Fem Dom (11 page)

Outside, the June night sky was a beautiful deep blue hue. The last glows of sunlight illuminated the soft edges of the motionless puffy and darkening clouds. By the time Tara got back to the house it was past nine and the last vestiges of daylight were clinging to life. The run had burned all the adrenalin out of her system and calmed her somewhat. It had given her time to think more clearly about what she needed to say to Clem but there would be no confrontation tonight with Clem now sleeping as soundly as a hibernating grizzly.

Tara awoke the next morning in the guest bedroom. She’d had a bad night tossing, turning and thinking. But downstairs in the kitchen, Clem was already up and getting breakfast. She could hear the La Pavoni spitting out an espresso. Tara pulled on her pink robe and headed downstairs. She was still barely awake as she ambled into the kitchen.

Her husband looked his usual immaculate self in his dark gray suit sporting a lemon silk tie over a crisp white shirt. He was feeling good about life again after a very good night’s sleep and Frank’s reassuring words.

“You sleep in the guest bedroom last night?” Clem sipped the hot foam off his cappuccino.

“Uh huh,” Tara mumbled as she contemplated the opening gambit of her verbal assault. Still drowsy from her turbulent night, she already felt at a disadvantage for any early morning mental jousting. If they were going to get into it she was already behind on points with Clem so annoyingly perky, alert and caffeinated.

“Why?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Man, I slept like a baby. I took an Oxycontin and crashed. Hey, d’you pick up my suit yesterday?” Clem asked, rather flippantly.

“No.” Tara snapped back as she headed straight for the bagels. She wasn’t going to admit that she had. Clem took another sip of his cappuccino as he quickly flipped through the business section of the Star Tribune.

“Oh, okay. No biggie.”

His off-the-cuff response got Tara’s heartbeat going but she refused to make eye contact with him.
No biggie?
Little did he know. She stared into the toaster, watching her bagel heat up. Clem poured his cappuccino into a to-go mug then pecked Tara on the cheek.

“See ya tonight. Be home about seven.” And with that he was gone.

Ding!

Tara’s bagel popped up in the toaster. She was annoyed her husband was in such a damn good mood when she was still furious with him. Their confrontation would have to wait until he got home.

Clem sat in the morning traffic on Interstate 62. It gave him an opportunity to reflect on his dinner with Frank two night’s earlier. It was nagging at him that Frank’s only reference to naming him as his successor was just a glib remark at the end of the day. It was almost as if Frank finally said something only to pacify Clem. After all, what could have been Frank’s motivation to waste an entire afternoon and evening talking about absolutely nothing? Unless there had been an ulterior motive on Frank’s part.

Wily Frank Bergenson didn’t do anything without a reason or an objective.
Why did Frank want Clem out of the office that day? What was going on back at the agency that he should know about?
Clem was starting to suspect that something was rotten in Denmark.

CHAPTER 8

Jack Kelsey and Tara sat in the green Chevy Malibu in the strip mall on Flying Cloud Drive outside a Subway sandwich shop. The interior of Kelsey’s sedan stunk of stale cigarette butts. Staring at the screen of a laptop, Tara watched the video Kelsey had shot of Clem. Her brow furrowed as she watched her husband arriving at the old brick apartment building. But Kelsey could care less how Tara felt. He’d done his job. He just wanted his money and he preferred cash. The camera work was a bit on the shaky side but so what? His resume highlights were murders and heists not winning an Emmy for any production values. The video zoomed in on a close up of Clem’s face. There was no mistaking it was Tara’s husband and she knew exactly what he was up to.

“1611 Calloway Avenue. Older neighborhood over on the south side. I clocked him departing the premises at six fifty-eight. He was inside for…let me see…” Kelsey checked his notebook. “One hour and ten minutes. I followed him back on the freeway to your home address. I’ve got pictures too, if you want.”

“No thanks,” Tara mumbled.

“Tough finding stuff out about your spouse when you thought you knew them. Everyone has secrets, I tell ya that. But not everyone gets found out.” Tara was getting more upset and emotional listening to Jack Kelsey’s blunt little soliloquy. She cut him off.

“How much do I owe you?”

Kelsey handed her a folded piece of paper. “Six fifty. Here’s my invoice. Prefer cash if ya got it.”

