"You really believe everything you hear in the Cove?" I said.
"We're just nervous is all," Ab said. "About our jobs." Several other people muttered agreement and nodded their heads.
"I mean, to be truthful, Michael," Ab said, "people were wondering if your relationship with Clay Traynor was good enough to keep the account. You know him and Denny catted around a lot-"
My smile must have startled them.
They looked at me with peculiar eyes.
"I wouldn't worry about my relationship with Clay Traynor," I said.
"Yeah, Michael?" Ab said, sounding happily surprised, as if he were about to clap me on the back.
"Yeah," I said. "We had a long talk yesterday and Clay assured me that the account would be staying with us."
The way they looked, I thought they might roll out a pony keg and have a party right on the spot.
I didn't want to spoil their fun by telling them the truth- that the account was staying because of blackmail.
The rest of the morning was much like the scene with Ab Levin. People wanting reassurance that things were going to be all right with the agency-i.e., that we wouldn't lose the Traynor account and fall flat. Advertising is largely a business of rumors, many of which are totally false, but rumors can kill you. Too many of our people spent too many hours in posh dives like The Cove and began to think that the world really was the way it was presented in the dank shadows of the place.
Sarah Anders did something she never had done before- came in late. I wasn't watching the clock because I was angry, rather because I was worried. Having caught Gettig and her on some mysterious mission in Denny's office, and having exposed her affair with Gettig, I was afraid that I'd caused her to do something foolish-like confront her comfortable, suburban husband and tell him that she was in love with somebody else. Even though Sarah was a few years older than I, I felt paternal toward her. People's lives were crazy enough. I didn't want to see hers go the way of all flesh too.
Around ten o'clock she leaned against my doorway and knocked once. When I looked up, I was staring at a Sarah Anders very different from the one I was used to. My Sarah was always neat, combed, attractive in a matronly way. This Sarah looked as if she'd been up all night drinking beer and watching professional wrestling-her hair was a tumble, her suit unpressed, her makeup blotchy. But that wasn't what I really noticed-that honor went to the blue-gray circle on her right cheekbone, a splotch makeup could not disguise. Either she'd run into something-or somebody had hit her. Given the events of the last few days, the latter seemed more likely.
"Why don't you come in and close the door, Sarah?"
"I should've stayed home today," she said. She sounded as if she were underwater, her voice lost beneath fathoms of fatigue.
"Please," I said, "come in."
I found her a match for her cigarette, a cup of coffee, and my best priestly manner.
When she was all arranged, the first thing she said was, "I wish you'd stop staring at it."
"Sorry," I said.
She sighed. "Here I'm forty-nine years old," she said, "and I'm living out some trashy teenage novel."
I had assumed it was her husband who'd struck her. But something in her tone made me wonder for the first time.
"I just thought I'd like you to know," Sarah said. "I'm quitting. As of right now." Tears silvered her eyes. "Have to, Michael. Have to."
Despite all the puff pieces about the captains of advertising, most agencies worth a damn are run by two or three women who are ostensibly secretaries or executive assistants. The men get the glory, the women do the work. Our agency was no exception. Denny had spent his time keeping Clay Traynor happy, I had spent mine working on the creative product. Neither of us had done what we should. It had been up to Sarah to remind us about appointments, to be sure to keep so-and-so especially happy (usually because she'd learned that another agency was wooing them), and in general see to it that our shoelaces were tied and that we wore clean underwear in case we got hit by a car.
So I had mixed and profound feelings about Sarah's resignation-mixed in that I would miss her personally but even more I would miss her professionally. She ran the damn place, no matter what the names on the door said to the contrary.
"Sarah, why don't you take the next couple of days off?"
She shrugged. "I'll be busy with the funeral, for one thing." She shook her head. She was one of those women who had spent her life being one of the boys-men were comfortable with her in ways they weren't comfortable with other women. She could hear the grossest story, keep the darkest secret, and work the longest hours-without once complaining. The trouble was, this robbed her of a certain humanity. I'd never thought I'd see Sarah sounding or looking like this. I felt pity and a curious kind of disappointment, too, like knowing one of your favorite All-Americans is really a junkie.
"Denny's brother called me last night," Sarah said. "He works for American Express in Europe. He wants me to make all the arrangements and everything."
"Sarah," I said, "why are you quitting?" For now, I didn't want to get sidetracked.
"I couldn't work here anymore with-Ron," she said. The tears started to become sniffles.
"Then Ron won't work here anymore."
"No-" she started to say.
"I've been tired of his whining for years. He isn't half as good as he thinks he is, and his bitching isn't worth the trouble. Whether you stay or not, Gettig's done." I shook my head. "He was one of Denny's drinking cronies anyway. I don't owe him a damn bit of loyalty." I paused. "He's the one who hit you, isn't he?"
She dropped her eyes. Nodded almost imperceptibly.
"What happened?" I said.
She looked up. "You have any whiskey?"
"Sure."
In a minute I handed her a shot of bourbon. Her years as a partner for men had taught her to drink like one-she upended the shot glass into her coffee. "Folger's was never this good," she smiled sadly.
The bourbon seemed to help. Something like anger came into her eyes as she started to talk. Much better than the depression and self-contempt that had been there before.
"After you found Ron and me in Denny's office last night," she said, "we went out and had some drinks, deciding what to do next about a lot of things-one of them being us. I was starting to feel terribly, terribly guilty about my husband. Ron's very possessive. The more I talked about my husband, the angrier he got. Finally, I told him that I just wanted it over with."
"That's when he hit you?"
"No, that came a little later, when I said I thought we owed you an explanation about why we were searching Denny's office."
"Why were you?"
"You know, I'm not sure. I'm really not."
For the first time I wondered if I could believe this story. Searching an office without knowing why…
"Michael, I'm not lying to you," she said. She had some more coffee, then continued. "Something's been going on the past four months between Denny and Ron and Merle Wickes. Something-I'm not sure what. All I know is that one night the three of them got into a terrible argument and Ron took a swing at Denny. This was in a bar. Things got so bad the bartender threatened to call the police. Nice publicity for the agency, huh?"
"But you don't know what they were arguing about?"
"No. I really don't."
I thought of the photograph Stokes had taken of the person he claimed was the murderer. I wondered if Ron Gettig was going to pick up that photograph this afternoon…
"Where does Merle Wickes fit in all this?" I said.
"I'm not sure." She laughed. There was a certain malice in her tone. "Merle Wickes. He's almost pathetic. If he weren't so sad, I mean. He's got such a nice wife and here-" Then she caught herself and laughed again. This time the malice was aimed at herself. "And I've got such a nice husband, right?"