Payback

by Morgan St. James

  I glared at him. “That was it—fired just like that. No class, Jonathan. No class, after everything I did to help you build the agency. Well, it’s me against you now. Game on. Prepare for a rocky ride.”

  Standing there with drooping, sticky hair, makeup running down my face, and my beautiful cream-colored suit dripping with brown Coca Cola, I really didn’t care what I looked like. I was that mad.

  I turned to the gawking faces all around us. “Okay, folks, it’s over now. Go back to your lunches.”

  Then I mustered as much dignity as I could and spit in his face. “The best place for you and your sleazy partner is DEAD,” I shouted, and with that, gathered up my purse and signaled the waiter. “Do me a favor. Please have another Cobb Salad sent up to my office. Suite 2917. Cameron Harsen. You have my card on file. Give yourself a nice tip. Thanks.”

  What a picture! I turned on my heel and stomped out into the lobby, trying to ignore the stares of passersby as I made my way to the elevators.

  Jonathan Reid had ruined a perfectly wonderful day. At least I kept a change of clothes at the office, and we had a bathroom with a shower for when we worked late or even around the clock. Our receptionist gave me a questioning look when I blasted back into the office looking nothing like I had when I left. She knew better than to ask any questions as I headed straight for the bathroom. I flung over my shoulder, “Have them put my lunch on my desk when it arrives.”

  By the time my lunch came, I felt more like myself. I had no idea whether the cleaners could save my suit, but I’d ask them to try. For the rest of the day, I concentrated on the presentation for a new power drink called Feeling Feisty manufactured by one of my biggest clients, SeniorSnaks. Their products targeted women over fifty and I’d stolen the account from Reid/Cunningham at the beginning of the year.

  Can you imagine how stupid they were? My old agency used a twenty-something model with impressive silicone boobs that didn’t match her size zero body as the on-camera spokesperson. My guess was she probably tipped the scales at about one hundred pounds soaking wet, if that. Unlike Reid/Cunningham, because my agency specialized in the older market which included the huge buying segment of Baby Boomers, one thing I knew for sure—their Barbie Doll model was not the image an average woman in her fifties or more wanted to see. No drink was going to make them look like that. They wanted someone who looked like them, or at least what they could logically aspire to.

  As soon as I saw the billboards and magazine ads featuring this young, skinny gal whose spirit supposedly felt awakened by Feeling Feisty, the only drink for you, I knew the campaign was destined to tank. That’s when I’d contacted a fit and gorgeous platinum-haired model I knew who was obviously over fifty, and put together a proposal with mock-ups featuring her. Score one for Cameron. I’d gone after the account like a warrior with exactly what the client needed, and got it away from Cunningham. I’m sure it hurt his pocketbook as well as his ego to lose one of his big personal clients to me.

  With our campaign, sales and profits for Feeling Feisty soared, and we won an award. Clients were literally begging us to take them on.

  I do have to admit I spent some time that day throwing mental darts at Jonathan Reid and Tyler Cunningham. As I’d learned when our FraudBusters trio was at its most effective, revenge can be fun and I was going to have as much fun with that duo as I possibly could.

  Looking back, though, shouting at Jonathan that he and Tyler should be dead probably wasn’t the smartest thing for me to say with a room full of witnesses.

  4

  A PLUMP FELLOW CLAD in a tight green plaid suit and fedora waltzed into our office the next morning. His jet black hair was so slicked down it looked like a patent leather beanie. He flashed a crooked gap-toothed smile at my receptionist Maggie, then slapped a Cease and Desist Order on the reception desk counter.

  He looked like he couldn’t leave quick enough. With the door handle in his hand, he looked over his shoulder and said, “In case you didn’t realize it, you’ve been served. ’Bye now.”

  Cunningham again! What a joke. Were they desperate? I carefully read it over again after the first shockwave. They were actually trying to invoke the terms of the Non-Compete Agreement I’d signed when they first hired me so many years before. A lot of legal mumbo jumbo essentially boiled down to saying under the terms of the agreement it was illegal for me to approach their clients with intention to “steal” them.

