by Jay Giles
There was a long pause before she said, “I’ll be there at 10:30.”
“Fine. I’ll have everything ready. See you in the morning.” Miles put down the phone, and strolled down to Larry Jarsman’s office to tell him the good news.
CHAPTER 6
Miles was again watching at the window as Joanne Perlman arrived, this time in a taxi. At the door, she surprised him with a hug. “You did it. This is wonderful.”
“Glad to be of service,” Miles told her as he pulled away. “Your new car is over here.” He led her to the red 600CL, now on the showroom floor. “This is it.” He opened the driver’s door for her.
She slid in. Put her hands on the steering wheel. Glanced quickly around the interior.
Miles spent the next hour telling her about the car—everything from how to adjust the climate control to what octane gas to use for best mileage. She listened attentively, asked questions occasionally. As Miles demonstrated how the car ‘remembered’ different seat positions, she had him program in the one she found most comfortable. She also had him activate TeleAid.
“I’ll feel better knowing it’s working for the drive back to New York,” she said.
“It’s a great feature,” Miles explained as he initiated the communications link to Mercedes. “If you have a problem, all you have to do is press this button. Immediately, it puts you in touch with a specialist in the call center and uses GPS tracking to pinpoint your location for the nearest Mercedes service vehicle.”
“I’m not much of a long-distance driver. Heaven forbid anything should happen. It’s good to know TeleAid can find me and send help.”
Perlman didn’t strike Miles as the helpless type. Granted, New Yorkers often didn’t have or need cars and weren’t drivers. But her body English told him she was comfortable with an automobile. Her concern that something might happen on her drive back to New York struck him as odd. A buyer of new Mercedes generally expected it to operate flawlessly. The joke was: if a problem developed, the call wasn’t to TeleAid, it was to a lawyer.
Miles popped the hood. “There are a—”“I didn’t realize this would take so long,” Perlman said, stepping out of the car. “I have to be going. Let me sign the check over to you.”
Miles reluctantly lowered the hood. “I’m hitting you with a ton of information, I know, but we want you to be comfortable with all the features of your new automobile.” He looked around the showroom. “Let me have someone drive the car outside for you while we go to finance.”
Erin, in finance, was ready for them. She stepped Perlman through all the papers that needed signing—from certificate of title to odometer certification—dividing the signed documents into two tidy piles. One that went with Perlman, one that stayed with the dealership. The last item she had Perlman sign was the cashier’s check. Erin placed that with the dealership’s documents, used a settlement sheet to show all the figures, presented Perlman with a check for the difference.
The paperwork complete, Miles walked Perlman outside, again opened the door for her. “It’s a beautiful car. I know you’re going to enjoy it.”
She slid behind the wheel, gave Miles determined look. “I’m going to enjoy where this car takes me.”
CHAPTER 7
As she entered the Gulf Beach restaurant, Perlman smiled. She knew everyone was watching her, the women searching for faults, the men undressing her with their eyes. Commanding attention was something Perlman had learned as a runway model. People looked at you if you had a wonderful body, but people had a hard time looking away if you knew how to use that body--how to stand, how to strut, how to provoke, how to seduce.
Dressed in a light-weight white silk blouse and black pencil skirt that showed off her long, shapely legs, Perlman put a hand on her hip, struck an attitude. She fiddled with the two gold chains she wore around her neck, scanned the room.
At a table by the window, Beck rose from his seat, grinning. She recognized him from the picture she’d seen of him in the advertising magazine. He held up his wine glass in a little salute. Her smile broadened. She gracefully made her way toward him through the jumble of restaurant tables, sizing him up as she walked.
He looked older than his picture. His face more lined, hair more sparse, thin frame more stooped. Age hadn’t diminished his vitality, however. He radiated energy.
“Ms. Perlman,” he said, extending his hand. “A pleasure to meet you.” They exchanged a brief handshake, more a touch really.
“Please have a seat.”
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” she said as she took her seat. “I know how busy your schedule must be.”
“I have to say you intrigued me.” He held up the wine bottle.
