And-if we were to meet overhead-it needed to be milked for every possible penny.
Not noble, perhaps, but true.
Around three, with a headache starting to work through my frontal lobes, I decided to walk through the shop, kind of an inspection now that I would be running the place myself. I wasn't sure what provisions Denny had made in his will for his part of the agency, but I felt sure he would have left it to somebody outside the business.
Ordinarily, I didn't like walking the length and breadth of the shop because it was too much like spying: Douglas Mac-Arthur inspecting all the funny little yellow troops at his command. Today, though, alone, I picked up layouts, looked at copy, played some videotapes, and in general learned that we could turn out good creative work on a rather consistent basis.
I was headed back toward my office after spending an hour in the shop when I heard the noise coming from Denny's office.
At first I thought it might be Bonnell back again, but there was a furtive edge to the sounds of drawers being opened and closed, closets being searched…
On impulse, I picked up a knife used for cutting packing tape as I moved closer to Denny's office…
They were so busy they didn't even hear me. Both of them looked sweaty, almost feverish, they were working so quickly.
"Hello," I said.
Sarah Anders looked up first. Her tears were long gone, replaced now with a resolute kind of anger.
Then Gettig whirled to look at me. He had been working on the wall safe Denny kept behind the framed photograph of his father, while Sarah had been working through the bookcase, dropping books as she went.
As usual, Gettig was dressed like the lead in a beer commercial. Today he was trying to look like a Jack London seaman-thick black turtleneck, heavy belt holding up designer jeans. I almost expected him to call me "matey." Instead, he said, "Get the hell out of here." Then he started stalking toward me.
I'm not going to pretend that I'm tough, or even especially physically adept. But at that precise moment I had two things going for me. One, I was composed enough that I could set my balance; two, I genuinely disliked Gettig, which made what I was about to do a very pleasant task.
I got him a good clean shot across the jaw and he sagged before I could get him with another one. He slumped against the desk, his eyes vague.
Sarah grabbed my arm. "Don't hit him again, Michael. Please."
It was in her voice and gaze, something I wouldn't have ever suspected. I wondered how and when they'd gotten together-and why. I couldn't imagine an intelligent, sensitive woman like Sarah with a cartoon like Gettig. But there it was-pity and fear and passion in her eyes and voice all at the same time.
"What are you looking for Sarah?" I snapped.
"Just…" She seemed on the verge of talking when Gettig regained his feet.
"Don't tell him a damned thing!" he said.
Sarah flushed. "Ron, please…"
I thought of Sarah's plump, friendly husband sitting out in the suburbs somewhere. Well, I supposed that for all his flaws, Gettig was exciting in his foolish way…
"Get out," I said. Obviously neither of them was going to talk.
"He's got something of mine," Gettig said, rubbing his jaw. "I want it."
"Take it up with his estate."
Sarah, sensing that the punches were going to start flying again, took Gettig's arm. He wrenched it away violently. She looked as if God had just spurned her.
Then Gettig said, "C'mon," and stormed out.
She stared at me then followed him out, turning back only at the last. "Denny really did have something that belonged to Ron."
I thought of Clay Traynor using similar words to explain why he'd gone out to Denny's last night.
"Sarah, why the hell would you get mixed up with somebody like Gettig?"
Anger flashed across her eyes. "You don't have a right to judge me!"
Her words hurt me just enough-obviously I did have a tendency to be overly judgmental-that I could do nothing but shake my head.
Then she followed her lover out and disappeared down the hall.
For the next ten minutes the echoes of all the anger rang in the room. I sat in Denny's desk chair and thought of the better times when we'd been younger and gotten along. I looked at the awards that covered one entire wall and thought of all the great work we'd done over the years, despite any number of personal ups and downs.
It was while I was mellowing out that I started wondering again what it was that Gettig and Sarah had been looking for. On the floor around my feet were small piles of stuff they'd left from their search. I started putting the things back into the drawers they'd been taken from.
Which was when I found the newspaper clipping about the robbery.
At the time it didn't make the least bit of sense to me and I wondered why Denny had kept it in his desk at all.
I also wondered why I felt compelled to put the clipping in my pocket and take it along with me when I went home.
NINE
By the time I reached the parking garage, a winter dusk had settled over the chill air. The garage was in shadows. On my way to my car I heard my name called out cheerfully. Ahead of me in the gloom, I saw Tommy Byrnes wave and walk toward me.
My stomach did unpleasant things. We hadn't really talked since our conversation in my office. I was going to have to be very nice and very apologetic and at the moment the prospect of being either wearied me.
Tommy came toward me like a shy animal. "Hi," he said.
I nodded. Decided to get it over with quickly. "Sorry about yesterday, Tommy. I'm not in the best frame of mind. You know how that goes-little things, insignificant things, irritate me. I want you to know I think you're doing a good job."
"Thanks," he said. Obviously he was half afraid to speak, afraid he'd make me angry again.
We walked to our cars in tense silence.
"I really do want to be in advertising," he said finally.
"I know you do, Tommy. I just can't figure out why."
He was surprised. "But it's a great field, Michael." He was still self-conscious about calling me by my first name but he was learning. "I mean, it's really creative."
"I don't think so," I said. "You don't? Really?"
"We're dabblers, Tommy. That's what most of us are. We can't write novels or poetry so we dabble at writing copy and make a very big thing of how 'creative' we are. Or we can't paint seriously so we go on about how inventive we are and throw a lot of awards dinners so that everybody will know that we're important. In a way, the account executives are the most honest of all of us. They're whores and most of them don't pretend to be anything else." I looked over at his young, shocked face. This wasn't anything remotely resembling what his professors would be telling him-particularly not with the venom I could hear in my voice.
"So how come you stay in it, then?"
"Very simple. There's nothing else I can do that people will pay me half as well for."
"But you're a good writer. You really are."
This time I could sense he wasn't offering idle ass-kissing. He was being sincere.
"A good copywriter, Tommy. You've got to make that distinction. It's one thing to write a clever little ad and it's another thing entirely to write something worthwhile."
"But you've won Clios. That should be worth something."
"It wouldn't be worth a hell of a lot to Hemingway." I laughed. "Tommy, this is a field where agency people who help pollute the air and feed chemicals into the food supply are given statues of appreciation." I stopped at my car and clapped him on the shoulder. "There I go again, Tommy. Sorry. I'm not in the best of moods."