The Funeral Planner (29 page)

“Will Tribute in a Box recruit someone else to take over?”

“They’re so busy merging the bigger homes they acquired that they don’t have time for a small-time operation like this one.”

“What’s the town going to do when someone dies?”

“They’ll just have to call it in from Grass Lake or Ann Arbor until things turn around…if they turn around.”

“What about you, Richard? What will you do?” I ask, concerned for him.

“My buddy owns the Eagle’s Nest. He offered me the job of running the place while he takes off for Australia. So if you’re back this way, stop in and have a beer on me. Good luck, Maddy.”

“Thanks, Richard. Good luck to you, too.”

I hang up. Curious about Derek’s motives, I log on to his Web site to do some digging of my own. I drill down through the pages and find the small-print clause allowing Tribute in a Box a legal out on what is otherwise worded to imply full compensation if a prepaid client moves out of state. But nowhere can I find the details of their investment plan. They reserve the right to supply that information on a client basis—making their policies suspect to say the least.

I call Sierra. “I found a loophole in Derek’s Web site. And we’re going to use it to our advantage.”

“How so?” she asks.

“By modifying our site. I want to highlight our offerings in comparison to what he neglects to reveal, that Lights Out—unlike Tribute in a Box—guarantees nothing less than one-hundred percent of consumer funds placed in interest-bearing trusts that give the client the right to a full refund of principal and interest if they cancel their pre-need prepaid plan at any time and protects them from losses if they transfer from one funeral home to another.”

“But we already offer that,” says Sierra.

“I know. I want to make a bold statement and stress the comparison with Tribute. If competition is supposed to be good, then let’s use it to our advantage. It’s time for truth in advertising. Let’s put our truth out front and center and stress that Lights Out lights up the benefits to consumers unlike Tribute in a Box, which keeps a lid on it.”

“I see you’ve got your fire back,” says Sierra. “I’m glad.”

“Me, too.”

“Send me the copy and I’ll do it today. And, Mad, be careful whom you reveal your fire to.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, what’s with you and Victor?”

“Nothing,” I say, surprised. “He’s my VC. Should there be?”

“I thought I saw a flicker of something between you guys at the trade show. I think he’s a really good guy, Maddy.”

“You saw a good business relationship in play, and it will remain one. And besides, I’m playing my results, remember?”

“What about him? What’s he playing?”

I’m stumped. I never thought of that. “I don’t know. That’s not my business. Besides, I think he’s spoken for, so let’s drop it.”

We hang up. I set up interviews with candidates from
Monster.com
and one of Eve’s top referrals when the Sullivan Funeral Home calls me. They’re one of the funeral homes I created a strategic relationship with at the trade show. They contact me about a high-end, high-profile client. Before I know it, I’m on a plane to Little Rock, Arkansas, to put together a pre-need double header for the governor.

That evening in Little Rock, Arkansas, Governor Anderson sits in the parlor of his mansion drinking tea as I lay out the template for a pre-need plan. I’m quick to take note of all the details in the house, especially the items that point to the governor’s love of motorcycles.

The governor’s deaf mother, Willa Anderson, an elderly woman in her nineties, sits on a couch behind us meticulously knitting a pillow cover, chain-smoking cigarettes and drinking black coffee.

Governor Anderson shakes his head. “Understand that aside from my primary desire to represent the good people of Arkansas, my one and only other love is motorcycle ridin’.”

“I see,” I say, taking notes. “Then how about a hot-rod salute—a fleet of your friends and colleagues on motorcycles laying down some rubber immediately following the ceremony.”

“I like that,” he says, pacing the room. “Let’s do more of that.”

“Okay, well, tell me your favorite song you’d like to have played and if the musician’s alive, we’ll try to get him to sing it in person.”

“In that case, I’d like to hear Neil Young sing, ‘A Horse with no Name.’”

I write that down. “Tell me, Governor, do you watch movies, TV, go to clubs, play sports…?”

“I’ll tell ya what I like. I like jokes. That comedy TV network keeps me sane after a long day in politics. Thing is, I can’t remember jokes to save my life. So I started a little collection of jokes. See here?” He pulls an anthology of handwritten jokes out of his drawer.

“What if you could have a joke-telling festival? Who can tell the best jokes? Including some jokes about you, Governor.”

“Yes! A joke-telling festival. I do believe I like that, Ms. Banks. Do you think we could get some famous comedians, too? Billy Crystal, Jerry Seinfeld, Ellen DeGeneres, Whoopi, and oh, that fellow Larry David! Maybe he could ‘Curb My Funeral.’”

I chuckle. “We can certainly try,” I say, but the governor can’t hear me because he’s laughing so hard. Finally, he sobers.

“Now what about my mother?” says the governor. “I want to prepare for her time of need, too.”

“I can have a conversation with her, as well.”

“No you can’t,” says the governor, flatly.

“How come?” I ask, and stop writing, surprised by his quick, stern reply.

“Because she’ll pretend she’s deaf.”

I turn to look at his mother, who sits there as if she has no clue that we are talking about her.

“The truth is my mother is a first-class bitch,” says the governor.

I cringe at the governor’s choice of words, but I notice that Willa Anderson doesn’t flinch at all. Instead, Willa takes a long drag on her cigarette and blows it in the direction of her son’s face, then misses the ashtray, flicking her ashes on a white lace tablecloth. I wonder if it’s on purpose.

“And proud of it,” he adds.

“Oh,” I say, trying to figure out how best to handle this situation.

“What do you do to honor a bitch?” asks the governor.

“Well, for starters,” I say, thinking fast, “we could…pass out coffee and cigarettes and let everyone bitch…about the bitch. And we could supply knitted bitch pillows as funeral favors.”

