by Joe Nelms
“That’s it? He took a knee?”
“Yeah. I saw it clear as day.”
“So his partner could shoot Carmine.”
“Right.”
“Then why would Frank even have Brad there in the first place? How does bending over help the big plan?”
“To . . . keep Carmine there.”
“In the elevator.”
“. . . Yeah.”
While Stump had the sneaking suspicion that something was amiss with Brad’s story, he doubted that it would turn out that Brad was a mastermind criminal accomplice. He wasn’t mastermind material. This was another piece of a puzzle, but not the puzzle Brittany was trying to put together. He would keep it in mind, but chances are it was as useless as a third earring hole. She sounded like she was under a tremendous amount of stress.
“Are you sleeping?”
“Not really.”
Stump could see Brad down the hall, returning from his seventh trip to the “bathroom” this morning.
“Look, he’s on his way back. I don’t think he was in on it. But I do have a few questions about some things. Can you get me a copy of his grand jury testimony video?”
Malcolm and Lola’s First Date
Lola caught the bartender before he started making her second martini. She happened to see Malcolm approaching the bar and thought better of ordering another drink without him. Besides, the first one was humongous. That ought to at least tide her over until they sat down. Just in case, she whispered to the man behind the bar.
“Keep an eye on me.”
He nodded knowingly. Lola loved a good bartender. She dropped twenty dollars on the counter and turned to pretend to be surprised to find Malcolm there.
“Well, hello there. Don’t you look handsome.”
“Good evening, Lola.”
As she stood up, she realized exactly how drunk she was.
Lola was certainly not Malcolm’s type. Not his specific type, anyway. She was pretty and straight and not a practicing Nazi, so she definitely fit into a general category of women that he was attracted to. But she seemed so wild and outgoing. That wasn’t Malcolm at all.
He wondered if perhaps when people say, “She’s not my type,” what they were really referring to was not their type of opposite sex, but rather their own type. Maybe they were really saying, “She’s not exactly like me. She doesn’t do and believe the same things I do. She wouldn’t react the same way to news that the Magnolia Bakery had burned down.” What narcissism.
No, Malcolm was convinced he had had a breakthrough. Maybe going out with Lola wasn’t such a crazy thing. Maybe it was a really smart thing. She wasn’t his type. Perfect.
He had suggested his favorite sushi restaurant because he felt the Japanese lent a certain sense of mystery to the evening. The sushi restaurants in the city were always so dimly lit. More important, this one was quiet. He had no interest in yelling his hometown and favorite movies across the table at her.
Approaching the restaurant, he had told himself to calm down and relax. This was another date, just like the one he had two years ago that turned out to be a distant cousin. Nothing would come of it.
Nevertheless, Malcolm felt an extra spring in his step as he entered the restaurant and found Lola waiting for him at the bar.
For two people who had lived such remarkably different lives, Lola and Malcolm had a surprising amount in common. Over appetizers they discovered they both loved Greek food (Lola’s second husband was Greek; Malcolm kept an account at the Thermopoulous Diner on the first floor of his building), F. Scott Fitzgerald (both had read everything he’d ever written; Malcolm had taken the Long Island literary tour), and Labrador Retrievers (Lola had one at home; Malcolm always wanted one but could never decide on a color and now with labradoodles added into the mix of options, forget about it).
During their entrees, they discovered even more overlapping interests. Malcolm had majored in Latin studies at Columbia. Lola had a tramp-stamp tattoo of a winking margarita. Lola’s desert island item was an insta-hot. Malcolm had a mug of India Spice tea every night before bed. Lola found Malcolm’s dry-as-sand sense of humor adorable. Malcolm liked Lola’s manners. And she had big fake tits. To be fair, he noticed them earlier.
“I have to admit, I felt a little silly sitting in that coffee shop waiting for you.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve dated stalkers before.”
“Really?”
“No. Actually, you’re my first.”
“I’m honored.”
He sipped his wine.
“I was going to ask you out, you know.”
“I know.”
“So why did you ask me first, then?”
“Because it would have taken you months.”
True. He smiled the tiniest bit. Yup. Malcolm thought this woman who was definitely not his type was dynamite sticks.
Frank 1, Hot Dog Agent 0
Hello, rat.
According to the “reliable witnesses” quoted on the front page of the national paper Stump read as he stood on the front porch of his and Brad’s model home at sunrise, those were the last words heard by special agent Mike Collington before he was gunned down in broad daylight.
This brazen execution was of special interest to Stump, and by extension Brad, as Mike Collington had only a short time before played the role of Hot Dog Vendor Guy in Project Fancypants. He was also going to play the role of Witness in the upcoming Frank Fortunato trial. Not a key witness, but one of a series of special agent witnesses who would testify they saw Frank enter the building in which Carmine was murdered. It was overkill, but this trial would not be about finesse. It would be about winning.
Stump folded the paper back up, walked across the front lawn, and dropped it into his neighbor’s recycling can.
