Clem’s silver Mercedes sped along Shady Oak Road and turned left into Cherry Lane. He was tired. It’d been a long day and he was still very irritated about the whole Fitz thing. It just didn’t feel right. Something was going on and he didn’t like it. Fitz hadn’t put in the graft Clem had. Why should he now be on equal terms with him? Clem wondered. None of it made any sense.
Tara took the sizzling lamp chops out of the oven just as she heard the garage doors open. The island counter was set for two and culinary aromas floated tantalizingly around the kitchen to intoxicate anyone with even the faintest appetite. Clem walked in carrying his laptop in a shoulder bag and talking on his cell phone.
“Yes, Justine, I know but we need the final layouts ready to take to the client tomorrow. And no, I’m not doing a dog and pony show on Skype. No way. There’s never enough damn bandwidth anyway.”
Tara smiled to her husband as he walked through the kitchen towards the stairs. He acknowledged her with a raised eyebrow. She wasn’t going to interrupt what sounded like an important call. Clem continued his phone conversation as he went up to their bedroom. It was obvious her husband was not in the best of moods but a glass of vino would soon fix that, or so Tara thought. She poured the Mondavi.
Moments later, Clem appeared from upstairs, minus jacket and with his tie loosened. Tara handed him a glass of the velvety smooth red nectar. She enjoyed working out and had a lean and toned body to prove it but boy, did she love a glass of wine in the evening.
“It’s your favorite. Lamb chops with all the trimmings!” Tara announced with a proud smile as she placed the lamb chops with rosemary on two warm dinner plates. Clem took a gulp of wine and walked into the living room.
“Maybe later. Sorry, honey. I’m not remotely hungry.”
Tara stared at the two perfectly prepared meals. She’d gone to a lot of trouble once again but this was not the first time this had happened over the past four months. Tara gritted her teeth. She wasn’t going to make a big deal of it. After all, Clem had been under a lot of stress at work and if the guy wasn’t hungry, he wasn’t hungry. Tara walked into the living room and over to Clem who was now slumped on the couch with his feet up, shoes off and TV remote in hand flipping channels. He stared at the changing TV screen without any trace of emotion.
“Honey, you have to eat,” Tara said, hoping he’d magically change his mind and suddenly develop an appetite.
“I’ll heat it up later,” Clem said, not bothering to look away from the television.
“How was work?” Tara asked, sitting down beside him and trying to hide her own frustrations. “You seem very annoyed about something.”
“Same old bullshit.” Clem hit the remote again, in no mood to engage in conversation. Getting Clem’s attention when he was in one of these moods was an exercise in futility so Tara walked back into the kitchen. Clem continued to stare mindlessly at the plasma screen.
“I’ll put both the plates back in the oven. We can eat later.”
If Clem didn’t want to talk, he didn’t want to talk and she wasn’t going to try and force a conversation out of him. He looked pretty wiped as it was. Tara opened the warming drawer of the oven and carefully slid the two plates onto the rack. She knew the chops would be tough as old boots and she was not a happy camper. Tara walked back into the living room and sat down beside her distracted husband.
“They work you too hard, honey. I thought all the pressure was off now that you’ve won the business.”
“It’s not the work, it’s the fucking politics. Frank Bergenson’s playing mind games with me and Kurt Fitzgerald.”
“Oh, just enjoy your wine and chill,” said Tara, as she topped up Clem’s glass, hoping to lighten his mood.
“The old man is loving watching us both duke it out for his job. After everything I’ve done for his agency, I deserve his damn job.”
“Well, I appreciate you. I know how smart you are. You should be their next CEO. That Frank’s an idiot.”
Now that the Rebakor pitch was over, she’d been expecting Clem to be back to his jolly old self. Tara was a good wife and she had a deep love for her husband but it was getting increasingly hard emotionally for her to be supportive. Clem was putting so much energy and effort into getting the impending CEO position that he had nothing left for her. He was coming home a spent force. It was like he was turning into a different person.
