Formerly Fingerman (24 page)

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 morning. 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.

Brad woke up happy the next morning.

This in and of itself was not groundbreaking. Historically, plenty of members of the human race have awoken with a song in their heart.

It was the context of the realization that merited examination. With all the worry about losing his job and hiding his unemployment and making sure his thirty-percent-off-wings fliers were finding the right people and the rash the chicken suit gave him and his wife treating their marital vows like the adult diapers Herr Fingerman was now hocking and Frank Fortunato trying to unfriend him in the most painful way possible, Brad had come to be unhappy as a matter of normal course. It had become his natural resting state over the last several weeks. Occasionally he would use the methadone of despair as a crutch, but, in general, depressed was his baseline emotion.

This morning, however, his waking thought was not
Why me?
but rather one of anticipation. And this wasn't a matter of whistling past the graveyard. Brad was actually looking forward to going into work and accomplishing something. Granted, that something was the peacockery of advertising, but nevertheless, it was
something
to look forward to. A tiny beacon of meaningfulness. Hope.

Not being the terribly introspective type, the significance of the change was lost on Brad. Instead he looked at it through the myopic vision of a morning DJ.

I'm baaaaaack! I'm back in the saddle again!

It was maybe the worst Steven Tyler impression ever and those were the only words he knew for the song, but it served its purpose. Brad initiated his own rally cry and sang his heart out in the shower.

He had a new name. He had a new job that was giving him a second chance. He had a new friend. Sure there was a trial to get through and some over-the-shoulder looking to be done for the foreseeable future, but his life was better today than it had been yesterday. And that was something that hadn't happened in a good long while.

Maybe things really were going to work out.

Hello, rat.

As usual, Stump had gone out for the paper before Brad woke up and this morning the headlines informed him of another Fortunato-related death. This time it was on video. Someone had killed a gentleman by the name of Alfonse Amorelli, formerly known as the FBI agent who ran the fake three-card Monte game outside 1635 Broadway on the day Frank Fortunato was arrested. He was also scheduled to testify on behalf of the prosecution against Frank. Once again, not a major contributor, but definitely a guy who could put Frank in the building when a murder was committed.

His killers had strangled him with his own belt and captured the whole thing on a video they posted on YouTube under the title
How to Kill a Rat
. Then they tagged it with popular search words like
sex, porn, tits, funny, twerk, Cyrus, Kanye, Angelina,
and
Kardashian ass.
It had over two million plays before it was removed for breaking indecency rules.

Which made it front-page news, even out there in the sticks of Tucson. Stump dropped the paper off in the neighbor's recycling bin. He would have to keep Brad focused on work today.

When the news of the killing—and more important, the posting of the video—hit the Rikers grapevine, Frank couldn't help but preen a little bit. His stock shot up immediately as the beginning of his master plan came together. Even the Samoans looked at him with new respect.

The news channels squawked about the obvious connection to the trial. Public servants demanded action. But the truth was that the Aryans had done an excellent job covering their tracks. Not a tattoo in sight for the whole video. Nothing identifiable aside from Alfonse's crooked teeth as he fought bravely. Sure the FBI would investigate, but they wouldn't get far.

Frank took a nice, leisurely victory lap around the yard to let everyone know who was in charge. He made sure to give a knowing single nod to Mitchell as he passed by. Nice doing business with you.

Is it possible to consume negative calories?

Ever since Brittany found out about Frank requesting a speedy trial, she had been in a panic. Her case was solid. Her eyewitness was hidden. Jarvis was still making progress recovering surveillance footage. But she hadn't lost the last five pounds. How was this fair? She finally got the perfect break, but couldn't fit into the skirt that showed off her calves so well. It was maddening.

Her grandmother told her to find a bra that squeezed her breasts up high and tight, and the rest would fall into place. Who would be looking at her legs? But Brittany wanted that skirt.

At least her grandmother had someone to keep her busy these days. Not that Brittany was looking for a grandfather figure or anything. She just wanted Lola to be kept occupied. And stop calling so much. Actually, Brittany didn't care what Lola did as long as she stopped dialing her up every ten minutes to tell her that men don't like smart women, so open her top button.

Maybe this new guy was just the thing. He was a bit of an enigma to Lola. They had been on a few dates and she had been dropping hints like they were care packages over the Congo, but he hadn't acted on any of them. And Brittany knew firsthand that her grandmother's hints were tough to ignore. Lola's innuendos were as subtle as a cable network promo and as tasteful as an art sale at an airport hotel. This guy was either a real gentleman or a deaf mute with a head injury.

According to Lola, the happy couple had been out for another date last night. She had used the old
I feel a real chemistry here
line, pretended to sprain an ankle so he would put his arm around her on the way out, and even suggested a quick nightcap and backrub at his place. Nothing. He had checked his breath but claimed to not smell any chemistry, warned her of the dangers of high heels, and mentioned something about his mother needing her sleep for a colonoscopy the next day.

The details were a little fuzzy, thanks to one too many martinis, but the gist of it was that Lola had tried to bump uglies with Malcolm and he had instead walked her to her door, shaken her hand, and left. What an asshole.

The unfortunate series of events was described to Brittany in excruciating detail while she sat with her cell phone to her ear in Jarvis's bay, watching the back of his balding head as he reconstructed all the unimportant parts of her surveillance footage and she continued to not lose enough weight for primetime television. It was like the whole world was against her.

At least the crisis of firing the New York agency gave Brad something to do at work besides bitch. Stump could tell Brad was thrilled to stretch his creative claws because he had been quiet all morning, assuming the role of Relax-I've-been-here-before-guy and burying himself in the vast library of awful stock photography in the hopes of finding some gem that he could turn into a campaign. So far he had only lifted his head a few times to float some not-so-impressive ideas.

“What if we did, like, a fashion week thing and all the models were wearing diapers on the runway and Tim Gunn is there and he's all ‘Mmm! Make it work, girl!' and then we have a line like
Assure, the next big thing in accidents
or something like that?”

“I don't think so.”

“Why not?”

“Models don't wear underwear.”

It was pretty light lifting for Stump, which was fine by him. He wasn't really a copywriter and was far more consumed with his real job.

Two agents related to Brad's case were dead. That meant someone was looking for Brad like he was the last bowl of Chex Mix at a locals bar. They would find him. And if they were willing to kill agents, they wouldn't think twice about offing a civilian. Or a marshal. And there would go his perfect record. He had to be on his toes.

Of course, after three hours of being on his toes while staying in character in the middle of a quiet building at the center of a lonely office park, Stump got a little bored.

He slid on some ear buds and pulled Brad's testimony video up on his computer. Perhaps a little facial action study to break the monotony. He had already broken down more than half of the footage and had made extensive notes on practically every word Brad had spoken.

They broke briefly to grab lunch from the third floor and brought their food back to their desks to eat while they worked. It was self-serving, but unintentionally inspired the other teams. Über-cerebral-writer-guy took his soup to his desk. J-pop-retro-punk-look-art-director-girl canceled her trip to Chipotle and grabbed a burger from the cafeteria. Goth-by-Hot-Topic-interactive-girl wasn't eating anyway because she was body dysmorphic and the hunger pangs made her feel in control.