by Sharn Hutton
“I’d use this trip to find a new job if I were you, Alder,” Spink had said in a darker moment, “Resign. Save us all the embarrassment. You’ll never beat me, Adler. I’m already at the finish post and you’re not even out of the trap.”
Minutes later he was giggling at pictures in the tourist brochure and rubbing his thighs. Jerry had squirmed in his cramped seat for the first hour of the flight, but as Spink demonstrated no intention of explaining himself he’d soon resolved to ignore him. The remainder of the journey had been the better for it.
Wearing a dopey grin, Jerry purposely joined a different line from Spink where, after a fifteen minute shuffling wait, a smart-suited clerk turned her attention to him.
She smoothed her hair. “Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to the MGM Grand. How may I assist you today?”
Jerry raised his eyes to hers. Charles Bamford-Irons smiled with a twitch to one eyebrow. “Er Jerry Adler, checking in.”
She rattled at her keyboard and soon sent him on his way, sadly unadorned with privilege cards, but delighted to have officially arrived. Jerry jabbed repeatedly at the lift buttons, but Spink managed to squeeze his girth in through the closing doors before they sealed shut.
When they slid open again both men stepped out into the 4th floor lobby. Side by side they marched down the corridor, Spink giving Jerry’s squeaking case withering looks. Jerry, pretending not to notice, stretched his stride, forcing Spink to scuttle at twice his pace to keep up. Jerry pulled ahead, scanning the doors for numbers as he passed. 417, 419, 421. The corridor stretched on ahead, bright and golden. He rounded a corner, Spink at his heel. 435, 437, 439. Here.
Jerry presented the key card and barrelled into his room grinning, leaving a sweating Spink fumbling at the door opposite.
He clicked the door shut behind him and let out a low whistle. The room was just as he had hoped: spacious and elegant, a luxurious bolthole from which he’d shape his destiny. Sleek walnut fitted units ran the length of the room with sharp chrome handles that glinted in the soft light. Here, Jerry was his own man. A loaded champagne bucket perched on the desk, poised for celebration. Jerry grinned. Ah yes, he had arrived.
For everything the room had: wide flat screen TV, rich walnut furniture, sumptuous soft furnishings and a dazzling view of The Strip, it was the notably absent aspects that cleared Jerry’s mind for battle. The room was blissfully free from disapproving glares and expectant silences. Not one scrap of baby paraphernalia was to be seen and the bed was utterly free from piles of folded laundry, changing mats and soggy muslins.
He abandoned his case and flopped wholeheartedly onto the king-sized bed. Smooth satin caressed his cheek and he sank into the mound of pillows. Too excited to lie still, after a moment he rolled off, manoeuvred his squeaky companion over to the wardrobe and flung its contents onto hangers. Start as you mean to go on and all that. With one hand in his pocket, he swaggered over to the window.
The voracious Strip sprawled beneath him. Four lanes of traffic pumped in either direction, feeding life and heat and money. Neon signposts bedazzled pedestrians and swept them inside, to consume and be consumed. The sidewalks oozed with fat Americans and soon-to-be-thinner wallets, but there were winners out there too. Las Vegas was the place of dreams. Wide-eyed and glorious, Jerry refocused on his own reflection in the glass: a new hopeful face with sparkling eyes. Remi winked back.
FORTY-ONE
JERRY STRETCHED OUT IN KING-SIZED LUXURY and flopped away the satin quilt. Cool air flooded over his skin and coaxed him into consciousness. Already at home, he swung out of bed, dug happy toes into the soft pile of the carpet and sauntered to the bathroom. Marble surfaces shone clean and clear, with only Jerry’s meagre wash bag occupying space. He showered and dressed in a guilt free, unharassed bubble. No grumbling tick from Grandma Ray’s timepiece, nor piercing cries from Peanut. No accumulated junk of infanthood nor DIY ignored. No dishevelled stacks of laundry nor abandoned tea cups. No other living soul.
