Formerly Fingerman

by Joe Nelms

  “So we have nothing.”

  “We have up to the part where everything cuts out.”

  “Are you sure you can’t get in there and do some technical stuff to recover the file?”

  “Well, I can hit the Enhance button a few times. That should do it.”

  “Really?”

  “No, that was a thing in Blade Runner. It hasn’t been invented yet.”

  Fucking tech guys. Always with the snark. They sit in their little tech rooms doing tech stuff that no one else understands and make their tech jokes.

  Of all the smarmy tech guys, Jarvis was Brittany’s best bet of recovering her sting audio and video surveillance. The guy lived to show off his mad skills. But even Jarvis couldn’t get the 1s and 0s of her hard drive back in order.

  Not that Brittany really cared. She had Brad. Brad was her guy. She would ride him all the way to Moneybag Street in the heart of Emmy-AwardLand. It was just that somewhere in the back of her mind, a shrill, relentless voice that sounded a lot like her grandmother was telling her to play it safe. And to at least try speed dating.

  She was definitely too career oriented to have a boyfriend right now, but having that video in her back pocket probably was the smart thing. Why not play it safe? Why not push Jarvis to his nerdy limits?

  “That’s okay. I’ll ask Eidelsberg if he can take a look.”

  Jarvis bristled like Simon Cowell at a Hooters sing-along.

  “Come back in two hours.”

  “Aww, Jarvis. You’re the best.”

  Brad Pitt’s New Job

  In-house agencies are the bastard children of the advertising world. They have the unenviable task of working exclusively on products their parent company produces. There is no hope of winning new accounts unless the guys in R&D come up with something really socko. The crew in the in-house agency just keeps cranking out work for the same stuff year after year. The excitement of the job tends to be frontloaded into the process of landing employment. And the agency name.

  In-house agencies will predictably have those sad and overcompensating names that try a little too hard to be clever, intense, or invoke some sort of energy. Concept Factory! Turbo! Fifth Gear! Think of the dopey third-act plot twist of a straight-to-DVD Scott Baio movie. Same idea.

  Ask any self-important ad guy (like Brad) and he’ll tell you that working in an in-house agency means you’re either on your way up and only stopping by for a short period of time before your résumé officially begins or you’re on your way down and this is the last stop on a LinkedIn profile that will never be updated again. Or you suck.

  More than likely you suck too much to get a job at a hip agency that doesn’t answer directly to the vice president of creative services. So instead, you try to scratch your artistic itch by creating brochures for internal distribution, stilted videos on sexual harassment policies, or the in-store product displays derived from the stylebook of the real agency that produced the ads currently running during your favorite show.

  On the upside, in-house agencies tend to be fairly low-pressure affairs. They’re generally staffed with people who have used hope to fill the massive void left by lack of talent. So they’re super upbeat. Who knows? Maybe today’s the day we do something great! Come on, gang! Let’s put on a show! But usually, it’s the brochure stuff and maybe some trade-show banners for the boys on fifteen. Plus cake. It’s always someone’s birthday.

  Certainly, there are worse places to work. Your daily duties do not include shoveling animal byproducts, scaling high buildings, or breathing toxic chemicals. But for a former real agency ad guy, they might as well.

  “So what do I do when someone asks me about my past?”

  “Lie.”

  Gee, never tried that before.

  “Lie about everything?”

  “No. Just the important stuff. Like cities and real names. Change everything just slightly. The closer you stay to the truth the easier it is to remember.”

  “Seems like a lot of work.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “Can’t I just be vague?”

  “You can try.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Good luck.”

  Stump let the Hyundai glide into a parking space. They could have been in any metropolitan office park in America. The only thing distinguishing the building they were sitting in front of from the two flanking it was the triumphant signage proclaiming it the home of Assure Worldwide. A family-friendly company.

  “Assure? This is an ad agency?”

  Brad knew the answer before he even finished asking the question, but suffered with quiet dignity Stump’s explanation of what an in-house agency is.