She nodded. He filled her glass. “Your gambit was ingenious. So much better than the usual agency new business mailer, filled with facts and figures for which I have no use. No one else has ever bought a car to see me.”
She raised her glass. “Oh, that’s just the start of what we can do for each other.”
The boldness of her statement surprised him. He recovered quickly, clinked glasses with her. “I like your attitude. You play to win. It’s the only way.”
She leaned forward, rested her arms on the table. “Good. Then you understand I’m not about to take no for an answer. I’m going to do whatever it takes to win this business.”
Beck smiled, raised his hand, signaled to the waiter. “I’ve taken the liberty of asking the chef to prepare something special.”
The young Pakistani man with gelled black hair and a neatly trimmed goatee, wearing a tux arrived at their table with a flourish.
“The wine is good, sir?”
“Quite good, Sanjay,” Beck said. He raised his hand, acknowledged his guest.
“Share with Ms. Perlman what the chef’s preparing.”
“Certainly, sir.” He gave them his most dazzling smile. “To start, Chef is creating a salad of field greens with feta cheese, roasted pecans, and tropical fruit served with raspberry vinaigrette dressing.
This to be followed by Grouper and white asparagus prepared in a wine sauce. For des—"
Beck held up a hand. “I hope you’ll join me in a celebratory indulgence,” he said to Perlman, his smile broadening. “Green tea cheesecake.”
Perlman didn’t want dessert. It would cost her an extra hour on the treadmill. Nonetheless, her smile didn’t falter. “Sounds delicious.”
Beck seemed pleased with himself. “Good.” His gaze shifted to the waiter. “We’ll have our salads now, Sanjay.”
“Very good, sir,” he murmured in parting.
Perlman held up her wine glass. “I understand congratulations are in order.”
“I was fortunate to have a good match this morning,” Beck said modestly, lifting his glass, as well. “Do you play?”
“Yes. But not at your level.”
“Do you have a coach? A mentor?”
“I’m afraid not,” she said as their salads arrived.
“See. There is your problem. A good mentor and you could play competitively.”
“I doubt it. I put all my energy into my work. That’s where I have to be competitive.”
Beck finished a bite of salad, blotted his lips with his napkin.
“Belgravia and St. James is fortunate to have someone with your dedication and style. I know a few people at the agency--Alan Clarke.”
“Wonderful man. Unfortunately, his wife Sharon has been diagnosed with cancer. Alan’s taken it hard. Such a shame.”
“Sorry to hear that. I’ll have to drop him a note. Do you know Stan Mentes?”
“Oh, yes. I work with Stan, incorporating account planning into our new business presentations.”
“What about Mary Lynn Dryer?”
“Mary Lynn’s a dear. She was one of the people who brought me into the company—”“Where were you before?”
Perlman smiled, put down her salad fork, met his gaze. “Why Mr. Beck, I believe you’re testing me—”
“Thank you, Jens. Please call me Joanne. It’s really not important where I’ve been. I’m here now. What we should be discussing is our future together.”
Beck pushed his salad plate to the side of the table. A member of the wait staff immediately removed it. “Our future. Isn’t that a bit presumptuous?”
“I hope not.” Perlman finished her wine. Beck poured more.
“Well,” he said, “there is something you could do for me that would insure your agency a place in the review.” He paused while the waiter brought the fish, removed her salad plate, refilled the water glasses. “I have a friend’s daughter who is interested in advertising. If you could find a spot in account service for her, I could include you in the review.” He stopped, cut a bite of fish, waited for her reaction.
“Did you have a salary figure in mind?”
“Fifty-five, sixty, thereabouts. The young lady I mention, Laura Kampe, is the daughter of a Daimler AG director. For that reason alone, she would be an attractive hire.”
“We’ll start her at sixty-five,” Perlman said cutting a bite of asparagus. “The offer letter will go out as soon as we receive an RFP from you.”