While Clem was living his life in the fast lane, Tara’s was plodding along. Every day was the same old same old for her, like Groundhog Day. She was tired of living her life vicariously through Clem. And where was the affection? Tara couldn’t remember when they’d last had sex. It was time to get their marriage back where it had been before Clem had become so blindingly ambitious. Hell, maybe Clem just needed a blowjob to get him to unwind.
While Clem stared silently at two boxers beating the crap out of each other on ESPN, a seductive smile crossed Tara’s face as her hands slid over his stomach and then down to the zipper of his pants. She slowly pulled at the zipper tab.
Clem flinched. “No, I’m shot.”
He grabbed her hand and pushed it away. Tara pulled back from him feeling totally rejected. What man turns down a blowjob? Clem flipped the remote and the fighters were instantly replaced with a re-run of The Honeymooners and annoying canned laughter. It was in stark contrast to the mood in their living room at that very moment. Tara stared at Clem with an expression of anger and frustration. She got up, walked over to the television and yanked the power cable out of the wall socket. The screen turned black, so did Tara’s mood. She stood defiantly in front of the TV with her arms crossed tightly. Clem took a very deep breath then puffed it out like a party balloon slowly deflating.
“It’s all work, work, work with you, Clem. There’s never any time for us anymore,” Tara complained.
“Look, it’s not you, Tara. That’s the ad business. It’s never been a nine to five gig, you know that.”
“Come on, Clem. Do you work to live or live to work?”
Clem looked at Tara for the first time that night. “I’ve been in this damn business long enough to know when someone’s fucking with me,” snapped Clem. “If I don’t make CEO then Fitz will. And the first thing that prick will do is fire me. Then what? Well, I’ll tell you what. We’ll have to up sticks and move. I got hired right before the recession hit and I’m on a big stick, you know that and there aren’t a ton of jobs out there.”
Tara felt a bolt of emotion shoot through her but she knew that arguing about her needs seemed useless and trivial when Clem was on a rant like this.
“I thought as you climbed the corporate ladder your working life would get easier,” Tara said, getting a little choked up.
“That’s funny,” Clem said sarcastically. “I want CEO. And I deserve it. Jesus, I’ve earned it, dammit! It’s my inheritance after reeling in Rebakor. Biggest account that agency has ever won.”
Clem got up from the sofa and plugged the TV back into the wall. He sat back down and flipped it on again.
Tara spent the rest of the evening busying herself around the house rather then try to engage her husband who was obviously not even interested in talking let alone having an orgasm. Clem went to bed early that night after finishing off the bottle of merlot all by himself and popping a couple of pills. By the time Tara climbed into bed, Clem was asleep. She felt bad about their earlier confrontation that evening so she snuggled up against his warm, naked body and gently stroked his shoulder. She felt a lump on Clem’s back. She studied it as best she could in the dark. It looked like a painful red welt.
Strange that Clem hadn’t mentioned it.
CHAPTER 2
Frank Bergenson took off his headphones and stood up from behind his desk. He walked over to the soft white mohair sofa in his corner office on the forty-fourth floor of the Kemp building where a deflated Kurt Fitzgerald was sitting. Fitz was a few years younger and heavier set than Clem. A rugged face with strong features, the biggest of whi
ch seemed to be his large mouth and big white teeth. When the moment took him, he’d flash his pearly molars into a smile that bore a closer resemblance to a manic grin. Though Kurt Fitzgerald was in no mood to smile today.
Frank eased himself into an armchair. “Y’know, you and Clem are the two smartest guys I ever hired. A little healthy rivalry is a good thing.”
If Fitz felt flattered he wasn’t showing it. His fat ego had taken a huge hit with Clem winning the Rebakor account. Frank wanted to get his man pumped up again and working with his usual enthusiasm.
“The Rebakor business was totally up for grabs. Everyone knew they wanted to get out of L.A. They’d had it with the east coast agencies, too. Those guys gauged them for years.”
“Oh, cool it, Fitz. You’ll still get a nice employee bonus out of it at Christmas.”
“So why y’wanna see me? We pitching anything else worth $200 million?” Fitz snapped impatiently.
“I know you’re pissed I left you out of the whole Rebakor pitch, Fitz but I had my reasons.” Fitz didn’t respond. Frank glanced at the headlines on his copy of Adweek. “I want you to work with Clem on the Rebakor business.”
