The Doll Brokers (17 page)

“What am I supposed to do?” she murmured aloud.

“I don't know.” He handed her one of the glasses. “You're the business whiz. I deal in paint, remember?”

“I liked that cityscape you did,” she said suddenly, her mind jumping fretfully again as it had been doing all day. “The one with the vivid green and blue slashed across the canvas.”

He thought of the colors in her bathroom. So she liked green. He moved to sit down on the other end of the sofa.

“I've done a lot of cityscapes,” he said. Safe topic.

“The one I'm thinking of was … I don't know. Bleak.”

“That's the moody side of me.”

“I bought it.”

“What?” He almost choked on his wine. He looked around the room, but the painting wasn't there.

“I sold it not long afterwards,” she said, reading his gaze. “Someone offered me a really good price.”

For some reason, that struck Jonathan as amusing. It was so like her, he thought. Sensitive enough to have bought the piece in the first place, savvy enough to have unloaded it for the sake of a profit.

“Why are you here?” Ann asked suddenly, startling him with another change of topic.

He could have played dumb, could have offered excuses, but he decided against it. “I'm worried about you. The fact that you look like road-kill.”

She swiped her hair back from her forehead with her free hand. “That bad?”

“Worse.”

She shook her head. “I don't know what happened to us this past week, Jonathan.”

“You want my take on it? Unqualified, unmitigated disaster.”

“But
why
?” She launched to her feet and paced.

He watched her: a statuesque blond, barefoot, and in a short leather skirt. Maybe she didn't look entirely like road-kill, he thought, and he shifted his weight uncomfortably.

He'd been okay with wanting her—a little. If he hadn't wanted her—a little—he could have handled starting to like her. Tangle it together and—

She'd said something.

“What?” he asked, his voice a little too harsh. “I can't follow you.” He patted the sofa. “Why don't you have a seat, Ann.”

She ignored his request and continued to pace. “Something about this is too wrong,” she said.

“About this past week? You've been bitching about the industry since we landed in Arkansas. I'd say you were right on the money. You—and I'm not saying you, specifically, because I know Felicia was a big part of this—but you took a gamble and got kicked in the teeth.”

“Jonathan, for God's sake, they bought my
pirate ship
a number of years ago!”

He shook his head, out of his depth. “Was there a bigger market for that? Was it especially clever? I don't know the answer. Tell me. What's the difference between then and now?”

“This doll is
better
.”

He put his glass down slowly.

“I've worked for Hart Toy in one capacity or another for almost seventeen years. Not once have I ever—
ever
—batted zero with Walmart, Kmart, Target
and
Toys ‘R' Us.” She shook her head.
“Something is wrong here. It simply doesn't make sense.” She continued to prowl around the room.

“This sort of thing has never happened before?” he asked.

“No. Not with all four major retailers at the same time.”

He thought about their just completed trip. Their meeting with Linda Figgures at Target had been abruptly derailed by the intrusion of her boss. Figgures had been thrilled with the doll and then her reaction changed. After a quick powwow out in the hallway, she'd told them that there was new pressure afoot to more effectively manage their vendor base. By consolidating, they could get better deals, with lower discounts and longer payment terms. She ended the conversation by saying that she'd pitch Baby Talk N Glow to the powers that be, but she couldn't make any promises.

Then they had batted out with Browns, a two-year-old chain that had sprung up in the Detroit area and had mushroomed quickly into two hundred and fifty stores. Their buyer—Gerry McGuire—had been his coarse, bitterly negative self, almost outlandishly obstinate. At first he'd lectured them on the feasibility of a doll retailing for ten dollars higher than the popular and proven price of $19.99. Then he went on about the ridiculous margin he would make, despite the ten percent package of discounts, continuing to berate them until it became clear he'd really been looking for some kind of cut he could slide into his own pocket. Ann had gotten righteous and stubborn. Another commitment lost.