As Brad readied himself for another big day of advertising adult incontinence products, Stump took a little time to stretch his back. He had spent the previous night hunched over his laptop, studying the video Brittany had posted. He had been over and over the footage, pausing and rewinding to see Brad’s internal pterygoids, levator palpebrae superioris, and orbicularis oculi. There was no longer any doubt. Brad was lying.
Brad hadn’t told Frank to make things easy on himself by dropping the gun. He never noticed Frank’s pulse pumping through his jugular. And you didn’t have to see his levator anguli oris to know that Brad definitely did not almost throw himself in front of Carmine but then decide it was a little too show-offy. But, having lived and worked with Brad now, these were all things Stump could have told you without looking at the video. Brad was no hero.
The interesting thing about the video was not what Brad was lying about, but what he was truthful about. He was definitely there. He definitely saw something. And he definitely had to pee when he asked for the bathroom break.
Stump would let Brittany know. But not yet. With all of his rewinding and frame-by-frame examination, he had only made a close study of about a third of the footage. No point in alarming her until he knew the whole truth. Maybe it wasn’t so bad.
Chutzpah
Frank made a decision. Everyone should see what happens to a rat.
He had been watching a bunch of online videos while awaiting trial. He really liked the ones where someone falls off the backyard trampoline or women at weddings slip while fighting for the bouquet. What’s wrong with those people? They never seem to learn.
But the videos that really struck a chord were the ones in which Peruvian drug lords made threats and put price tags on their rivals’ heads, or L.A. gangbangers recorded themselves giving new recruits a beat down to show them how much they love them. That was chutzpah. That’s not drunken tough-guy talk. That’s documentation for the world to see. All of the world. Now that was something Frank was interested in.
He headed over to the yard to tell Mitchell the Aryan that whoever he had sent for Brad should bring a camera.
A Crisis of Incontinence
“I fee
l like strangling someone.”
Alan’s face got extra red when he said the word strangling. Like he enjoyed even the thought of it.
Stump had seen this look before and knew where it could lead. His eyes narrowed as he watched Alan pace around the office like an oversized toddler. Alan caught his eye and stopped pacing.
“That’s a figure of speech, Christopher. I’m not actually going to strangle anyone.”
Mmm hmm.
Brad and Stump had been called in to Alan’s office first thing that morning. They had been sitting there for a full two hundred Mississippi already and, aside from serving as an audience to the worst production of Stomp ever, had no clue as to why.
“Jack just fired the New York agency.”
“Who’s Jack?”
“Our CMO. Upstairs. Smart guy. Used to run account services for that erectile dysfunction pill company, until they went under. You know what I mean.”
“Why did he fire the New York agency?”
“We have a New York agency?”
Brad wanted to kick himself. It made sense that they would have a New York agency. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? His backdoor reentry into big-time advertising was right in front of him. Assure was a major player in the world of super-absorbent disposable briefs. Of course they would look to the heavy hitters back East to craft their most visible marketing while the schmucks in the in-house agency did the shit work. He was already wondering if someone back there had seen the work he’d been doing here, and if they’d been impressed.
“What happened?”
“The top guy, the CEO creative director, ran off with a receptionist and ten million dollars.”
“Whoa.”
“And he erased their entire server. The whole agency is ruined. He left a note. Said it was a test.”
Ding. Fucking Geoff.
Brad didn’t acknowledge his familiarity with Red Light. No point in associating with losers.
“So what does this mean?”
“It means we’ve got to pick up the slack. They were working on the spring campaign. That’s the big one.”
In his pre-interview research on Red Light, Brad had not discovered that they were the agency of record for Assure adult diapers. Seems poopy pants were not considered a trophy client.
“What kind of slack?”
Alan had picked up a letter opener and clenched it in his huge angry fist. Stump couldn’t take his eyes off of it as Alan waved his arms around to emphasize his words.
“Slack! The whole pile of pancakes. They were flying out to present to Jack on Thursday. Print ads, TV spots, digital. Now it’s all gone. The media is all bought and paid for and we can’t run the old ads because they don’t feature the new packaging. Jack asked me to come up with a Band-Aid campaign to run until he can find a new agency. First round is due in two days. God, I hate pressure.”
He whipped around to face Brad and Stump, letter opener in one hand, sweat seeping through his shirt. He looked like a terrible cat burglar.
“So, you guys up for making some magic?”
Brad shivered at Alan’s pitiable attempt to rally the troops. There’s nothing less inspirational than an unimpressive leader attempting a One-for-the-Gipper speech. The best you can hope for is that they have a heart attack before they actually tell you what they need from you.
Whether they were up for making some magic or not, everyone got the nod to start work. Brad and Stump, über-cerebral-writer-guy, j-pop-retro-punk-look-art-director-girl, goth-by-Hot-Topic-interactive girl. Even perky-gay-assistant-guy was asked to contribute what he could creatively. This was an emergency. They had two days to come up with an amazing campaign. Something magnificent that positioned Assure adult diapers in a unique manner while emphasizing the brand’s breakthrough design and world-class customer service. Or at least something that filled thirty seconds of airtime and prominently featured the logo and tag line.