Straightening his tie, he admired his reflection in the side lit mirror. His complexion was even and clear, dark shadows banished and replaced with a twinkle. Jerry puffed out his chest, hitched up his trousers and smoothed the dark lapels of his jacket. An unruly curl flopped into his eye and Remi raised an eyebrow. Ah well, you couldn’t have everything. Jerry scooped up his wallet and hustled out the door.
He strode straight into the lift, catching it just before the doors slid shut. It silently dropped five floors then stopped of its own accord. It did not open. Through the glass doors, frowning would-be passengers stabbed at the exterior buttons. Jerry jabbed at his own and off they went again, this time dropping straight past the foyer to the level below. The doors opened and a wave of babbling tourists flooded in, squashing Jerry against the side. He punched at the button for the foyer again and up they went. This time finally stopping at the right floor, the temperamental lift spewed its jabbering load out into the foyer. Jerry brushed himself down, stuck out his chin and strode off toward the monorail.
At the platform, arms of grey steel and glass stretched out a wide embrace, enclosing passengers in a pocket of neutral space. Not the outrageous excess of the hotel, nor the arid concrete landscape of backstage Las Vegas. It felt like he’d infiltrated the villain’s lair, waiting to board the internal shuttle to take him deeper. The sleek bullet of a train eased to the platform and Jerry climbed aboard, along with the minions, ready to be jettisoned out into the desert and on.
He claimed a seat amongst his fellow excited passengers. Some were smart-suited like himself and there for business, others bulged in Bermudas and irreverent T-shirts. The P.A. system babbled unendingly, publicising promotions and pointing out the vast hotels visible through the window. “Let luck be your lady tonight!” crooned the presenter. Yes indeed.
Alighting at the Conference Centre Station, Jerry swept along with the crowd and down a long walkway. The exhibition hall opened up before him, a cavernous space carved into a criss-crossing maze: a tiny city where the streets were paved with thin grey industrial carpet. Jerry strode forward, dwarfed by the enormity of the stands. Some were built double-decker, with meeting rooms on top or balconies. Others sported vast models, mysteriously supported by trade show magic: a glittering spinning globe; a polystyrene mobile phone to send Dom Jolly into raptures; glass and steel; technology and touch screens.
Time to scope out the lair and get the lie of the land.
Jerry pulled out the exhibitors list and ran his eyes over the highlighted names. He made a random turn, looking for a name he recognised. Beautiful women lined the route, holding trays of orange juice and bagels, bacon sandwiches and muffins. Reward for the early birds. Jerry’s stomach growled.
He approached the smiling woman with the muffins, who offered him a napkin. “All our representatives are in conversation at the moment, sir but, if you’d like to wait…?”
“No problem, I’ll come back. I want to look around anyway.”
“Have a nice day.” She smiled and before Jerry had moved away she’d broken eye contact and was gazing over his shoulder into thin air, face fixed in a grin.
Jerry nibbled at the muffin and backed away, into the stream of visitors that ebbed along the gutter between the rows of stands. He sauntered on, gnawing as he went.
By midday Jerry reckoned that he’d covered a third of the labyrinth, marvelling at the structures and circling likely candidates for approach on his list, if he could ever find them again. He decided to stop for a bite to eat and, as he sat with a coffee in a seating plaza, Jerry’s eyes fell upon the Holy Grail: rising above the artificial skyline of steel and polystyrene, ‘Mango’. No gimmicks or gizmos, their name stood proud above all others. Orange letters in a sharp no-nonsense typeface that was recognised the world over to stand for ethical business. A name you could trust.
Jerry’s heart beat a little faster. It might take him a few tries before he got to speak to the right person. He needed to get to work on them. No time like the
present. He knocked back his coffee and scurried past the stands in the shadow of his prize. The constructions along his way grew with every step. This was blue chip boulevard.
The route twisted this way and that. Then, with a final turn he was confronted with those orange letters, suspended high in the air. He paused to gather himself, then let his eyes trail down to assess the people.
To start with it was hard to distinguish staff from visitors but, once he’d spotted the orange name badges, the well dressed and confident Mango employees became obvious. At least fifteen of them. Ages ranging from late twenties up into the fifties. Rising age meant rising responsibility so Jerry decided to sidestep the younger easy marks and aim high.