  I stifled one of my giggles. Somehow they missed the obvious fact that my agreement only called for an eighteen month window from date of termination, and just like sour milk it was way past its expiration date. I wanted to call Cunningham and say, “You jerk, your clients began to jump ship only after I was legally free to catch them on the other side. Do you think I’m that stupid? You have no case, you sad Bastard!”

  I decided to be smart instead—no, make that cautious—and called my attorney. He confirmed that they didn’t have a leg to stand on.

  “Can I call Cunningham and tell him myself, or is it better if a letter comes from you? As payback, I want to threaten to sue Jonathan Reid for assault in a public place. Can I do that?”

  Without hesitation my attorney answered, “I’ll shoot off a letter with a copy of the Agreement attached and the eighteen month window highlighted. You still have a copy, I presume.”

  I felt a satisfying grin lift the corners of my mouth. “Oh, yeah. You bet I have a copy. I’ll have it scanned and emailed to you. But can I call him and threaten a suit? I’d love to rub his face in it.”

  He advised me to wait until they received and signed for the certified letter. After that I had the green light to call and allude to suing him if I wanted to, but my attorney said it would actually be better for me if I didn’t file the suit right then. Hopefully the threat would be enough to shake him up. He said I could even threaten to talk to the press. After all, a restaurant full of witnesses saw what happened, so let him worry that I was going to get nasty.

  With that settled, I called my creative team together to polish my rough concept for the latest Feeling Feisty campaign. Later that afternoon, I’d been scrolling through my contact list to decide which account I would go after next when Maggie buzzed me.

  Her cheery voice rang out. “Hey Boss, Milton is on the phone. Should I put him through?”

  I met Milton Rosenthal while I was still working for FACR, but had kept him a secret from Kim and Kate until I was sure there was something there. He was so different than the younger, hunky guys I usually dated. I was in my mid-forties, although of course I didn’t look it, and had never married. Falling for sixty-year-old Milt came as a complete surprise to me.

  He owns a theatrical management agency also located in Century City, has a great personality, is rich and successful with an exciting lifestyle due to the nature of his clients. He handles some very big names in the entertainment industry. In other words, he is the whole package—but that wasn’t what surprised me. Don’t get me wrong. Milt is a pure love from the tip of his fashionable shoes to the top of his sweet bald head. Just about my height, shorter than me if I wear heels, he has a little paunch and wears thick glasses. Calling him good looking would really be a stretch. I think of him as pleasant and kind looking. No matter how uptight I get about anything, he always makes me laugh and that sealed the deal. I happily admit I am head over heels in love with the guy.

  “Sure, put him through,” I said.”I just finished what I was doing.” A quick glance at my watch told me it was twenty-to-five. Knowing I would be able to put one over on the obnoxious team of Reid and Cunningham made my heart soar. I buzzed Maggie and said, “If you’re pretty much done for the day, you can take off early. After I talk to Milton, I have a few more things to take care of, so I’ll lock up tonight unless anyone is staying late.”

  Occasionally I did that for Maggie—let her leave early. She watched over me like a mother hen and I always believed it was the work output that counted, not the physical hours. Some people work
faster than others. I know I do.

  “Hey, Sweetie,” Milt said. “How did it go today? Did you talk to your attorney yet about filing an assault complaint?”

  I pushed back in my chair and flipped off my shoes. My toes wiggled a thank you. Women’s high heeled shoes are a testimony to how crazy we are to endure what could easily be called torture, just to make our legs look good. I’m no exception. To make matters worse, I pay through the nose for these stylish foot crunchers.

  “Well, Honey, that actually took a backseat. Guess what those jokers tried?” I continued without pausing to let him venture a guess. “They had the gall to serve me with a Cease and Desist for violation of my Non-Compete Agreement. Only trouble for them is that it ran out more than two years ago. I’d love to see Cunningham’s face when they receive my attorney’s letter literally telling them to go fuck themselves. As for the complaint, we’re putting it aside for the moment. At least until they withdraw the Cease and Desist.”