  “Look, I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but I thought I was going to a real advertising agency.”

  “This is a real agency. They make advertising.”

  “I know, but I mean, with my experience and my portfolio, I really should be—”

  “You don’t have any experience. Brad Fingerman has experience. You’re not Brad Fingerman.”

  Stump was okay with the silence in which they sat for the next two minutes. Finally, Brad composed himself.

  “So what happens now?”

  “We’re going to meet a man named Alan Silver. He runs the creative department.”

  “You know him?”

  “Oh, sure. Alan and I used to work black ops in Indochina during the mid-nineties.”

  “Really?”

  “Or maybe I met him that time the cops busted in on a Chinatown massage parlor and we both ended up naked in a closet. Man, that was close, ifyouknowwhatImeanright?”

  “Umm . . .”

  “Or is it that I used to play bass for his Marvin Gaye tribute band, Grapevine.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I know him.”

  “Oh. Oh! Is he in the program, too?”

  Duh.

  “Can we trust him?”

  “I can trust him. I put him here.”

  Alan Silver grew up in that part of Los Angeles that most of us read about in Parade magazine or see on reality shows about spoiled sixteen-year-olds. Nannies, private schools, a Malibu address, They paid how much for that prom dress!?, that kind of thing.

  But a young, short-fused Alan Silver needed more out of life than his ever-rehabbing, former-model mother and power-broker-talent-agent father’s money could provide. Adventure. Danger. Excitement. Illicit bong hits and weekend rainbow parties just weren’t going to do it for him like they did for his buddies. His bar was higher.

  So he went out and found some new buddies. Guys who stole for fun. Guys with nicknames instead of business cards. Guys who could use a boy with a hot temper like Alan’s.

  Alan was sixteen the first time he got arrested. And the second. By the time he was twenty-one and failed out of several Ivy League schools, he was immersed full time in the fringes of the Los Angeles chapter of the Russian Mafia, running a book and dealing a little coke. Then the bookie business tanked and Alan spiraled into a raging alcoholic with immense debt who owed favors all over town to the wrong people. And that’s how he became a contract killer.

  Alan generally choked out his victims with his hands. It was easy to do and surgical gloves made it tough to trace. Not that the cops looked too hard. His victims were usually deadbeats and losers who no longer had the option of paying off their debts. Dirtbags no one would miss. And his employers were nice enough to clean up the mess afterward. All Alan had to do was the actual killing. It paid well, the hours were amazing and, as long as you could stomach that kind of thing (Alan just had to find something to get angry about), you would always get work. Unless you got caught.

  Alan got caught.

  Having been in the business for a few years, Alan knew quite a bit about what was going on. That, in combination with the fact that he really, really didn’t want to go to jail, made him an ideal candidate for the Witness Protection Program.

  His testimony resulted in the conviction
of a small group of Russians who were planning to grab a dignitary’s daughter out of a car wash a week after Alan was busted. And all he wanted out of the deal was for the cops to forget about the couple/three lowlifes he had put down. Alan was given a few anger management classes and, under Stump’s supervision, moved out to work as a creative director at Assure.

  Stump swept his eyes across the horizon out of habit as he ushered Brad into the Assure Worldwide lobby.

  “Don’t be a wiseass with this guy.”

  “He’s corporate? Uptight?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  Alan finally let go of Brad’s nearly numb hand only milliseconds before it fused to his own, and then smiled even broader.

  He was a tall, blond-haired, pale-skinned, barrel-chested, thirty-four-year-old man with maybe the world’s largest head resting on shoulders that slumped under its weight. Six four if he was an inch. He looked like a Viking with an MBA and had a subdued vigor about him, as if he really wanted to give you a big headbutt for a hello but had been pulled aside at some point and advised against that sort of behavior. Instead, he squeezed your hand to just short of hairline fractures and leaned in a little too far to smile right in your face when he met you. No way this guy was ever in a Marvin Gaye tribute band.

