Formerly Fingerman (16 page)

“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.

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 Rikers, 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.”

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.

Malcolm had been back every morning since that fateful day in the hopes she would show up. A few key details were still in question: Was this her regular coffee shop? Was she single? Would she ever be back? If she was, what should he say? Would she remember him? Was this the kind of thing he had missed out on for years because he didn't drink coffee? And most important, who was she?

Maybe just one more hot chocolate. Work could wait.

“WelcometoCup'nMug.WhatcanIgetyoutomakeyourdaybetter?”

Malcolm ordered his drink and tried to ignore the curious looks of the staff who were forced to mumble this cheery statement to keep their jobs. Working in a high-volume shop like this, they quickly learned to overlook the quirky behaviors of their customers. But four small hot chocolates in an hour raised even the weariest of eyebrows.

“Dollar eighty-five.”

Malcolm pulled out his wallet and found only a dollar left. He hadn't planned on spending so much today. Of course they took credit cards, but it seemed silly to charge such a tiny amount. Then again, he did pay off his card every month, so it wasn't like he would incur interest on the charge.

“That's a dollar eighty-five, sir.

From the other end of the counter an equally disinterested voice called out.

“Small hot chocolate, ready for pick up.”

Malcolm pulled out his credit card and then wondered if he had enough change in his pocket to supplement the single dollar and avoid the hassle of a credit card.

“One moment.”

He dug in his pants, pulled out a few coins and started to count them. There was more than enough here, so the question became which combination would leave the least volume in his pocket as an end result of his payment.

“You again? Jesus H. Take a little longer, why don't you?”

There was no mistaking the voice that yanked him right out of his thought spiral. It was The Cougar. Right behind him. He turned to find her in all of her on-the-way-to-the-gym splendor. Oh boy. How should he introduce himself? Is it inappropriate to approach a woman in a coffee shop before ten
A.M.
? Should he determine some sort of six-month plan to ask her out? That would put them in summer. Do people date in the summer? What if it's too hot?

“Hello. I was about to—”

“Sir, your hot chocolate is one eighty-five.”

“I thought perhaps—”

“I have a hot chocolate. Rrrrready. For. Pickup.”

The Cougar couldn't take it anymore.

“Excuse me, would you mind speeding it up. Some of us need our fix.”

“Hot chocolate, still ready for pickup!”

“One eighty-five.”

Malcolm turned around, whipped out his credit card, and handed it to the cashier.

The Cougar ordered her usual as Malcolm stood casually (in his mind) near where the finished drinks where handed out. Of all the things he had considered while dreaming of this day, his current choice of location was one he knew would pay off. Naturally, the coincidence that it was called the pickup counter was lost on him.

Ideally, there would be a nice lag time between when she ordered her drink and when she picked it up. Time for Romeo to say something clever. Or dashing. Or debonair. One of those.

The Cougar paid up and grabbed the coffee handed to her by the cashier and walked over to the condiment bar. Not the pickup counter. Of course. She hadn't ordered a fancy drink that would be handed out later. She had ordered a regular coffee. Damn the details. He hadn't planned on this. Now what? This was a whole other plan of approach. Should he come from the left or the right? Should he wait until she was done and follow her outside, or perhaps interrupt her stirring with some witty remark? Better yet, why not—

“Hey, Hot Chocolate. You got a name?”

In his flash flood of introspection, he had lost track of his prey and she had snuck up on him. Actually, she had walked right over to him.

“Malcolm.”

“Malcolm. I'm Lola. Would you like to join me?”

Malcolm's only hesitation this time was to take a moment to smile.

“Would you mind if I used the facilities first?”

They sat at an open table in the back.