Finally they'd arrived in Wayne, New Jersey, the home of Toys ‘R' Us, in many ways still the most vital retailer in the toy industry. Ann explained to Jonathan how years before, the core of Toys ‘R' Us' existence had been variety. Close to twenty-two thousand items in all had been offered for sale. But not anymore. Today, instead of cutting their vendor base as Walmart and Target were threatening to do, they narrowed their selection down to nine thousand products which, for all intents and purposes, was the very same thing.

The sound of the buyer's voice had brought them to attention, and Ann and Jonathan followed her to her office. Alison Steinfeld had gushed and cooed over the doll. The five-year-old business with the battery had delighted her. She'd been ecstatic. But the cost of the doll became an issue. Steinfeld insisted they come up with extra money to purchase an end-cap program, meaning the doll would have feature space at the end of an aisle in a four-foot section in each store. This was something Ann was prepared for. If other retailers got wind of it, she would definitely be held liable. Still, it would not be the first time that one major account received an advantage over another. She reluctantly gave in to the cost of the end-caps—to walk away with a commitment of only fifty thousand pieces, which was not even half of what it should have been.

Tom Carlisle of Kmart had never called back, and he hadn't taken any of her calls.

Jonathan now watched Ann move around the room. “Okay,” he said. “What do we do? And for God's sake, don't make me lie to my mother again.”

Her gaze bounced, then settled. “You lied to Felicia?”

“I pretended I didn't know how bad Spain was, that I was in the ozone about the details.”

“Not a stretch.”

He hooked an arm over the back of the sofa. “Mock me now, but this has been a crash course in everything I never wanted to know about toys. Soon I'll be taking over your job.”

“Please? Tomorrow?”

There was a thinness to her voice that made him want to … do something. But, what? Get to his feet? Comfort her? Slay the dragons while she resigned herself to the inevitable? But she wasn't the resigning kind.

A minute or two passed. Then Ann scraped fingers through her hair and glared at him. “Okay, tomorrow I'll call every single one of them again,” she said, her voice strengthening. “Every retailer.”

“Tomorrow's Saturday,” he pointed out.

“Then I'll do it on Monday. We have time.”

“We do?”

“Of course. Nothing will be decided until New York Toy Fair in February, at the earliest.”

“So why are you so concerned?”

“You know the saying about first impressions lasting longest? Well, it's no different here. And the vibes I've been getting back from the buyers are baffling me, to say the least.”

He swallowed the last of his wine. “You'll just have to be patient.”

She looked somehow lost and driven all at once. “I know,” she said, and collapsed onto the couch next to him.

A
nn Lesage would soon be on her knees.

Vincent opened a bottle of celebratory wine, a Spanish rosé. Hart Toy would inevitably have to default on their contract, he thought. And that would set the rest of his plans in motion.

When his cell phone rang he looked at it as if it might be a foreign object.

“What is it?” he demanded.

There was a short silence that Vincent didn't like. “I just heard from Tom Carlisle.”

“And?”

“He says he can't go through with it.”

“I beg your pardon?” Vincent stiffened.

“Claims his conscience is getting the better of him.”

“Did you tell him that you would have full rights to the doll within a matter of days?”

“I did. But waiting for me to put out the doll just so he can have a better price is not something he wishes to pursue. Quote, unquote. Ann's been calling him two, three times a day. He no longer has the heart to disappoint her.”

“Sonofabitch! I thought you said your relationship with this guy was a strong one?”

“It is, but he's got some scruples.”

“Fuck his scruples!” Vincent exploded.

“It's only Kmart. There are others in the running.”

Disbelief charged Vincent's fury. “I want you to listen to me,” he said quietly, his voice turning to steel. “I suggest you call Tom Carlisle and ask for a favor. I will not accept no for an answer. Do I make myself clear?”

The pause was underscored by the other man's breathing.

“Hello?”

“Yes, I hear you.”