In Brad’s old world, this sort of ambush assignment wasn’t unusual. This is what separated good creatives from great ones. The ability to make magic on command. And putting several teams on one assignment was pretty standard practice at Overthink. But here in the land of misfit toys, it was unheard of. These were people who were used to spending their weeks honing technical copy about the proper application of waistband adhesive to prevent embarrassing accidents. Layered wordplay? Clever art direction? Huh?
As far as Brad was concerned, this was cake. And maybe one last shot at greatness. If nothing else, a chance to flex a little muscle and rub some payback in Geoff’s face.
Yes, you turned me down, Geoff, but here’s the news, chump: You failed MY test! Look at the award-winning campaign that your agency didn’t do and mine did. IN-HOUSE! HA! Chew on that! . . . as you have sex with your super-hot receptionist girlfriend in the Bahamas on a bed made of ten million dollars.
All right, maybe this would be just for Brad, but still, he felt good about at least getting back in the game on some level besides grunt work. This was as big of an opportunity as Brad Pitt might ever have. One last at bat in the majors. He was going to the show.
“You probably just thought something like I’m going to the show didn’t you?”
“No.”
Stump’s observational skills could be downright annoying sometimes.
“Oh, right. You’ve probably had tons of opportunities like this. All those national campaigns you sold in New York? This is old hat. Just another notch on the belt, huh?”
“All right, fine. Look, Brad Pitt has no experience, but this could be it for me. This could get me back on track.
“You can’t go back to New York, you know.”
“I can go to San Francisco or some other town with real agencies and restaurants that aren’t Applebee’s.”
“You can do that.”
“I’m going to crush this thing.”
Everyone stayed late that night and ordered pizza because they had seen ad guys in the movies do that. It made them feel more creative. Unfortunately for Brad, they also thought it would be a great idea to bring all the food into the conference room where he had no choice but to interact with his coworkers.
This would be Brad’s first real-life test. His first run out in the wild among civilians. Über-cerebral-writer-guy took the first shot.
“So, Brad? It’s Brad, right? Where are you from?”
“Back East.”
Fingerman scoring early.
“Oh, where?”
“Um, Boston.”
“I grew up in Boston. What part are you from?”
Stump watched patiently as the truth predictably tied the game and then took a commanding lead.
“Um, the northern south part of the . . . It’s a subdivision just outside of . . . You know where the Garden is?
Stump let Brad squirm a bit before jumping in to distract über-cerebral-writer-guy by playing the part of enthusiastic coworker.
“You’re from Boston, too? You a big Red Sox fan?”
“I don’t really follow baseball.”
“I do. I was there when they won their division and . . .”
And on and on Stump went about baseball and all the players and stats no one in the room cared about until everyone present had forgotten how they got on the subject in the first place and found an excuse to grab another slice, head back to their office, and leave Brad and Stump alone to finish their fascinating baseball conversation.
“Thanks for jumping in there.”
“Yeah, you might want to put some thought into a backstory.”
“I’ll do that.”
It was nine thirty by the time they pulled into their vanilla subdivision. They rounded a corner and headed down their generic street. Stump drove past their prefab home without so much as tapping the brakes.
“What are you doing? That’s our house back there.”
“I know. Someone’s inside.”
“How do you know?”
“I left the hall light on this morn
ing. It’s off now.”
“Maybe it burnt out.”
“It’s halogen.”
Stump slowed the car to a stop at the end of the block and pulled his gun out of his ankle holster.
“You carry a gun to work?”
“I am a U.S. marshal. Stay here. If you see anything suspicious, drive away as fast as you can. I’ll find you.”
Stump hopped out of the car and made his way into the shadows of the suburban landscape before Brad could protest.
“Fucking kill you motherfuckers!”
Stump recognized the voice just in time to not shoot his unexpected house guest in the back of the head.
“Yo.”
He holstered his gun as Dr. Yo waved from the couch without looking away from his first person shooter PlayStation game.
“I almost put a bullet in your brain. What are you doing here?”
“Saving the world. Where the hell ya’ll been?”
Either Yo was used to being almost shot or just didn’t care. Stump couldn’t tell.
“Yo, why are you here? This is our house. And it was locked when I left.”
“Oh, yeah. I made a key the other day. It’s a hobby of mine.”
A byproduct of his paranoid security persona, Yo had a catalogued collection of keys that filled several drawers in his kitchen. Whenever he got the chance, he would lift someone’s keys and copy them. You never knew when they might come in handy. Armageddon. Zombie apocalypse. Or when you’ve got a real jones to hit the PlayStation and your buddy is late. Like tonight. He had even been so kind as to return the favor and made a copy of his own apartment key for Brad. In Yo’s weird world, it was a real bonding moment. Stump just thought it was dumb.
“You’re out of soda, by the way.”
Stump went to get Brad out of the car, beating himself up for the security breach the entire way. It worked out to be a harmless mistake, but it could have been a painful one. That’s what he got for letting Brad have his own key.
