by Jay Giles
“Did you get to the part about the money?”
Miles looked up from the article, met her gaze. “Oh yeah, big bucks.”
She handed him a business card:
Joanne Perlman
VicePresident,NewBusinessDevelopment
Belgravia & St. James Advertising
1011 Madison Ave.
New York, New York 10019
She leaned forward, her voice low, confidential. “Do you have any idea what winning that business could mean? For my agency? For me, personally? Even if I only got us in the review and we didn’t win the business, it would be huge for my career. If we did win, I’d be set for life. So here’s the deal.” She paused, took a breath, blew out. “I’ll buy the most expensive car on the lot if you get me an hour’s meeting with Jens Beck.”
Miles placed her business card next to the check. “As much as I’d love to sell you a car, I don’t have any connections with Jens Beck or Mercedes marketing. I wouldn’t know how-”
She pulled another sheet of paper from her briefcase. On it were Beck’s name, the name of The Gulf Beach Tennis Resort, and a phone number.
“Beck’s here in Sarasota,” she told him. “That’s why I came to this dealership. He’s playing in a celebrity tennis match to raise money for some charity he’s interested in. He won’t take a call from me, but I’m betting he might from someone at Mercedes Benz.” She tapped a long, red nail on top of the check. “Especially if you tell him that’s the only way I’ll buy the car.”
CHAPTER 2
Miles sat back in his chair, looked at her, looked at the check. He wanted to believe what she was telling him. The article she’d shown him about Mercedes reviewing agencies gave it a ring of truth. Miles knew her check was authentic; he’d handled enough certified checks to know the real thing. On the other hand, who bought a car just to get an audience with someone? Who dropped that kind of money unless there were problems? And what if those problems were unsavory? Would he become an accessory to some kind of scam?
He looked at all those zeros on the check, netted out on taking the risk. The potential commission made it worth it to him. That decided, he knew it really wasn’t his decision to make. Larry Jarsman, the owner of the dealership, would have to make the call. Miles smiled, gathered up the check and business card, stood. “Give me just a moment.”
She smiled condescendingly. “Of course.”
Miles walked quickly to Jarsman’s corner office, saw Jarsman had one of the service managers with him, interrupted. “Sorry Luis. This is urgent. Got to talk to Larry.”
Luis Sanchez, older than Miles, with more seniority in the organization, didn’t appreciate being interrupted. He stiffened, gave Miles a withering look, started to protest.
Jarsman, a big, beefy man with thinning black hair and an acne-pocked face, held up a hand that could easily palm a basketball. “We’ll finish this later, Luis,” he said in a tinny voice that sounded odd coming from such a big a body. “What’s going on, Miles?”
Luis stomped out of the office, and Miles let it all pour out as he paced hurriedly back and forth in front of Jarsman’s desk. Jarsman listened without interruption, nodding, jowls bouncing.
Miles reached the end of the story, stopped in his tracks. “How do you want to handle this?”
Jarsman held out his hand, wiggled his fingers. “Let me see the check.”
Miles handed it to him.
He studied it intently before his face erupted in a smile. “Did she say anything about what car she wanted?”
“No,” Miles said with a shake of the head. “She just—”
Jarsman was grinning now, pleased with himself. “We could sell her that red 600CL Dr. Schwartz stiffed us on.” He swung his chair around to face his computer, called up the dealership’s inventory screen.
“The car’s not the issue,” Miles protested. “The question is whether this woman’s on the level? Is she trying to pull something? I don’t want me...us...to get—”
“Here it is.” Jarsman pointed at the screen. “36679AT3445. Red with the white leather interior. Yuck. Not a good combination on that car. Sticker’s $137,350. We’ve been carrying that car, let’s see, eight months now.”
“What if—”
Jarsman held up the check, waved it in the air. “Listen to me, Miles. Take her money. I want to unload that butt ugly car.” He rose from his desk chair, walked over to Miles, put his arm in fatherly fashion around Miles’ shoulder. “If that marketing bozo doesn’t take your call, come back and see me. I’ll raise hell. Those guys at corporate damn well better be responsive to us dealers.” He walked Miles to the doorway, handed him the check, gave him what could be interpreted as a pat on the back or a push out the door.
