and then we’ll all be happy.”
After talking over how many pieces would fit in the space, appropriate lighting, and financial terms, only the last of which was ground Keith was certain of, he folded up his luggage cart and put his overcoat back on.
Through the narrow window in the door, he could see that it had grown dark already. He was too tired to strut, but he couldn’t help having a little jauntiness in his step. He’d succeeded in finding the elves a really good spot for their high-class work.
Funny, he thought, as he descended the short flight of steps to the street, that he hadn’t seen any sign at the farm of where money would be needed. Everything seemed to be okay. Had one of them taken up online gambling? Or were they being blackmailed by someone? Who?
“There!” a woman’s voice cried, pointing through the open door.
Keith glanced down. Light coming from behind him caught the features of the woman coming toward him. It was the scary lady! He flattened himself against the railing. He hadn’t expected to see them back in the city so quickly.
I’m not here, he thought desperately. I’m somewhere else. I’m not me. I’m not here! Then Holl’s lesson came back to him. Make something else more attractive to the eye. He focused on the gallery desk he could just see inside. He put the whammy on it and stood very still.
* * *
“This way,” Maria said, gesturing to the two behind her. “I feel something here.”
Obediently, Stefan followed her. Beach was less avid. He didn’t appreciate being pulled out into the cold winter weather again, not that soon after they had spent a night on a remote Illinois highway, nor hauled along through the slush behind Maria and her spirits. But he had to admit he did want to see that desk. Something brushed his arm as he mounted the steps, as if a person had gone by. He glanced around, but no one was near him. He shook his head.
“Hurry!” Maria cried. She burst through the door, her elegantly long nose almost twitching like a bloodhound’s. She made straight for the counter. “What is here? I must
see behind it.”
Beach stared at the desk too, unable to take his eyes off it. He had no idea what was so attractive about it. A trick of the light?
“There’s nothing back here,” the girl said, opening large eyes fringed with mascara in alarm at the black-haired madwoman grabbing things out from under the desk and throwing them. “Thom!”
“Excuse me, may I help you?” A bearded man in Armani black came bustling out from the back room. “Please,” he said, putting a hand on Maria’s arm. “Don’t do that.” She threw him off, circling around the white-paneled counter to look. The girl tried to head her off too. Stefan, always protective of his charge, interposed his stocky body to allow Maria to conduct her search.
“I will call the police,” the bearded man cautioned them.
“I’m sorry, this is the inmates’ day out from the asylum,” Beach said. “They get a little excitable.”
“Well, they shouldn’t be here!”
“They respond well to art,” Beach explained. “It’s part of their therapy.”
“It is gone!” Maria said. “I feel it back there, now.” She headed for a partition wall at the rear of the room.
“Please!” the man said, getting ahead of her and blocking the doorway with both arms. “This is a private room.”
“But I must go in!” Maria wailed. “The spirits guide me there.”
Beach turned to the man. “Do you have anything back there like little carved lanterns or boxes with gauze panels on one side?”
Offended, the man straightened himself up. “God, no. This is a reputable gallery. We carry one-of-a-kind objets d’art. You want a knickknack shop.”
Beach glanced over the man’s shoulder at the room. He glimpsed a coffee machine, a couple of chairs, a file cabinet, steel shelves, and a large worktable with a mismatched trio of sculptures clustered to one side. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He took Maria firmly by the arm and steered her toward the door. “Sorry to have troubled you. Come on, sweetheart. Stefan!”
“But something is there, Beach,” Maria insisted as he hustled her down the stairs.
Beach looked over his shoulder. The man and the girl were behind them, making sure they went away. “We’ll investigate it after hours, but not now. Didn’t you hear him? He was about to call the police! You can’t go diving into everything that attracts your attention.”
“But that is why you bring me here,” Maria said, hurt.
“The one thing I want you to find right now is Keith Doyle,” Beach said. “Find him, and we’ll find our answer.”
“Very well,” Maria said sulkily. “I will ask the spirits.”
“That’s the spirit,” Beach said. He put up a hand to hail a cab.
* * *
Dorothy opened the door of the PDQ boardroom just in time to hear Keith exclaim in an enthusiastic voice, “So the account rep says, ‘Well, if you don’t mind, then it doesn’t Mather.’”
Jennifer Schick and the PDQ staff groaned and broke into laughter. Mann wore a puzzled expression until his marketing director explained to him who Ogilvy and Mather were.
“Your guy here is an absolute database of bad jokes,” Mann said, as Dorothy slid into her seat at the end of the long oval table.
“He sure is,” Dorothy agreed, long-sufferingly.
“You bet,” Keith said, sitting down. “Wind me up and I go on for hours.”
“Is that a threat?” Mann asked, easing back in the springy armchair.
“Try me,” Keith said, with a look of playful insanity.
“No threat,” Dorothy said hastily, watching her clients with a trepidatious eye. “We’re not threatening anyone.”
“That’s just a joke,” Mann said, turning to her. “Don’t worry. I don’t mean anything by it. He’s been a good host while we’re waiting for you.”
“Everyone have enough coffee?” Dorothy asked nervously. “Try the pastries. They’re from that good place up the street.”