  Brad did not throw up in his mouth when he read the title on the business cards Alan had displayed on his desk, but he felt like, on principle, he should have. Creative director. Really? In Dockers? What bizarro world of insanity had Stump brought him to? This was the man who would be judging Brad’s work? A Nordic, pumpkin-headed cruise director? The man was wearing a cell phone on his belt! What kind of taste could he possibly have? Oh no, this did not look like a fit at all.

  “Welcome to Assure. I hear you’re a hell of a copywriter.”

  “Art director, actually.”

  “Ooh. Well, that is exciting. Hey, you know what? I think you’re going to like it here. We’ve got some real fun folks and we love doing great work.”

  There it was. The predictable optimism of the doomed. This is who Brad would be surrounded by as he spent his days selling . . . What was he selling anyway?

  “By the way, what does Assure make?”

  “Mostly adult diapers. So, how about I show—”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Adult diapers.”

  “You mean like for old people?”

  Alan’s face clouded a little through his smile. Stump’s eyes narrowed as he monitored the situation.

  “Well, Assure adult diapers are made specifically for individuals suffering with bladder control and incontinence issues regardless of age. Is that a problem?”

  “Oh, uh, no. Not at all.”

  Alan’s face exploded into a cloud-free, oversized smile.

  “Great! Welcome to Assure!”

  Assure Worldwide, Inc. was a company of around two thousand people who made and distributed a variety of products, most of which could be found at your local grocery store or pharmacy. And while their pre-moistened wipes, hand sanitizers, and lip balms sold well, their line of adult diapers was the company’s flagship product, and merited its own company-owned advertising agency.

  Alan showed Stump and Brad around the first floor, a plastic and nylon tundra of gray office space. Each office was as blah as the next, even factoring in the requisite kitsch supplied by the individual residents. Family pictures, reproductions of vintage ads, last year’s holiday party invite, various inside jokes that weren’t that funny even to those in the know. A dreary affair overall.

  As they made their way from office to office, Brad kept a sharp eye out for Hawaiian shirts—the air-raid alarm of apparel that proclaimed to all that are within earshot that the wearer of said shirt is this close to showing you his latest sunset watercolor painting, explaining the technique behind her new papier-mâché celebrity bust, or playing you that high-larious parody song he’s been tinkering around with. Brad assumed the place would be lousy with them, but thankfully, didn’t see a one. He did meet everyone in the place, though. And they couldn’t have been nicer. How was this an advertising agency without snide looks and bitchy comments? It was unsettling to say the least.

  The creative department was populated by thirty-eight people. Whenever they stopped by a new office to introduce the new future employee of the month, everyone stopped what they were doing, leaned back in their chairs, and took their time welcoming Brad to the family. This was the Mayberry of workplaces.

  As they made their rounds, Brad internally acknowledged the inevitable, if second tier, roster of advertising archetypes he met. Hey, über-cerebral-writer-guy. Hi, goth-by-Hot-Topic-interactive-girl. Nice to meet you, big-talking-production-guy. Hello, j-pop-retro-punk-look-art-director-girl. What up, account-executive-who-so-so-so-thinks-he-could-totally-do-that-creative-shit-guy. No real surprises anywhere. Just the same old almost-artists trying to find their way in a bottom-line-driven world. Only these were the low-rent versions. Not that he saw any of their work. Brad just assumed.

  They finished up their tour outside a room that was empty save two opposing desks topped by computers.

  “Welcome to your new office.”

  Brad looked in. Uh-huh.

  “Nice.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot. Your partner.”

  Alan smiled broadly and Brad began to worry as he realized he was about to be handed a giant anchor and asked to swim. What slack-jawed optimist was Alan assigning as Brad’s creative ball and chain? What load of averageness would Brad be expected to lug around? He quietly begged the heavens above for one measly favor. Was it at all possible that some recovering coke head who lost his job at DeMaras/Whittaker in Seattle or DayOne in San Francisco or some other dreamy ad shop had road tripped it as far as his buzz would take him and ended up settling here? Some fellow member of the cognoscenti he could relate to? Or if not, then maybe a hot chick who hated bras?