Fitz gave Frank a quizzical look. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Have you told Clem that?”
“Yes.”
“And he’s cool with it?” Fitz asked with a suspicious glance.
“Who cares whether he’s ‘cool with it’? I’m still running the show here.”
“It’s not gonna work, Frank.”
“Oh, it’ll work. I’ll make sure of it.” Frank Bergenson stood up and opened the pages of Adweek as he walked over towards the large floor to ceiling windows.
Fitz stayed seated. He was intrigued by Frank’s instructions. He started to grin. “Oh, I get it. The blue-eyed boy is up to something, isn’t he?”
Frank tossed the magazine onto a coffee table. “Clem has a two hundred million dollar account in his pocket. That’s dangerous. It can give a man ideas.”
“You mean like walking out the door and taking that fat chunk of business with him?” Fitz suggested, quickly seeing where his boss was coming from. He chuckled at the thought that old man Frank Bergenson didn’t trust his favorite son.
“Precisely,” Frank grumbled.
“Then why’d you leave me out of the entire pitch process?”
“Because you and Clem would’ve been so busy beating each other up trying to get control that we would never have gotten the business. Now we have the account, you can move in. Sure, James Molinaire loves Clem. Make him love you, too.”
“And how d’ya know I won’t walk out with the Rebakor account in my back pocket?” Fitz said, only half joking.
“Clem wouldn’t let you, just as you won’t let Clem. You could say I’m splitting the risk.” Frank spoke softly but firmly. He wasn’t kidding. Fitz listened but wasn’t sold on the concept.
“So you want me to keep an eye on Golden Balls and make sure he doesn’t get too chummy with James Molinaire.”
“That’s not what I said, Kurt,” Frank frowned. “We’re ad guys, not fucking CIA operatives.” Fitz chuckled but Frank’s expression remained deadly serious.
“But I’ve never even met Molinaire.”
“Get your team to come up with the new Rebakor ad campaign. Beat Clem to the punch. Get something brilliant in front of Molinaire before Clem’s guys have even had a chance to write the creative brief. I’ll set up a meeting with you and Molinaire and Clem doesn’t have to know about any of this.”
“Golden Balls will hit the fucking roof!” Fitz smirked but liked the idea of usurping his rival in such an unethical manner, especially as it had his boss’s blessing. “But what about the ad campaign Clem presented to Rebakor at the pitch? I can’t un-sell something that Molinaire’s already bought into.”
“Who said you have to?”
“Well, how the fuck did we win the business? Didn’t Clem’s team present various brilliant creative concepts at the pitch?”
“No. Clem sold us on the strength of our previous creative work and how brilliant we could be for them if they were smart enough to hire us. It worked.”
“So we landed a $200 million account without even pitching a single idea?”
“You could argue the one idea he did have was not to show Rebakor any ideas at all. Clem Drew’s one helluva salesman,” Frank chuckled. Fitz was impressed Clem had managed to pull that off but wasn’t going to admit to his boss. “They love him to bits, Fitz. That’s what concerns me and that’s why we’re having this conversation.”
“Okay, then I need the creative strategy to give to my guys. He must’ve sold them on some strategic planning going forward.”
“Oh, I’m sure he did. But you’ll have to get that from Clem,” Frank smiled.
“And how do I do that?”
“You can always trying asking Clem for it. Maybe try a charm offensive for once, Fitz.”
“Oh sure. He’s gonna love that.” Fitz was not impressed with Frank’s suggestion.
“I’ll handle Clem’s ego but you’ve got to come up with the goods.” Frank stood up to let Fitz know the meeting was over. “Get your very best guys on this, Fitz. And keep your mouth shut.”
Fitz’s shit-eating grin was still plastered across his face when he walked out of Frank Bergenson’s office. Frank was a sneaky sonofabitch and but then that’s what Fitz liked about him. The chrome nameplate on the granite façade of the Kemp building may have read Bergenson & Adler but this was Frank’s show. No one at the agency ever knew exactly what happened to Frank’s old business partner, Lewis Adler. He’d left the agency under somewhat sudden and mysterious circumstances thirty-seven years earlier and none of the employees had ever heard of him since. He was long gone and no ever talked about it other than whispers that Frank had actually had his business partner secretly bumped off and the body buried under the foundations of the Edina public library.