Beck nodded. “I’m returning to Stuttgart tomorrow, the letter confirming your inclusion in the review will go out to you then.” He smiled. “So much for business. Tell me about yourself, Joanna; all I know is that you dabble at tennis. Do you live in Manhattan, like to travel?”
She spoon fed him bits of personal information while they finished their fish.
Over cheesecake and coffee, she switched the conversation back to business. “You are kind to agree to include us in your review. Wouldn’t you like to see some of our work?”
Beck sipped his coffee. “I am somewhat familiar with Belgravia & St. James’s creative work.” He pretended to look around the table. “Since I don’t see a portfolio, that will have to do.”
“I have some things I’d like to show you that could be the start of a long-term relationship. They’re in my room at the Ritz Carlton.”
Her boldness didn’t surprise him this time; it drew a smile. “It might be good to see what you have.”
“You’re sure? We’re almost at the end of our hour, and I don’t want to have to rush.”
“I can make the time.” Beck raised his hand for the waiter, hovering nearby. “Sanjay, add this to my bill and add a handsome gratuity for yourself.” He stood, took Perlman’s hand to help her up. “Perhaps, we can drive in your wonderful new Mercedes.”
CHAPTER 8
As they walked to her car from the restaurant, Beck contemplated his good fortune. He’d won the tournament this morning and was on his way to this beautiful woman’s hotel room for an afternoon of sex.
The anticipation of it, along with a mild wine buzz, had him giddy. It had been a while since Beck had been with a woman. It had been even longer since he’d been with one who had Joanna Perlman’s looks and body. He pictured her slowly peeling off her clothes, her firm, flawless body beneath. He imagined her lovemaking would be aggressive, perhaps, even kinky. He could almost feel her lips on his, the brush of her nipples against his skin, the touch of her hands holding him, stroking him. His face flushed, his heart beat faster.
She handed him the keys when they reached the car. He opened her car door, closed it once she was settled. When he took his seat behind the wheel, she had her cell phone to her ear. “Room service,” she said. “This is Ms. Perlman in room 1124. I’d like to have two bottles of Krug’s Clos du Mesnil taken to my room within ten minutes.” She paused, listening. “That’s acceptable.” She lowered the phone from her ear, turned it off, looked over at him. “I should have asked if you like champagne.”
Beck looked left and right on Gulf of Mexico Drive, let a car go by, pulled out of the Gulf Beach drive, before answering. “Love it. Thank you for ordering.” He let the car accelerate to the speed limit of forty-five, held it there.
She watched him adjust the mirrors, turn up the air conditioning. “You seem comfortable in this car. Is this the model you drive?”
“Actually, I drive a Maybach,” he told her, glad to have something to talk about to fill the time to the hotel. “Prior to the Maybach, I drove a Mercedes SL55 AMG—the one with the supercharged 5.5-liter 24-valve V8 engine. A wonderful driving machine.” He glanced over at her. “Did you select this for yourself?”
Her eyes became hooded, her lips contemptuous. “I would never have picked a red car with a white interior.”
“A little garish, I must agree.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m sure the agency will sell it after I drive it back to New York.”
Beck nodded as he slowed the car, navigated around St. Armand’s Circle. The Circle, with its upscale shops, reminded him of the boutiques in Florence, Italy.
Pedestrians milled about the stores, occasionally darting across the street, provoking a cacophony of horns. Beck gave them plenty of room. He didn’t need a mishap to ruin his afternoon.
Past the Circle, Beck turned onto Ringling Causeway. The Causeway would take him directly to the Ritz Carlton. Five minutes later, as they turned into the Hotel’s driveway, Perlman pointed to a parking garage entrance to her right. “Why don’t you park in there. It’s less public than going through the lobby.”
Beck nodded and turned into the garage.
Perlman continued to direct him, indicating an aisle of cars to her left. “Go this way. At the far end, there’s an elevator.”
Beck followed her instructions, saw the elevator and saw a close parking space, nosed the car in, turned off the engine. He exited the car, opened Perlman’s door for her. She took his arm as they walked to the elevator. Again, he began to feel exited.