Tara opened her bag and took out her checkbook. “It’ll have to be a check.” Tara angrily scribbled it out.

“That’s fine.” Kelsey tapped out a Marlboro and reached inside the glove compartment for his lighter.

“Can’t you just wait thirty seconds before you light that thing?” Tara snapped, shooting him a look.

“Sure.”

Kelsey put his smokes back in his pocket. Tara ripped the signed check out of her checkbook and handed it to him.

“Thanks.”

Tara stood in the parking lot of the strip mall as the green Malibu drove away. Kelsey had given her a mini DV videotape which Tara didn’t really know what to do with but as she’d paid for it she might as well keep it. It wasn’t exactly incriminating. Video of Clem getting out of his car and entering a building was not something any divorce attorney would call a smoking gun. But it could be used against him to help build her case.

Evidence in hand, Tara walked over to Mrs. Cho’s laundry. Tara slipped the tape in her bag and entered to the aroma of freshly steamed clothing: a significant improvement over stale Marlboros.

Mrs. Cho was busying herself arranging the plastic wrapped garments on the electric rails that seemed to run in every direction.

“I’ve come to pick up. Drew. Blue suit,” Tara announced, still pissed from her meeting with the dour Kelsey.

“You got ticket?” Mrs. Cho barked back, sounding more like a drill Sergeant than someone in a customer service business. Tara was in no mood for any attitude from anyone this morning.

“One ticket! One blue suit!” Tara barked, slamming the ticket down in front of Mrs. Cho. The two women locked eyes like two stray cats in a stare down.

“Twelve dollar,” Mrs. Cho said flatly, looking at the ticket and ringing it up on the cash register. Tara opened her purse and counted out twelve single bills. She slammed each one down in front of po-faced Cho. “One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Nine! Ten! Eleven! Twelve dollars!”

Mrs. Cho pressed a button and the electrical rail behind her started moving the vast array of freshly steamed clothing. Clem’s dry-cleaned dark blue suit arrived like a train pulling into a station. Mrs. Cho yanked it off the rail and handed it over. Tara grabbed it and headed for the door as Mrs. Cho muttered under her breath.

“Have a nice day.”

Across town, up on the forty-third floor at Bergenson & Adler, Clem quickly scanned through the pages of
Advertising Age
and
Adweek
to see if there was any mention of the agency, Rebakor or himself.

“Here ya go, boss,” smiled Justine, handing Clem his morning cappuccino and his second caffeine fix of the morning.

“Thanks, Justine.”

In her tight white cotton shirt and gray mini-skirt, Justine was looking like a naughty Catholic schoolgirl and Clem couldn’t help but notice there was an added sexiness to her.

“What’s going on upstairs?” Justine asked, as she hitched up her skirt and sat herself down on the edge of Clem’s desk, exposing more of her bare thigh. As Clem rocked back in his chair, her tight, pale skin was directly in his eye line but he tried to avert his gaze.

“Upstairs? Is there something I need to know about?”

“Fitz and Frank seem awfully buddy-buddy these days.” Justine raised an eyebrow. “I just don’t trust Fitz. He’s such a slime ball.”

“What’s new? We all know that,” Clem replied as he tried to focus on work and not Justine’s thighs.

“I went up to see Rose about something and he was coming out of Mr. Bergenson’s office with that big sleazy grin on his face like he’d just won the lottery or something.”

This was not what Clem needed to hear but he didn’t want to let down his guard in front of his loyal assistant.

“I can’t worry about it, Justine. What’s my schedule looking like today?” Justine slid of the desk and her skirt rode up revealing a hint of her white thong. Clem couldn’t help but notice this time.

“Oops, that wasn’t meant to happen,” Justine apologized, slightly embarrassed. Clem smirked but said nothing as Justine pulled down her skirt.

“Okay…Jerry, Chuck and Suzie want to show you some campaign ideas for Rebakor and they want Fitz to be in the meeting too so everyone’s on the same page and they don’t have to have a separate meeting with him. Is that cool?” she asked.

“Is
what
cool? The meeting? Or Fitz being in the meeting?” Clem replied.

“Either. Or both, I suppose. What shall I tell them?” Justine stood by the window with the morning sun backlighting her hair and tight white shirt. She was looking like a page out of
Playboy
but Clem wasn’t about to let that distract him.