  After a short silence he said, “Yeah, probably a good strategy. No point stirring things up until the first thing is settled. So, are you still up for dinner? I took a chance and made reservations for eight o’clock at The Ivy. The weather is so nice, I figured we could sit outside. Whadda you say?”

  “Throw in a good stiff drink, and I’m on. That gives me a chance to go home and change. Pick me up at seven-thirty. See you then.” I know it sounds corny, but I blew a few kisses into the phone.

  I printed the information for the next accounts I wanted to poach and placed the list in my middle desk drawer making sure to lock it. No sense exposing my hit list to anyone who might have access to my office, including the cleaning people and security. Cunningham was diabolical in his hatred for me, so how could I know if he paid someone to invade my office?

  5

  MILT HAS THE BEST CONNECTIONS all over town. That night he scored a prime table on the patio that spans the width of The Ivy. Brightly colored sprays of bougainvillea meander across the red brick façade of the restaurant. People stroll along Robertson Boulevard, sometimes stopping at the low white picket fence surrounding the patio. Occasionally they wave or, in Hollywood style, blow air kisses at diners they know.

  Mild temperature highlighted by a gentle light breeze made it the kind of Southern California weather that makes you appreciate that you’re not fighting cold or humidity on the East Coast or Midwest. The night was so pleasant they didn’t even have to turn on the multiple space heaters. With a dark night sky, you forgot that during the daytime the sky is rarely a beautiful blue thanks to our legendary smog.

  We sat there holding hands. The Ivy is a favorite among many high profile names in show business, and everyone from celebrities to producers and media people wandered over to say hello. Milt is that well known in the industry. He invited a few of them to sit down and chat for a minute or two. One thing about my guy—he knows which side his bread is buttered on, as that old expression goes. He always says it never hurts to be mentioned on someone’s TV show or in a popular column. Getting those mentions is good for me, too.

  Much to my surprise, Angela Thurston of the LA Times propelled herself to our table like a guided missile and plopped down in one of the extra chairs without waiting for an invitation. She locked eyes with me, her stone gray eyes alight with interest.

  “So, Cameron, what’s this I hear about your feud with Jonathan Reid?” She flipped a slender hand through her long jet black hair. “Or is it with that snake Tyler Cunningham? I hear you’ve been stealing their clients left and right.”

  Before I could say a word, my dear sweet Milt put his hand over mine. “Angela, you know this town. Gossip and rumor become gospel over night. Great seeing you, but I think our dinner will be served in a moment or two. You don’t mind, do you?” He dismissed her with a smile.

  The intimidating Ms. Thurston pushed back her chair and rose in order to save face. “Of course not, Milt.” She looked directly at me then. “If your lovely lady doesn’t take some time to talk to me though, understand I will be one of those—what did you call us—gossip mongers playing up what happened in the Century Cafe.”

  She gave me a sly grin, then said, “Okay to call you at your office, Cameron? Or I could call Jonathan Reid and get his version about why he dumped a drink all over you and made a scene? I’m guessing you would rather have it come from you, dear. Aren’t cell phone cameras wonderful? Imagine. A spectacular video of the whole incident found its way to my desk.”

  She turned on her heel, shrugged her shoulders and maintained every shred of dignity she could muster after Milt literally asked her to leave. A few other diners threw glances our way.

  Milt gave me a sympathetic nod. “I suggest you talk to her Cami. Give her a few choice tidbits about why you have it out for them. Appeal to the older woman. That is what your agency is all about—advertising and publicity for the over forty crowd. Emphasize that once these clients got word you set up shop, they came to you. It’s not necessary to mention that you gave them a little nudge. Now let’s have some of this wonderful wine and leave business behind for the rest of the night.”

  That was my Milt. He always knew the right words at the right time. And, the wine was excellent. At one hundred twenty dollars a bottle it had to be. We shared the Hot Seafood Platter for Two. Between bites of French Fried Calamari and Wild Maine Lobster he said, “So I’ll finally get to meet the infamous Kate and Kimberly. Did you ever stop to think that if your name began with a K and not a C, you three would be KKK?”