Kurt Fitzgerald was now a much happier man than when his day had started. In his mind, he’d been given the green light to go to war against Clem Drew. The flag was down, the whistle had been blown. Round one was about to begin and Fitz had old man Bergenson in his corner. Maybe Frank was being a little paranoid in his old age but now Fitz had suddenly jumped up the pecking order from also-ran to serious contender.
Clem Drew stepped out of the elevator on the forty-third floor and walked past the reception desk in the lobby. As usual, he nodded to Dee Dee, the pretty, bubbly receptionist who had an obvious crush on him. Clem looked his usual sharp self though his mood was less jovial than usual. He glanced at the 1962 Bulova Accutron watch adorning his left wrist. It was eighty-thirty precisely. Perfect timing. No flashy gold Rolex for Clem. He was too cool for that. That was gauche and more Fitz’s style. Clem was quiet money.
His trusty assistant, Justine greeted him as she did every morning with her perky smile and equally perky breasts. Slim and sexy as all get out with legs all the way up to her small, tight butt, Justine was the perfect personal assistant; pretty as a picture, sharp as a tack and as loyal as a puppy dog.
“Double-shot cap on its way, boss,” Justine said with a cute, dimpled smile as she passed Clem in the corridor though she could tell her boss was not in the best of moods this morning. Clem’s arrival was always Justine’s cue to head down to the lobby of the Kemp building where a Starbucks was conveniently located. But this morning, Justine rolled her eyes towards Clem’s door as she passed by him. He heeded the warning as he walked into his office.
“Good morning, Clement,” smiled Kurt Fitzgerald as he spun around in Clem’s Aeron chair. “Nice view.”
“I’m so pleased,” Clem answered sarcastically. On any given working day, Fitz never came near Clem’s office. His locale was on the other side of the building and there was no reason why their paths would cross other than Frank’s monthly account exec meetings and company parties. Clem was irritated Fitz was sitting in his chair behind his desk and
showing no signs of shifting his derriere.
“You going to a wedding or a funeral today?” Clem asked the black suited intruder. Fitz didn’t get the sarcastic humor of Clem’s quip. Instead, he leaned back in Clem’s chair and put his feet up on Clem’s desk. “Gucci loafers? Are you serious? Get them off my desk and get outta my chair, Fitz.”
Fitz smiled at his irked counterpart and stood up disrespectfully slowly. Clem reclaimed his faithful Herman Miller by taking off his suit jacket and hanging it over the back of it, as he did every morning.
“Technically speaking it isn’t your chair. Company property,” Fitz reminded his agency equal as he wandered over to the windows to get a clearer view of the dramatic downtown skyline.
Clem sat down and ignored him as he booted up his laptop.
“Your office is so bland. It lacks any pizzazz,” Fitz opined, looking at the stark white walls, which Frank had noted earlier.
“Well, feel free to ‘pizz’ off back to your own office unless you’ve something you’d like to discuss. I’ve got work to do.”
“Ever thought of putting some artwork on these lonely walls?”
“Jesus Christ, everyone wants to hang shit in my office. No, I don’t want anything on the damn walls,” Clem snapped. “What do you want, Fitz? I’ve got a tight schedule.”
“I could lend you a Damien Hirst. He’s highly collectible. Very contemporary British artist, y’know.” Clem stared at his laptop screen as Fitz strolled around Clem’s office.
“Slicing embalmed animals in half is not ‘art.’ The man’s a wanker.” Clem flipped open his laptop and booted it up.
“Well, you know the art world. Talent isn’t a prerequisite,” Fitz jabbed back. Clem was getting impatient.
“Rather like the ad world. Okay, enough with the foreplay, Fitz. Get to your point then please leave. I’ve got a $200 million account to take care of in case you’ve had your head up your ass and haven’t read Ad Age, Adweek and The New York Times and the Wall Street Journal. I assume you can read.”
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