“I’m cool with the meeting on creative but I don’t see any damn reason why that prick Fitz needs to be there.”

At that second, Frank Bergenson walked in to Clem’s office.

“Fitz will be in the meeting because I want him in that meeting. I’ll be in the meeting, too. You don’t have a problem with that, do you Clem?”

Frank Bergenson’s abrupt entrance and announcement had sufficient emphasis to suggest that he wasn’t expecting any dissent. Justine took the surprise offensive as her cue to depart very quickly and return to her desk.

“Good morning, Mr. Bergenson,” she smiled as she hurried off. Frank ignored her.

“Actually, Frank, yes I do have a problem with that,” Clem said defiantly.

Frank Bergenson closed the door to Clem’s office and walked past the Le Corbusier ‘art chair’ and sat himself down on the more comfortable sofa. Clem stood up from behind his desk.

“And why is that?”

“That man is so disruptive it’s detrimental to the account. I can’t manage effectively if he’s undermining everything I do!”

“Sit down, Clem. I was hoping we weren’t going to have this conversation.”

“I’m quite capable of having a conversation standing up.”

“Calm down and sit down.”

“What conversation do you want to have that necessitates me sitting down?” Clem’s attention was now very focused on his boss. Frank leaned forward, the lines in his forehead creased deeply.

“Either you work alongside Fitz or I’m taking you off the account altogether.”

“What?” Clem was incredulous. He was being threatened by the same man who only just the other night had told him he was going to become king.
Where was this directive coming from all of a sudden?

“You heard me.”

“You’d let that prick run the account on his own? You can’t be serious.”

“I never said that, Clem. No one person can run that piece of business alone. I said I’d take you off the account.”

Clem paced across the room then turned back to face his seated boss. “What’s gotten into you, Frank? One minute I’m the guy taking over the show and now you’re threatening to take me off the account that I won for the agency?”

“It was a team effort, Clem and you know that,” Frank said, maintaining his composure and appearing quite unfazed by Clem’s outburst.

“Sure it was a team effort, Frank. But who put the team together and who led the team? Yours fucking truly and
you
know
that
. Fitz wasn’t even a bit player. Gimme a Goddamn break.”

“Clem, shut up and sit down. It’s hurting my neck looking up at you. Stop acting like a junior executive having a hissy fit.”

“No, I’m not going to sit down, Frank. I’m not sitting down until you give me a satisfactory answer.”

Frank Bergenson stood up and rubbed the back of his cricked neck. He sighed wearily.

“Clem, I’ve been thinking long and hard about this and I’m saying this for your own good. No other reason. Listen to yourself. Look at yourself -- You’re pushing too hard. You’re over-doing it. Frankly, I’m concerned you’re gonna burn out.”

“Burn out?”

“Yes. And then what? Huh? -- If that happens, you’re not only no good to this agency, your detrimental to its operations. I can’t let that happen.”

Clem let Frank’s words sink in. Maybe Frank really did have his best interests at heart. And Clem’s outburst had just proved his point. Clem sat down on the sofa and now it was Frank who stood over the young lion.

“Why the heck do you think I dragged you outta here to play golf?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet. I’ll get back to you on that one.” Clem’s mental chill pill was kicking in but he was still quietly seething inside.

“I want you to slow down and smell the roses. Lighten up. Don’t focus all your energy on work.”

“Frank, I’m fine. I’m at my best under pressure. I revel in this stuff. I’ll take a break when we’ve got Rebakor up and running but this is a crucial time for the agency and I don’t want to fall at the last hurdle.” Clem was still very irritated that even the thought of being taken off the account was on Frank’s mind.

“You know as well as I do that until they start writing those checks for the media buys we won’t be getting agency commission. And they won’t be writing any checks at all until this year’s ad campaign is in the can. Now I don’t care what you say or want or think right now Clem, I want Kurt Fitzgerald and you to work as one cohesive unit because two fucking heads are better than one, excuse my fucking French.”

Frank finished his speech and strolled over to the window to let his words sink in. Clem slumped back in his seat.

“Okay, I get it. Fine. Jesus Christ. Fitz will be in on the meeting if that’s what this is all about.”

Clem conceded to his boss’s wishes rather than rock the boat but Frank was sounding more like an incoming CEO instead of one about to put himself out to pasture.