  I had to suppress a giggle. “Shut your mouth! Those certainly aren’t three initials we want associated with us. That’s for sure. Nah. I prefer FraudBusters. Speaking of that, I’ve been wondering what Kim is up to with the trip. She didn’t give me many details and unless there’s a big job in the wind in LA, it’s not like her to come out for an initial meeting with clients. She leaves that to the reps.”

  The waiter stopped at our table and apologized for interrupting. “Mr. Rosenthal, since you already have your wine, the chef would like to treat you and Ms. Harsen to a special dessert that isn’t on the menu. He asked me to check with you to make sure that’s okay.”

  Milt gave him one of his thousand watt smiles and said, “Tell Antonio we appreciate it and can’t wait to taste one of his luscious creations.” Then my guy looked at me and winked. “I guess that’s what you get when you’re a big tipper.”

  THAT NIGHT I HAD SOME weird dreams. It was as though we were back at FACR, sneaking around like the three amateur sleuths we had become, but everything seemed to be going wrong. Some of the actions were absolutely bizarre. You know how they are in dreams. At one point, I was sealed into a large packing crate trying to tap dance my way out while a trained dog act ran circles around it. Talk about crazy. I sat bolt upright in bed, my heart pounding. It was three in the morning. When I thought about it later, the dream really wasn’t that strange. In just a few days the three of us would be back together. Both Kate and I were really excited to be seeing Kim. Still, I couldn’t help wondering what spurred her trip. Normally she would have filled us in on all the details, but she hadn’t said much and that’s what set our minds in motion. After some tossing and turning, I managed to go back to sleep.

  The minute I walked into my office the following morning, my antennae went on full alert. Something was off, but I couldn’t put my finger on it until I heard the sound of Tyler Cunningham’s voice like the roar of an angry lion coming from my own office.

  Maggie’s soft but firm voice shouted back, “This is uncalled for Mr. Cunningham. I must ask you to leave or I’m calling building security.”

  As the voices rose, some of my employees poked their heads out of their offices. I ran down the hall as fast as my stilettos would allow. One of my copywriters called to me, “He forced his way into your private office, Cami. Maggie tried, but couldn’t stop him.”

  Cunningham stood, feet planted about a foot apart, his face aflame with anger. The man wheezed like a car on its
last legs. My Forever Young presentation board, the next account I was courting, had been ripped off the easel behind my desk and trashed. Papers swept from my desk onto the floor formed a mosaic across the carpeting. One of my guest chairs rested legs up in the middle of the mess. And in the midst of it all, stood Tyler Cunningham acting like a man unhinged.

  Maggie tugged at his sleeve with all her strength and tried to drag him away. I focused on his bunched up fists, afraid he was going to slug her.

  “Fran,” I shouted down the hall. “Call Security immediately. I’m afraid Mr. Cunningham has gone off his rocker.”

  I blasted into my office and pulled myself up to my full height. “Tyler, what the Hell do you think you’re doing? First Jonathan, and now you. Have both of you lost your minds?”

  He snorted like a charging bull, pulled himself from Maggie’s grip and lunged toward me.

  “You! You bitch! I know your game. You think you can ruin us? Well, you’ve got another thing coming.” He glared at the partially smashed board he’d pulled off the easel. “You will get the Forever Young account over my dead body. Do you hear that? Over my dead body! I’ve invested years in that account and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep them.”

  With that, he smashed his heel into the board three times, literally destroying what was left of the foam core mounting.

  I stood rooted to the spot, but managed to say, “You’ve asked for it now. Tyler, the gloves are off. Your dead body? We’ll see about that.”

  I heard Maggie gasp.

  Just then one of the building security officers arrived, put his hand under Cunningham’s elbow and said in respectful tones, “Mr. Cunningham, Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave these premises. Are you okay Ms. Harsen?”