Miles left Jarsman’s office disappointed. He’d been looking for some guidance on the correct thing to do. What he’d gotten was an ultimatum to unload a lemon. Jarsman hadn’t been thinking about the dealership’s overall best interests in this matter, just the next quarter bottom line.
Miffed, he nonetheless forced a smile as he returned to his office. “I’ve just spoken with Mr. Jarsman, the owner,” he explained quickly. “He’s authorized me to call Mr. Beck and also selected a car for you. It’s a—"
She stood. “Good. When you reach Beck and schedule something, call me. I’ll be at the Ritz Carlton.” She turned, started to walk away.
“I was going to try him now. Don’t you want to be here while I call?”
“Not particularly,” she said over her shoulder.
Miles held up her check. “Wait, don’t you want your check?”
She stopped, turned to look at him. “No. Keep it in front of you for motivation.” She smiled, turned on her heel, went out the door.
CHAPTER 3
It was little more than a twenty-minute drive to the Ritz Carlton. Joanne Perlman drove it effortlessly, comparing what she’d anticipated happening at the Mercedes dealership with what had taken place. She’d been worried they wouldn’t go along with it. Afraid they’d dismiss her, saying they sold plenty of cars and didn’t need or want to make her phone call. But they hadn’t. She’d had them from the moment she’d placed the check on the desk. After that, it had all fallen into place. The article. The business card. Beck’s local address and phone number. She smiled. She’d manipulated that salesman, Marin, rather well. She’d expected Mercedes salespeople to be snooty--more distinguished, more sophisticated, more, well, European. This Miles fellow was young, eager. He’d happily make however many phone calls it took to reach Beck, say whatever he needed to say to book the appointment. He was probably already calling, his eyes on that check, knowing exactly how much was going to come his way as commission.
She turned into the driveway leading to Ritz Carlton. She’d probably hear from him tonight. If she didn’t hear from him by 1:00 tomorrow afternoon, she’d call him.
She pulled the Ford to the curb in front of the Ritz Carlton’s main entrance. A uniformed doorman opened her door and greeted her. She forgot all about Mercedes and Marin. Joanne Perlman loved hotels and was ready to let the Ritz Carlton pamper her.
At the front desk, she gave them her name.
“Yes, Ms. Perlman,” said the staffer whose name tag identified her as Diane, “your suite is ready. The champagne you specified is chilled and waiting for you.” She looked up from the reservations computer, smiled, “If I could just get an imprint of your credit card.”
Joanne Perlman reached into her bag, took out her wallet, slipped out a Gold American Express Card. She started to hand it to Diane, then appeared to change her mind. “I wonder,” Perlman asked, “would you mind taking cash? I have all this per diem from my company and I’m uncomfortable carrying it around with me.”
“Be glad to,” Diane said.
Perlman took a sheaf of bills--all hundreds--from her wallet, counted out a thousand dollars while Diane watched, pushed the stack over to her. “Will that do?”
“Certainly. I’ll write you a re
ceipt.” In a moment, she placed receipt and room key on the counter between them.
Perlman took the key, put the receipt in her purse. “One more thing. Where are your workout facilities located?”
Diane gave her directions to the gym then directions to the bank of elevators that would whisk her to her room.
Perlman took the elevator up, found the door open, the bellman just placing her bags on the bed. She handed him a twenty. He was still smiling as he exited.
She glanced around the room. Spacious. Sophisticated. This was what she deserved. She walked over to the window, opened the sheers, admired the view of the Gulf of Mexico. On sun-lit turquoise water, yachts bobbed like so many toys in her own private bathtub. Farther out, she could see the barrier islands. She stood at the window a long time, letting the sun stream in on her. Maybe when this was over and she had money she’d return here to live. She knew they had condos for sale: she’d seen signs promoting The Residences at Ritz Carlton. Each of those condos probably had views like this, possibly better. Soon, she promised herself.