As they walked, Beck noticed man in a green Hawaiian shirt holding a brown paper grocery bag waiting by the elevator. Perlman guided Beck closer to the elevator, in front of the man. He thought that a little rude. He also thought it odd that the elevator button wasn’t lit.
Beck’s thoughts were interrupted by a sharp sting at the back of his neck. Before he could turn to confront the cause, his vision became blurry, his knees weak. He was unconscious before he sagged to the floor.
CHAPTER 9
Gerhardt expected Beck to return from his lunch precisely at 2:30. The woman had asked for an hour and, knowing Beck, that’s all she would be given. Gerhardt was so sure this would be the case, he had scheduled a conference call with one of the Mercedes Truck Group agencies for 3:00.
Gerhardt looked at his watch. At the front door. At Beck’s schedule for the afternoon. At his watch—2:31. At the front door. Still unopened. He stood, paced from the kitchenette to the door and back. At 2:35, he not only paced to the front door, he opened it, headed for the restaurant. Beck, no doubt, had been held up at luncheon. Gerhardt would extract him from this awkward situation, get him back on schedule. In the restaurant, however, he saw only a table of three women. Beck was not there.
The maitre d’, menus tucked under his arm, approached him. “Table, sir?”
“No,” Gerhardt said with a shake of his head. “I am looking for my associate, Mr. Beck. He dined here earlier, yes?”
“With a lady, I believe. You missed them, though.” He looked at his watch. “They left, oh, ten minutes ago.”
“Thank you.” Gerhardt tried to reconcile what he’d heard with the behavior he’d expected. He couldn’t. “This lady? She was attractive, yes?”
“Extremely.”
“And they left together. Not just at the same time. Correct?”
“That’s what it looked like.”
“Again, thank you.” Gerhardt turned, walked out of the restaurant, fuming. Beck had obviously gone somewhere with this woman. Gerhardt didn’t mind the dalliance. What he minded was not being informed. The entire afternoon schedule would have to be rearranged. He had no idea when Beck would return. His brow furrowed.
Ger
hardt went to his room, splashed water on his face. Looking at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror, he tried to calm himself by concentrating on what he could control. It took him ten minutes of intense thought, but when he returned to Beck’s suite, he was his usual stoic self. He cancelled everything for the afternoon, saying only that Beck, unused to the hot, humid Florida summer weather, was suffering from heat fatigue. Calls finished, Gerhardt picked up Rethinking Military History by Jeremy Black, a book he had begun on the flight over and lost himself in the details of battle strategy.
At 7:35, Gerhardt looked up from his book. He was beginning to get hungry. Had Beck been there, the two of them would have gone to dinner together.
Tonight, his book would have to keep him company.
He ate at the Gulf Beach restaurant, returned to his room, watched the news, and began to pack. Their flight to New York left at 11:00 the following morning. As he painstakingly folded his clothes, Gerhardt theorized Beck would spend the night with the woman and return in time for the flight. He thought about packing Beck’s clothes for him, but decided against it. Let him pack his own clothes. He deserved that aggravation for what he’d put Gerhardt through.
The following morning at 9:00, Gerhardt—shaved, showered, dressed, breakfasted, packed, checked-out, and thoroughly annoyed—stood by their rental car, expecting Beck to arrive at the last second.
But as the minutes ticked past the agreed upon departure time, Gerhardt’s anger turned to worry. In all the years Gerhardt had been with Beck, they had never missed a flight.
Gerhardt watched as people drove up, got out of their cars, went to their rooms. He saw people in tennis garb walking to and from the courts. A waiter carrying a tray of room service food walked by.
At 9:30, frantic, Gerhardt could no longer contain himself. He went to the Gulf Beach registration desk, blurted to the young woman on duty that he absolutely had to speak with the hotel manager. The clerk on duty picked up the phone and in hushed tones Gerhardt couldn’t hear informed the manager she had a distraught guest at the desk. Distraught got the attention of the manager, Lou Childs. He was there in less than a minute, introducing himself, pumping Gerhardt’s hand. “How may I be of assistance?”