“We’re fine,” Theo said, stretching out his long legs. “No problems.” He felt in his pocket and came up with his packet of cigarettes. Though there were NO SMOKING signs displayed throughout the room, none of the PDQ staffers said anything. Keith even ignited his invisible lighter and held the live flame out for him to use. Theo leaned forward to touch his cigarette to the light, but Jennifer Schick caught the furtive glances of the others and elbowed him in the ribs. Theo sat up, a hurt expression on his face. She pointed to the signs, and understanding dawned. “Sorry.”
“You are welcome to do whatever you want,” Dorothy said. “You’re our guests.”
Theo shook his head. “We play by house rules. But thanks.”
“So,” Doug said. “You’re the talk of the ’Net. How are you feeling?”
Mann nodded, indicating his friends. “Pretty amazing. Sales have just zoomed out of sight. We don’t come from big money. We’re just a bunch of friends from North Carolina, been together since college, working on one idea or another. This is the one that stuck, and now, well, suddenly it’s all real. We’re a major company. It’s awesome.”
“Since October, other businesses are setting up shop near us,” Theo said. “We’re thinking of calling our zone Silicon Ridge, to distinguish it from Silicon Valley or Silicon Prairie.”
“Sounds intense,” said Doug. “Well, you don’t need us to tell you how good the response has been to the campaign.”
“It’s fantastic,” Jen Schick said. “My researchers have been tracking sales in the major markets and in a hundred minor ones. I can’t believe the numbers. You folks have done an incredible job.”
“So, are you happy?” Dorothy asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Bill Mann said.
“Good,” said Doug, “because it’s time to talk about what comes next.”
“Next?” Mann asked. “We don’t have a new unit coming out for a long time yet. Even the upgrade’s a year off.”
“That’s especially why we need to plug the original one again. While the Christmas market is still going on is the time to think about winter and spring rollouts. Rita?”
“Lights, please.” Keith, seated nearest the door, sprang to turn off the switch. Rita Dulwich, from the research department, put a graphic up on the multimedia wall screen. “Here’s our suggestions that would be good follow-ups, good value for money, to the campaign that’s already running.” One after another, the print ads appeared. Boxes sprang off from the central one, each containing a mockup of another advertisement. Janine, Rollin, Keith, and Dorothy had been working nonstop for weeks to come up with enough ideas to choose from. “Print ads, including catalogs for the new year, will offer a further, more subtle push for the Origami, to add another level to the high-visibility ads we’re already pumping out there.” A television screen appeared in the center, displaying the “Bend Me, Shape Me” commercial. “We’d like to produce at least two more series of spots to supplement our original television ad.”
“Why?” Jen asked. “I like that one.”
“Well,” Rita said, “people have already seen it. Some of them will already be sick of seeing it.” When the marketing director looked stricken, Paul hastened to explain.
“This is not a slam against the product. We do broadcast the first ad quite a few times over a very short term, to introduce the product and get it before the most eyes possible. A small percentage of the market saturates out on first viewing. It doesn’t mean these customers are writing off the unit. The ones who already bought an Origami are going to be humming along with the ad. It’s the slow shoppers, the ones who take their time to make up their mind that we want to capture. We want to give them a new way of looking at something they’re already considering. And for the people we didn’t catch the first time around, a new approach will wake them up. The buzz is good. We’re getting terrific feedback. Our people,” he turned a hand toward Keith and Rollin, “are already working on some good ideas.”
“Well, all right,” said Mann, a little uncertainly
.
“Trust us,” Doug said, offering his most winning smile.
“I dunno,” Bill Mann said, his small mouth curling up at the corners. “When someone tells me that, I always count my change.”
* * *
A surreptitious, after-hours visit to Galleria Tony turned up nothing that appeared to connect with Keith Doyle. VW and Beach’s other operatives took apart the white desk, searching for whatever had attracted Maria’s attention. Beach watched them, tapping his lip. He was puzzled, and he didn’t like to be puzzled.
Like everyone else in the world, Galleria Tony kept their books on computer. In another shocking example of American arrogance with regard to security, the hard drive had no password. Anyone who could get by the primitive burglar alarm setup protecting the premises could have whatever they wanted and be away long before the staff returned in the morning. Beach ordered VW to copy the gallery’s database to disk for Ming. If there was a connection she would pick it up.
As to what had set Maria off earlier that evening, Beach could only postulate a random emanation from the world of the unseen. These were old buildings, former warehouses turned into lofts and trendy shops. They’d have to check to see if anyone had ever reported the gallery haunted. In the meantime, Keith Doyle was their main target. Find him, Beach was certain, and he’d find what he was searching for.
Vasques disconnected his pirate drive, and nodded at Beach.
“Very well, gentlemen,” Beach said. “Let’s blow this pop-art stand.”
***
Chapter 23
“I don’t know if you’re ready for television ads, Keith,” Doug Constance said, shuffling the pile of roughs that Keith had set on his desk. “You’re doing very well with the print ads. I like what you and Dorothy have been turning in. I think you should keep going. You can study what Janine and Rollin are doing, and we’ll consider media scripts later on. I know you’re gung-ho, but we have to be careful. The Origami’s big money for the agency. Really big money. We’re going great with Gadfly. I know you’ll understand when I say it’s nothing personal, but we don’t want to queer this second line of ads. Maybe later.”
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