by Stuart Woods
The waitress came in with a cream soup, and they started to eat.
“I’m thinking of shutting down Just Folks,” Fox said.
Finch thought he hadn’t heard him correctly. “How’s that again?”
“I’m thinking of shutting down your magazine.”
Finch put down his soup spoon and took a gulp of his champagne. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand you—you said you’ve been reading my weekly reports.”
“Yes, and for the first time I took a good look at the magazine,” Fox said. “In fact, I found an article which mentioned an acquaintance of mine in rather an unseemly light.”
“Which piece was that?” Finch said, fighting to keep his breathing under control.
“The article about our new secretary of state, Holly Barker, which featured a photograph of a gentleman named Stone Barrington.”
“I thought the piece mentioned him favorably,” Finch stammered.
“Oddly, Mr. Barrington didn’t see it that way. In fact, he was very embarrassed by the reference to him.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Finch said. “I’ll be very happy to instruct the editor to issue a fulsome apology, if you think that might make Mr. Barrington feel better.”
There was a pause while Fox took a sip of his champagne. “I understand you have an article about Mr. Barrington in your upcoming issue,” Fox said.
“That is correct,” Finch said. “Is there some problem with the piece?”
“The problem is, it practically accuses the man of murdering his wife.”
“Well, the piece never quite says that,” Finch said. “In fact, our lawyers have approved it with hardly any changes.”
“Al, surely you know who owns your magazine now.”
“Why, of course, it’s Triangle Partnership, isn’t it?”
“Do you know who represents the corners of the triangle?”
“Well, I assume you are one.”
“That’s correct. Another is Michael Freeman, the CEO of Strategic Services, the security company.”
“Ah, big outfit.”
“Yes, indeed. And do you know who is the third corner of Triangle Partnership?”
“No,” Finch said weakly, but he was beginning to suspect.
“Our third partner is Stone Barrington,” Fox said.
“Oh, my God,” Finch muttered, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead.
“God cannot help you now,” Fox said. “Now, I want you to follow my instructions precisely.”
28
Charley Fox looked across the table at the sweating man opposite him. “Do you have a cell phone?” he asked.
“Yes, of course,” Finch replied, mopping his face with his linen napkin.
“Then I want you to call the New York offices of Just Folks and speak to the editor, Hazel Schwartz. I want you to instruct her to stop the presses, if they have already started, then to excise the Barrington piece from the new issue and substitute something else. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Finch replied. He set the phone on the table and dialed the office number.
“Put it on speaker so I can hear both sides of the conversation,” Charley said.
Finch pressed the speaker button.
“Oh, and fire Gloria Parsons. Tell her if she isn’t out of the building with her personal effects in fifteen minutes, Security will come and throw her bodily out of the building, preferably out of a window.”
“Yes, sir.” There goes getting laid tonight, Finch thought to himself. The number was ringing.
—
Hazel Schwartz and Gloria Parsons sat in the editor’s office, sipping from their own bottle of Dom Pérignon.
“I can’t wait for the fuss to start,” Hazel said. “This is going to be such fun.”
Hazel didn’t have long to wait for the fuss to start; her phone rang. She pressed the speaker button. “This is Hazel.”
“Hazel, this is Al Finch.”
“Good afternoon, Al,” Hazel said. “We just went to press with the new issue.”
“Hazel,” he said, “stop the presses.”
“What is this, a game?”
“Stop the presses.”
“Al, do you know what it would cost to stop the presses, then start them again?”
“Hazel!” Finch shouted. “Stop the fucking presses!”
“All right, Al, I’ll call them immediately.”
“Replace the Barrington piece with something else, then restart.”
“Al, if your problem is the Barrington piece, the lawyers have already vetted it within an inch of its life. It’s fine.”
“Replace the goddamned Barrington piece!”
“I’m calling right now, on another line.” Hazel picked up her cell phone and called the printers. She asked if the issue had gone to press and was told it had. “Stop the presses,” she said, being sure that Finch could hear her. “I said stop the presses! We’ll reformat the issue and get back to you in an hour or so.” She hung up. “There, Al, did you hear that? I stopped the presses.”
Across her desk, Gloria was mouthing, “What’s wrong?”
“I heard you, Hazel. Now call Gloria Parsons into your office and fire her, effective immediately.”
“What?”
“If she isn’t out of the building in fifteen minutes, call Security and have her thrown out.”
“I get it, Al, I’ll speak to her immediately.”
“Call me back on my cell when it’s done, and tell me what you’re substituting for the Barrington piece.”
“I will, Al.” Hazel hung up.
Gloria exploded. “What the fuck is going on? He just upped my raise to three hundred!”
“You heard him, it’s all about the Barrington piece.”
“Barrington must have gotten to Al somehow. How did he do that?”
“How should I know? Anyway, you heard Al—you’d better clear out your office and get out before I call him back. I’ll call you later, when I’ve found out what’s going on.”