The governor points his finger at me. “I like the way you handle bitchin’!”

“Well, uh, thank you, Governor.”

“You want more tea?”

I look at my untouched cup. “I’m good, thanks.”

When I return to Los Angeles late in the evening, Victor insists on picking me up at the airport. I climb into his convertible as he drives me home northbound on the 405.

“How was Governor Anderson?” he asks.

“Great. He complimented me as someone who really knows how to bitch.”

“Good, cuz you might want to do a lot of bitchin’ right about now.”

“So this is a bad-news pickup… What happened?”

“Bobby Garelik isn’t investing in Lights Out Enterprises.” He glances at me to see how I take it.

I pause to take a deep breath, preparing for the worst. “Why not?”

“Because he just put twenty million into Tribute in a Box.”

“They gave him a deal to offset the half million Jonny owes him?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Precisely,” says Victor.

I let out a sigh, and then take stock. “Well, that’s too bad, because it looks like Bobby Garelik just lost it all and more, then, doesn’t it?”

Victor smiles at me. “That’s my CEO!”

I notice Victor’s eyes darken at the fire in my voice. Maybe Sierra was right. I must be careful where I toss my flames.

“I’m moving into new offices,” he says. “I don’t want to worry about competitive intelligence.”

“You think Garelik would commit corporate espionage inside your office?”

“Garelik’s okay, it’s Jonny Bright I don’t trust. He’s got a hacker background and knows the server codes at the office. Who knows what he might have already stolen off my computer. And he may be visiting our offices more than I care to see him now. Besides, it’s time I took some risks and put Winston Capital out there on my own.”

“Wow, this is really big.”

“Yeah, Lights Out is lighting up a new course of action for me.” He turns toward me. “So how about it? Want to share office space with Winston Capital in a tiny furnished shack on Venice Beach for five hundred a month? My share is seven-fifty.”

I look him over. He’s serious. “Will you handle the office setup? I don’t have time for that.”

“Is that all?”

“Does it come with a teapot?”

“And the tea…” Victor smiles.

“Okay, deal,” I say as Victor pulls up to my apartment building.

He parks the car and dangles a pair of extra keys in front of me. “The address is in your e-mail. Doors open at 6:00 a.m. tomorrow morning.”

I take the keys and get out of the car. “Thanks. I’ll be in at ten.” I stop and turn just before he’s about to take off. “How’d you know I’d go for this?”

“I’m the one with the faith, remember?”

“Right,” I say, and watch Victor peel away into the night.

The next morning, I try to sleep in after my whirlwind travels but my internal clock objects. I find myself practicing reclining meditation at 6:00 a.m. as usual. I roll over, write up my action plan, then hear the
thud
against the front door. I’m quickly out of bed, hauling in my
Los Angeles Times, New York Times,
and
Financial Street Journal.
I scan all of them from the only free space in my apartment, my bed.

My cell phone rings. It’s Sierra. “What’s up?”

“Hector Thornton of Thornton Pharmaceuticals just cancelled the life bio video shoot.”

“Why?” I ask, rising to a full sitting position.

“Are you sitting down?”

“Perched. Go ahead, spill it.”

“He’s opting out of the whole deal for a less expensive one with Tribute in a Box.”

“He can’t do that. We have a contract.”

“He says he can, since he included his local funeral home in the contract. And since the local funeral home has a deal with you, he claims he can opt out.”

“But we have a contract with the Baxter Funeral Home.”

“Not anymore…they were just bought by Tribute.”

“What!” I say, shocked, trying to assimilate this. “Okay, thanks. I’ve got to look into this right away. Bye.” I hang up and immediately call the Baxter Funeral Home in New Haven, Connecticut, only to discover that they have indeed been acquired by Derek Rogers’s company.

“The deal was too good to pass up,” explains Mr. Baxter.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was going to, but they wanted everything kept secret until the papers were signed. It was conditional to the deal.”

“But that’s a breach of contract to Lights Out Enterprises,” I explain. “Not to mention damages.”

“Tribute said I had nothing to worry about. They’re taking full responsibility for any legal actions you might take. I’m really sorry about this. But business is business.”

“What about ethics is ethics?”

“Look, they said they would pay you for damages if you sued.”

“And you believed them?” I ask, now pacing among the start-up obstacles in my apartment.

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“So, basically, you think it’s fair for me to have to file a lawsuit and incur legal fees over your actions?”

“Well, no,” says Mr. Baxter. “I guess I didn’t look at it like that. They did such a swell job selling me on this whole thing. They promised this was going to triple my business.”

“How are they proposing to do that?” I ask, tripping over a ream of paper.

“Well, for starters, they’re providing in-house training for nontraditional tributes in a box. The deal comes with a training video, production template, and they’re even throwing in the video camera. And then there’s the major discount for pre-need corporate executives…which is less than what Lights Out charges. Look, I shouldn’t be telling you all this, but now I’m feeling badly for you.”

“Me, too,” I say, holding my tongue.

“I’m sorry,” says Mr. Baxter. “I do wish you the best of luck.”

I bite my lip, remembering that you never know how a ship can flip its sails, that one day I might need to do business with Mr. Baxter again. “Thanks,” I mutter, and then swallow the rest of my unspoken anger.

I show up at the new offices of Lights Out Enterprises next door to Winston Capital at 8:00 a.m. sharp. Behind a glass door I can see Victor on a phone call. The furniture from his former office now looks out of place in the rustic Venice Beach digs. But there are also several new pieces of furniture, unlike any other furniture I’ve ever seen before—a round table with a top made of chalkboard and a center tray for multicolored chalk. It’s all highly stylized, made of bright colors and strange materials. Yet it’s simple and functional with clean lines. I notice a sign indicating an ocean view from the rooftop.