A gaggle of grey hair was drinking coffee and laughing to one side. Jerry started toward it, regulating his breathing and holding his game face. Ten feet away and the closest member of the group turned, revealing a bulbous nose and wayward eyebrows.
Jerry stopped dead and their eyes met. The briefest flicker in Spink’s expression told him he was too late. He turned back to the group, said something Jerry didn’t catch and they all erupted into laughter, the closest member patting Spink heartily on the back.
Jerry’s eye twitched and he backed away. Bloody Spink, he had to get there first, didn’t he? Jerry twisted round and scuttled back into the labyrinth, the white noise of adrenalin hissing in his ears as he navigated back to the coffee piazza.
No need to panic. There were plenty of other people to see. Jerry pulled the exhibitor list from his pocket but, his eyes slid from the highlighted names and sloshed into the pool of harassed fear in his head. He needed new clients, lots of new clients. If Spink had Mango though, all was already lost.
He tried to shake it off. Positive attitude, Jerry. Come on. He sat at a table and unfolded the map, locating his next target, Interchip. He scooped up his papers and headed off down a corridor of towering graphics and other people’s conversations.
So determined was Jerry to get there that he found himself on top of it before he’d slowed his pace and had to pull up at its borders like a gangly foal. Already at the foot of three steps which led up onto the stand, his sudden arrival and flustered demeanour caught the attention of the Interchip employees above. They scanned the face he realised too late was a picture of desperation, and undoubtedly made assumptions. Jerry rearranged his features into a smile and stepped up into the fray, palms sweating.
A tightly wrapped woman in smart tailoring popped up out of nowhere and offered him her own smiling mask. Jerry wanted to turn and run.
“Good afternoon, sir. May I help you with an enquiry?” Her teeth glinted in the unnatural fluorescent light.
“Yes. Yes. Absolutely. My name is Jerry Adler. I’m wondering if there is anyone here today from your marketing team?”
The tightly wrapped woman’s brow relaxed a little. “I myself am collecting visitor details for our marketing database. Shall I scan your badge and send you an information pack?” She’d lifted her laser gun and shot the badge on his chest before he could answer. Jerry flinched.
“No. Well OK but, that’s not really what I meant.” She switched her expression back to questioning and traced the slow roll of a bead of sweat down his cheek with judgmental eyes.
“Actually, the company I represent provide PR to this sector and I’d like to talk about ways we could work together.”
“You and I? I don’t think that’s possible. I don’t have that kind of input.”
“Well not you then, probably. Someone more senior.”
Bristling, she straightened her back with a wobble of her head. Jerry cringed.
“Do you have a card? I could pass it on. To my superior.” The plastic smile cranked up a notch.
Jerry fumbled in his pockets and produced a card which she took between pinched fingers. “Have a nice day now.”
“Yes absolutely. You too.” Jerry’s smile got a fake one in response. He turned, stumbled down the steps and scurried away.
Sitting back down at a table he scrubbed at his hair, berating himself. Horror. Nightmare. Really pathetic. Get it together, Adler. Jesus. So Spink was at Mango. It didn’t mean anything. Possibly. OK, so they looked pretty chummy. Probably already knew someone, maybe from that club he goes to. They were probably all funny handshakes and backstage passes. Oh God.
Would explain why Spink was so painfully confident though, wouldn’t it, why he’d acted like a tourist on the plane. He didn’t need to win any business here, he’d already got it. Shit and double shit. Spink was going to get the job. Jerry was unemployed. Bloody hell. Rachel. Peanut. He was the worst father ever.
FORTY-TWO
ENSCONCED ON THE MONORAIL, Spink stretched his arms out along the back of the seat and sighed. Obviously, Eric Drinkwater recognised a good thing when he saw it and he’d seen it in Donald Spink. Yep, no doubt about it, his vast experience and superior intellect were shining through.
Drinkwater was just another corporate buffoon, of course, on the lookout for real talent to make himself look good. If Drinkwater wanted to pick Spink’s brain, well he was welcome. In exchange, all he wanted was an enormous slice of that delicious marketing budget and everyone was happy. It wasn’t rocket science.