Perlman took her cell phone from her purse, entered a number from memory, lifted the phone to her ear.
“How did it go?” It was a man’s voice. In the background, she heard a sound--a soft Ping.
“Surprisingly well, actually. The person I dealt with didn’t question the premise, he seemed to take everything at face value.”
“He didn’t want to Ping call the agency, verify you were who you claimed to be?”
“No. His only concern seemed to be where he could reach Beck. Ping I gave him the Gulf Beach telephone number, and that seemed to calm any fears he had.”
“Good. In your estimation does this guy have the balls Ping to get through?”
“He’s a guy in his middle thirties, dead ringer for that actor, John Cusack. Ping He was probably on the phone calling Beck before I left the dealership. He looked hungry. Ping So yeah, I think he’ll get through. I left him the check, told him to call me here as soon as he had.”
“Good. Ping Call me when hear from him.” The line went dead.
She put the phone back in her purse, walked over to her suitcases on the bed, began unpacking. When her clothes were hung up and the suitcases stowed in the closet, she changed into her workout clothes, took a small towel from the bathroom, and headed for the gym.
She knew she’d feel better after she worked out. Her body felt stiff from the airplane flights. Worse, she was sure her absence from the gym showed. Her body wasn’t as sleek and taut as she would have liked. When she had been modeling and working out regularly, her optimum weight had been 120 pounds. She’d see what the Ritz Carlton’s scale told her.
She rode the elevator down to the correct floor, a sign directed her the rest of the way. She found she had the gym to virtually to herself, only two other men. Both tried to talk to her. Both were rebuffed. Neither was actually hitting on her, but she wanted to make sure things didn’t escalate. She used the Precor machine for an hour, lifted weights for forty minutes more. Only after she was finished did she step on the scale—129 lbs. Still a ways to go.
She returned to her room, ran a hot bath, stripped off her workout clothes, popped the cork on the champagne. She sipped as she soaked. Looked over the room service menu. This was the life.
CHAPTER 4
Jens Beck was in the shower. Although he’d won his match and returned to his suite elated, the afternoon heat had sapped his energy. He let the brisk massage of cold water revive him.
At 67, Beck knew his skills as a tennis player were diminishing. He no longer had the big, booming serve of his youth. What remained was a finesse game. Still, when he was on, as he was today, he could dink and dunk any opponent into submission.
Tomorrow’s match concerned him. His opponent was young and agile, quicker to the net than the fellow he’d defeated today. Beck’s concentration would have to be flawless, his shots placed with pinpoint accuracy. He visualized the match, visualized himself winning. Once he won tomorrow, the large silver trophy would be his.
Trophies were important to Beck, in tennis and in everything else. They served as tangible proof he was still young and virile. Beck refused to surrender to aging even if he had to compromise. He knew he could no longer play semi-pro soccer, race automobiles, or dabble in rugby and ski jumping, as he had in his youth, but he rationalized his concentration on tennis and golf as more sophisticated sports, more befitting his station. Tennis and golf were no more or less enjoyable to him than car racing or rugby. What mattered was winning. The charity this tournament supported had been of no interest to him. Beck was playing in this particular tournament strictly because he thought he could win. Each year, he sought out four or five such events and pursued each vigorously.
He loved having a new trophy in his office. Loved the intimidation factor it provided. Guests would glance at it surreptitiously, aware Beck was a man of strength, talent, and, as evidenced by the trophy, accomplishment.
Beck sighed, turned off the water, opened the shower door, reached for his towel. He knew he had an hour’s worth of work to do before he could escape to cocktails and dinner. He dressed in khaki shorts and a dark-blue polo shirt, walked to the living room to meet with his assistant.
Beck wasn’t surprised to find Gerhardt on the phone, jotting notes on a pad, capturing a steady stream of communications from Stuttgart and New York.