Gloria stormed out of the office, swearing, and went to her office.
Hazel got on her computer, found a piece they had pulled from the magazine about a movie star, and copied it into the master. When she had confirmed that the substitution was seamless and that the cover tease on Barrington was gone, she pressed the send key, and it went to the printer. She called Al Finch back.
—
Finch pressed the button on his cell phone; he was still on speaker. “Hazel?”
“Yes, Al, it’s done. I’ve pulled the piece, inserted one on an actor, and restarted the presses.”
“Did you fire Gloria Parsons?”
“Yes, just as you instructed. She’s down the hall, cleaning out her desk. Can you please tell me what this is all about?”
Charley Fox reached across the table and pulled the phone toward him. “Ms. Schwartz, this is Charles Fox, CEO of Triangle Partnership. Does that ring a bell?”
A moment’s silence, then, “Yes, your company owns the magazine, doesn’t it?”
“You’re very quick, Ms. Schwartz. Now, I want you and Mr. Finch to listen to me very carefully. We are going to remake the magazine, or rather, you are, and before the next issue comes out. I want a completely new graphics look, modern and tasteful, and I want every piece written in that vein. We’re going after a new audience.”
“What sort of audience?” Hazel asked.
“Think Town & Country.”
Al Finch winced.
“I understand, Mr. Ford.”
“Ms. Schwartz,” Charley said, “if you don’t think you can handle this, you can resign right now.”
“I can handle it, Mr. Fox. Please leave it in my hands.”
“I want to see the new design work daily, as it proce
eds. E-mail it to me.” He gave her the address.
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Finch will be joining you to help out.”
“Yes, sir, very good.”
Charley broke the connection. “All right, Al, you can finish your soup now.”
“Mr. Fox, I’m so sorry about all this. I had no idea . . .”
“Of course you didn’t, Al. Now eat your soup, and when you’re finished, grab a cab downtown and supervise the remake of Just Folks.”
“Yes, sir.” Finch began to eat his soup, which was now cold. The waitress brought them lobster salad.
“Al,” Charley said, “I want you to start featuring houses, apartments, and gardens in the magazine, those of well-known people in the arts, business, and professions.”
“Mr. Fox,” Al said, picking at his lobster, “I’m not sure how we’re going to attract such people—at least, at first. We’re not known for that sort of thing.”
“Al, are you acquainted with Faith Mackey?”
“No, but I certainly know who she is.”
“Well, Just Folks is her newest client. She’s going to round up the people featured in the magazine and secure their cooperation.”
“Well, that’s wonderful,” Finch said.
“I thought you’d think so,” Charley replied, then he turned to his own lobster.
—
Fifteen minutes later, Al Finch was in a cab, headed downtown.
29
Gloria Parsons slammed her apartment door and flung the box containing the contents of her desk, mostly cosmetics, across the room, scattering them. The phone was ringing, but she was too angry to answer it. Finally, her answering machine picked up.
“Gloria, it’s Hazel. I know you’re angry, but we can do something about this. Call me as soon as you can. If Al Finch is in my office, I’ll say I can’t talk and call you back as soon as I can.”
Gloria sat down and took some deep breaths, then called Hazel.
“This is Hazel.”
“It’s Gloria. What’s going on?”
“I’m glad you called. First of all, the magazine is owned by a company called Triangle Partnership, which bought it from Christian St. Clair’s estate. One of the triangle of partners is Stone Barrington.” Hazel waited for the explosion.
“Holy shit! Why didn’t we know that?”
“I don’t think even Barrington knew it. Certainly, I didn’t. It’s a good thing somebody caught it before it hit the newsstands.”
“You said you know how to fix this.”
“Not exactly fix it, just how to keep you employed.”
“How?”
“First of all, one Charles Fox, the CEO of Triangle, has ordered that we completely redesign the magazine and its contents before the next issue. Al is on the way down here to work on it with me. Fox wants to go after the kind of audience that Town & Country attracts—upscale, older, et cetera, et cetera. Our new publicist is Faith Mackey. Got it?”
“Yeah, I guess. What does it have to do with me?”
“I want you to go on writing for the magazine, but under a new name. I’ve chosen one for you—Laurentia Scott-Peebles, known to her friends as Scotty. She’s English, of a certain age—think tweed skirts and sensible shoes—writes well, of course. You’ll have to invent a voice for her that matches that description. You won’t be on staff—at least, not for a while—but I’ll pay you top-dollar freelance rates. You’ll do a piece a month, and you have to find your first subject and get me a draft in forty-eight hours.”
“What kind of piece?”
“Interiors, apartments, vacation homes, and gardens of people prominent in the arts, business, and the professions, with photographs. When you’ve picked a subject for your first piece, hire whatever photographer you want, and get it done.”
“I’ve got an idea for the first piece.”
“Who?”
“Let me get her signed on, then I’ll tell you.”
“Tell me now, so I can tell Al—it will show him I’m on board with the redesign.”