  Brad returned Alan’s big smile because he didn’t know what else to do. Stump smiled as well, but it looked like he might have a clue what was going on.

  Brad raised his eyebrows in anticipation. So did Alan and Stump.

  Brad looked back and forth between Alan and Stump. No way.

  Brad’s eyes widened involuntarily and in direct proportion to Alan’s ever-expanding smile.

  Stump was going to be Brad’s partner. Alan was bursting with excitement like a puppy with his first pig’s ear. He clapped Stump on the shoulder.

  “Huh? Pretty great, right? I love this guy.”

  “This is bullshit.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve worked worse jobs.”

  Stump had worked way worse jobs. Once he had placed a witness in a mailroom job at a detox center and had to work as the janitor charged with vomit detail. Another time he had placed a witness at a slaughterhouse because he had borderline personality disorder and it was the only job he couldn’t get fired from for killing his coworkers. But that meant Stump had to join him until the trial.

  A single word had yet to be typed, but he already knew that copywriting beat the snot out of jabbing cattle in the ass with an electric prod and mopping up junkie barf.

  Stump began improv-ing immediately by leaning back in the copywriter’s chair and affecting a self-satisfied look. He was an advertising natural. Brad paced like he was waiting for a public defender to spring him.

  “It’s bullshit because you’re not a copywriter. You’re a bodyguard. You can’t just plop yourself down in an Aeron chair and declare yourself a writer. There’s skill involved in advertising. I earned my title. This is an art. You are not an artist.”

  “I’m a U.S. marshal who needs to stick close to you until the trial is over. Besides, how hard can it be? Everyone knows the words are the easy part.”

  Dammit. He had a point.

  Inmate # 4-0-8-Z-G-Fucking-N

  This was nothing. Frank Fortunato had been in worse situations. But would it kill them to put Wi-Fi in this dump?

  As he sat in his private cell in Rike
rs, it occurred to Frank that this business of locking him up for Carmine’s death wasn’t fair. The drug trafficking, point shaving, prostitution, political bribery—putting him away for all that he could understand. But this? He had been handling something that had nothing to do with the police. A personal matter between him and Carmine. An errand. And they come busting in to arrest him. Right when things were starting to go his way. What happened to honor?

  Well, this wasn’t over by a long shot. They still had to convict him on this bogus charge. That meant a grand jury. A trial. Testimony. Evidence. A jury of regular shmoes. Many variables. A lot could happen between now and then.

  “Mr. Fortunato, sorry to interrupt. Everything okay?”

  Frank looked up to find the guard who was being paid very well to make sure his stay was a pleasant one.

  Everything was and wasn’t okay. Frank wasn’t thrilled about being in jail, but it gave him plenty of time to think. And plan. And make big decisions. The new big decision he had come to was that his reputation was what counted now. He knew full well he had very little time left on this earth, and he had zero intention of finishing the race in jail. Great and powerful mob guys didn’t go out like that. They went out in a blaze of glory. Or surrounded by their crew and family in Gold Coast mansions. Or getting blown by a stripper. Something with dignity.

  The point was he wanted everything on his terms and he wanted to control his legacy. Which was possible, but it meant he had to take care of a few things and doing so involved some degree of risk. But, he was thinking big picture here. Time to go all in and play the cards he’d been dealt as best he could.

  He nodded to the guard.

  “Yeah, great. No wait, bring me more cigarettes. That’s all anyone cares about in this place.”

  Stalker Love

  Malcolm was on his third hot chocolate of the morning and dreading the sugar crash that was now inevitable.

  But it was a small price to pay for the chance to accidentally bump into The Cougar again. He had been at the Cup ’n Mug long enough that he felt like a silly schoolboy, but not long enough that he was willing to sacrifice the hunt to save a little self-esteem. He had to pee in a bad way, but the thought of missing her wouldn’t let him stray from his vigilant, if pitiful, perch by the door.