Gerhardt saw him, smiled, mouthed the name, Conrad.
Beck nodded. Conrad Wendel, a Daimler finance director, handled most of the planning and budgeting for marketing expenditures. Beck, whose relationships with most of the people in finance were strained, liked Wendel. He was one of the few who understood marketing had to spend money for the company to make money.
Gerhardt sat ramrod straight. He was a pale, thin, nervous man, given to being overly formal. Beck knew that throughout the day he had prioritized the matters that required Beck’s attention. Gerhardt finished his call, looked to make sure Beck was ready, and began his report.
They worked for well over an hour on a variety of issues from media expenditures to creative briefs. Beck made three long-distance calls to Stuttgart and took one during that time. The last item Gerhardt brought up was the four phone calls to Beck from Miles Marin at the local Mercedes dealership. “Normally, I would not even mention something like this to you,” Gerhardt explained, “but when I spoke with Mr. Marin, he impressed on me that this woman from Belgravia & St. James had gone to great lengths to see you, which prompted a thought.”
Beck smiled. Gerhardt seldom offered a suggestion, unless he had something particularly tasty. “Yes.”
“Do you remember Kurt Kampe asked you to see about finding his daughter, Laura, a position with an advertising agency in New York?”
Beck nodded. He remembered. Barely. Which wasn’t good.
Kampe was a high-ranking director at Daimler AG, very influential.
“If Perlman’s firm were to hire Laura, it would be a good thing.
Yes?”
Beck nodded. “I could strike a deal. Let the agency into the review—no promises beyond that. In return, they agree to hire Laura.”
“Precisely.”
Beck considered it. Kampe was the kind of man who would remember a favor and who would remember a slight even longer.
“This woman from Belgravia & St. James? What does she want?”
“An hour of your time,” Gerhardt said, smiling for the first time.
“You’ll have to be on your guard, this woman is clever. Listen to what she did to get this Mercedes salesman to call for her.”
As Gerhardt related the story, Beck couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Can you fit her in?”
Gerhardt pulled out the planner in which he kept Beck’s master schedule. “The best time would be tomorrow for a late lunch, say 1:30. Or you could squeeze her in before your match at 9:00—”
“No. Not before the match. Anything else?”
Gerhardt ran
his finger down the page. “Eight tomorrow evening. You could meet with her at the airport.”
Beck made a face. He couldn’t escape in the airport. At lunch, if this woman grew tiresome, he could claim another appointment and leave. “Lunch.” He decided.
“Here?”
Beck nodded. “Talk to the chef. Have him put together something I’ll like and a good wine.”
Gerhardt nervously added to his to-do list.
“Call and confirm the appointment with this woman and arrange a call with Kampe for tomorrow afternoon.”
Gerhardt scribbled hurriedly. Finished, Beck went to the kitchen and poured himself a bottle of mineral water. Gerhardt began returning phone calls, his eighth call was to Miles Marin.
CHAPTER 5
As soon as Miles finished talking with Gerhardt, he dialed the Ritz Carlton and asked for Ms. Perlman’s room.
Three rings later, she was on the line. “Hello,” she said languidly.
“Ms. Perlman, it’s Miles Marin from Mercedes. I’ve just talked with Mr. Beck’s assistant. Mr. Beck has agreed to meet with you tomorrow. He suggested The Gulf Beach restaurant at 1:30 for lunch. Will that work for you?”
“I’ll make it work. Tell me about this restaurant. Big? Small? Crowded? Have to walk a mile from your car? I’m trying to figure out how to tailor my presentation.”
“Hard to say. At 1:30, I would think the place wouldn’t be that crowded. Parking is anybody’s guess. I know there’s parking close to the restaurant, whether one of those spots will be open, I couldn’t say.”
“You mentioned Mr. Beck’s assistant. Will he be joining us for lunch?”
“I doubt it. I seems as if Gerhardt just handles his arrangements.” Miles shifted to the other topic he needed to discuss with her. “Ms. Perlman, what time would you like to pick up your car?”