“All right, the photographer Jamee Fellows. She’s a sort of friend, and we can use her own photographs.”
“A brilliant idea, Gloria! Excuse me—Scotty. I will address you that way from here on until . . .”
“Until what?”
“Until Stone Barrington dies or becomes senile, whichever happens first.”
“He may die first,” Gloria said. “I’ll call you when I’ve spoken to Jamee.” She hung up. “At least I won’t starve,” she said aloud to herself. She looked up Jamee Fellows’s number and called her.
“Yeah?”
“Jamee, it’s Gloria Parsons.”
“Make it fast, kid, I’m working.”
“We’re completely redoing Just Folks as a very upmarket style publication, very posh indeed, and I want you to be my first subject—a glowing piece on your home and studio, using your own photographs. It will get great publicity—Faith Mackey is handling that.”
“I’m impressed,” Jamee said. “Okay, what do you need?”
“I need to record an interview with you to get some quotes and descriptions. First, e-mail me some photos that I can ask about.”
“Okay.”
“One other thing—I’m working under the name of Laurentia Scott-Peebles, an English writer. Call me Scotty.”
“Explain that to me when I have more time.”
“Okay, let’s get rolling.”
Jamee hung up.
Gloria called Hazel. “Okay, Jamee is on, she’s sending me photos, then I’ll interview her and write the piece.”
—
As Hazel hung up, Al Finch walked into the office. “Okay, let’s get started,” he said.
“I’ve already got our art director redesigning the magazine. We’ll have the first proofs this afternoon, and I’ve assigned the first cover story—it’s the photographer Jamee Fellows.”
“Wow,” Al said. “That’s fast work, kid. Who’s writing it?”
“A woman named Laurentia Scott-Peebles, everybody calls her Scotty. We’ll be using Jamee’s own photographs. I’ll have a first draft and pictures the day after tomorrow.”
“I want to meet her,” Al said.
“Not possible—she’s reclusive, nobody even knows where she lives. She’ll do the interviewing on the phone.”
“Who the hell is she?”
“A very fine writer who’s been teaching at Harvard and Oxford most of her life. I met her crossing on the Queen Mary 2 last year, and we got on. I couldn’t use her until now, she would never have worked for the old magazine.”
“I can’t wait to see her piece,” Al said.
A young man knocked on Hazel’s door.
“Hello, Art,” Hazel said. “Al, this is Art, our art director. Al Finch, our publisher.”
“That name will be easy to remember,” Al said.
“I’ve got some proofs for you,” Art said, spreading the printouts on her desk.
“I like these,” Hazel said.
“So do I,” Al echoed. “I particularly like the title typeface. Approved.”
“Go, Art,” Hazel said, and he took his proofs and vanished.
“That was easy,” Al said.
“Art is the best.”
“Okay, let’s talk about the rest of the magazine.”
Hazel picked up some notes. “All right, we’ll have a monthly feature on a gallery, along with the pictures they have in stock. They’ll be lining up to get in. I want to hire a wine columnist and a food columnist. We’ll do a sports feature, ones our readers play—tennis, golf, shooting, riding, et cetera. I know a woman who will be very good to edit and write those pieces.”
“Hire her quick.”
“Will do. We’ll also do a series on giving dinner p
arties, everything from recipes to place settings, wines, and background music.”
“Good,” Al said. “I’ve got Faith Mackey coming here in an hour. I expect she’ll have some ideas, too. She wants us to do a big party at a top restaurant to introduce the new magazine. We’ll say we’ve been working on the redesign for months.”
“I like that,” Hazel said. Al went to take over the conference room, and Hazel put her head on her desk and wept with relief. She had saved her job.
30
Danny Blaine got the job at W, and he was thrilled. The pay was enough, the people were nice, and he got to choose who he slept with. He took Gloria Parsons to lunch on his first payday, and partially repaid her loan.
“You look happy,” she said, as they sat down.
“What’s not to be happy about?” he said. “I’m a free man, and there’s not even a parole officer to check in with. I still can’t believe it.”
“You know what the first thing is you don’t do?” she asked.
“What’s that?”
“You don’t go back to prison. Choose your friends better.”
“I’m on board with that,” he replied. They both ordered pasta. “You don’t look quite as happy as I do,” he said, scrutinizing her face. “What’s up?”
“Well, I lost my job . . .” She held up a hand. “Not to worry, I got another one that may end up paying even better. I have to write under another name, though.”
“What other name?”
“Laurentia Scott-Peebles.”
“Sounds teddibly British.”
“It is,” she replied. “You can call me Scotty.”
She explained the debacle of the Stone Barrington piece, and the consequences.
“You mean you were working for him the whole time and didn’t know it?”
“He didn’t know it. He’s a partner in an investment firm, and the firm bought a bunch of companies, and one of them was Just Folks.”
“So he fired you.”
“One of his partners did, and he changed the whole magazine, too. Now it’s upscale and stylish, instead of tabloid semi-trash.”