Formerly Fingerman (23 page)

Or maybe he was ducking because he knew what was coming.

Brittany had to assume it wasn't the lightheadedness from her rigid diet that sent her reeling. She knew what she saw. She just wasn't sure what it meant. Had she grabbed an accomplice and convinced herself that he was a witness? Had she shot herself in the foot because she was overambitious? Was she limiting herself to four hundred calories of pure protein a day for nothing? She sat down to compose herself and review the situation.

She had spoken to Brad. Looked into his eyes. Rifled his stuff when he was out of the room. She really thought she knew him. And now maybe he was in on the murder?

Impossible. She was too good of a judge of character to make a mistake that big.

“Do you think Brad is lying?”

Brittany didn't sound nearly as surprised as Stump might have expected.

“Maybe.”

“Well, why didn't you say something earlier?”

“I was going to. I just had to write this headlin—Hey, wait, why are you asking, anyway?”

Not quite the call Stump expected to get, but exactly what he had been wondering himself. Aside from punching up the copy on those instructional inserts and tightening the disclaimer on the new sport-package mock-up, Stump's to-do list included calling Brittany to discuss a few things that had been bugging him since they put Brad on video.

“We found something wonky in our recovered surveillance footage. Either Brad is lying or he might be epileptic. Have you noticed him acting epileptic at all?”

“Not really. But tell me about the lying part.”

Brittany told Stump about Brad's furtive movement and the suspicions it had raised. She probably exaggerated the nefariousness of it a little too much, but it didn't matter. Bending over can only look so evil.

“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?”

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.

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.

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.

“I feel 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?