Vincent snapped his cell phone shut. Then he hurled it across the room. It hit the bar, sliding into the glasses there. It whirled over the smooth surface like a demented figure skater, finally knocking a few pieces off. They fell over, some shattering on the bar, others bouncing on the carpet.

Vincent left the mess as it was and went to pour himself another glass of wine.

A
nn was working in her office when her secretary knocked and walked in. “Jon's here,” Dora said.

Jon?
Ann came to her feet and stalked into the anteroom. Jonathan sat with one hip on her secretary's desk. “Well,” she drawled, “if it isn't Prince Charming.”

“What's up?”

“Nothing.”
Everything.
“Come on in. And leave Dora alone.”

He winked at the woman. Ann grabbed him by the elbow and guided him into her office.

“Watch it,” he complained. “This is a good sweater. You're getting it all stretchy.”

“It's nothing compared to what I'm going to do to your neck.”

“What's got your panties in a twist?”

“She's young enough to be your daughter.” Ann thrust a thumb in the direction of the anteroom.

“If I copulated at thirteen.”

Ann skewered him with her eyes. “No wonder Carmen is history. You're a pain in the ass. I don't blame her for dumping you.”

“How do you know Carmen is history?”

“Your mother told me.”

“You talked to Felicia about Carmen?” That got his attention. “And for the record,
I
dumped
her
.” He went around and sat behind her desk, just to gouge another reaction out of her.

Ann was wearing blue today, he noted, a long, soft sweater and leggings. And she was barefoot again. He picked up the legal pad on her desk. “What's this?”

“I just got a commitment from Kmart.”

“You're kidding?”

“A hundred and fifty thousand pieces.”

“That's a lot—right?”

“It was what I had penned in for them, before everything started to go to hell in a hand-basket.”

“Which guy is this? Carlisle, right? The one who zoned? You changed his mind?”

“I don't know
what
changed his mind, but I never look gift horses in the mouth.”

Jonathan leaned back in her chair. “I'll buy you lunch to celebrate.”

“It's only ten-thirty.”

“Okay. Brunch, then.”

He saw something in her eye twitch. “Why?” she asked.

Because, he thought, he'd been staring at a blank canvas since 5:30 this morning. Because his muse was Bangladesh-ing in a very big way. And his thoughts of her had been relentlessly filling the void. He'd come to her office without plan or provocation, or a lot of consideration. Maybe because he just didn't want to understand what he was thinking about, or why. “I'm hungry,” he said.

Her intercom buzzed. Because she was closer to the door than to her own desk, Ann simply turned around and opened it. “Who is it?” she asked her secretary.

“Gerry McGuire from Brown's.”

Ann spun back into the room and nudged the door closed with
her backside. She hurried towards her desk. “I need my seat.” She caught Jonathan's sleeve and started to pull.

He came out of the chair. “Damn it, will you watch the sweater?”

“If I can salvage this disaster, I'll buy you a whole closet of sweaters.” She sat and reached for the phone.

“Do the speaker thing.” Jonathan said. “I want to hear this.”

She hit the button and said hello.

“Ann,” McGuire said into the room. “You didn't hang around Detroit very long. I tried to reach you after you left my office but you were already gone.”

Jonathan settled down next to Ann, laced his fingers together behind his head and watched her.

“Why?” she asked McGuire.

McGuire stammered into the quiet, then started again. “Look, your new doll has some interesting possibilities. I'd like to carry her. But come on, I can't compete with Walmart.”

“No one is asking you to. I don't expect that size of a commitment from you.”

His voice went sharp. “How many did they give you?”

Jonathan listened to her jump the question. “Kmart is in for one-fifty.”

“Damn it, Ann, I'm not them, either. I have some constraints.”

“Such as?”

A new silence beat into the room. It made Jonathan curious.

“I need a bigger discount,” McGuire said finally. “One up front.”

Jonathan's antennae tweaked, but he wasn't sure why.