He was confident Mango Worldwide was in the bag and itched to get on with his celebrations, to get on with the best part of this whole trip. With luck on his side, the gaming tables called.
Spink squeezed at his thighs and switched over to a forward facing seat for a better view of Nirvana. He craned his neck to drink in a blast of the air conditioning, its cool velvet swelling his chest.
This was the place. He belonged here. By day, the revered public relations guru, by night, the high roller he’d always known he could be. He fingered the smooth chrome of the handrail leaving hot prints. The ball of a camera unit looked down on him from the ceiling. He smirked into its lens. At the other end of its optical fibres was probably a fat security guard staring at a monitor somewhere, gorging on donuts. Another nothing, another nobody that he was passing by.
Drinkwater was responsible for a marketing budget in the millions. The Mango Worldwide PR machine worked the trade press and pedestrian papers relentlessly; that spotless reputation forever enlivened and endorsed. It was their most prized possession. Spink was about to sign on the Public Press contract, a contract to take his earnings up into the stratosphere. He rubbed his hands together with glee. Adler was screwed.
After the doors swished open to release a noisy group of trainer-wearing tourists, only a handful of passengers remained. Their absence revealed a slumped Jerry Adler at the far end of the carriage. His dejected demeanour spread a slow smirk across Spink’s lips. He couldn’t resist the temptation and slithered over to torment him.
“Bad day, Adler?” Spink leaned over him, pulling a face of sarcastic sympathy. “Did you only just realise you won’t get Mango? Oh dear, oh dear.” Adler stared at his shoes, little flecks of Spink’s spit landing on their shine. He was hugging at his chest.
“That deal was done weeks ago. On. The. Ball. Adler.” He prodded at his shoulder for emphasis. “Thirty years in the industry and a black book full of gold. Unfair match really.” He sniffed and puffed out his chest, then leaned in again, closer this time, his lips brushing Adler’s ear as he spoke. “I’ll keep my job, Adler, it was always mine and you, you’re in the gutter, you arsehole. I’ll stay with Locksley long enough to collect my fat commission but, I’m destined for better things. I’m on my way up. Locksley can build his own dreams.”
Adler jerked up a cringing shoulder and turned his face away. Spink tasted the delicious nectar of power—a delightful digestif to the devouring of a perky spirit. He pulled back a little to see how pathetic Adler had become: he still looked down at the floor and, although he couldn’t see into his eyes, Spink suspected tears were forming there. How easy it was to be the bully. Spink’s turn now.
“Don’t get all girlie about it, Adler. Let’s face it: you never had
it in you. No idea how to manage staff for a start. That Gemma strumpet, she likes you, Adler, fuck knows why. If you’d had any sense you’d have had her on the recruitment couch, working to keep her job. She might even have liked it. Not you, not Jerry.” He hooked his lip into a sneer. “Running home to the little woman who’s turned into a neurotic flabby fat arse, I bet, since the squawker came along.” Spink swam with confidence and his mouth moved on its own: words infused with sour breath to slash and stab.
Adler rose from his seat, surprising Spink into a brief silence. He flinched back. After all, Adler was much taller and fitter. A superior wit wouldn’t protect him from a punch in the mouth. It was a sudden movement that caught the eye of the other passengers left in the carriage. He felt them watching.
Head bowed, Adler tried to turn away, to get away. He was hiding his pain and Spink wanted to see it. He wouldn’t be robbed of this. After all these years, the tormenter, ha! He grabbed Adler’s shoulder and spun him back for a better look, making him stagger and fall back onto the seat. He stared up, his jaw clenched shut. There was a determination there not to speak. Was he afraid he’d cry? Spink laughed out loud. “Oh please!” See the big boys aren’t so tough. Look at that, a single move and he’s on his arse, defeated.
Back on his feet, Adler made it past the second time, but before he could get out of range, Spink took his final shot and shoved him in the small of the back. Adler hadn’t expected that. Spink’s newfound strength surprised even him: he was delighted to see Adler stumble and fall, a gangly ragdoll that flopped to the floor.