SS Glasgow Castle 2 Chapter Two

Bollicker's was founded in 1936 by Herman Volcker, an Austrian butcher who sold smoked horsemeat as pastrami and quickly got rich. Following the inevitable discovery of his little fraud, he departed for the sunny sh.o.r.es of Florida. His son Joachim renamed and redecorated the delicatessen, turning it into an upscale restaurant. That was in 1940; fifty years later, Bollicker's was one of the most chic establishments in town. Its heavy black doors hissed shut behind many a celebrated back; the toilets were liberally wallpapered with signed photographs of politicians, movie stars, and millionaire salesmen.

I strode up to the door and put my hand on one of the heavy chromed handles, the shape and size of a policeman's truncheon. I hesitated for a short moment, pretending to watch the cab I'd been riding in pull out into the traffic. When its red tail lights became indistinguishable from all the others, I went in.

"Crystal Room," I said curtly to the smiling, tall teenager that had been lurking behind a potted palm next to the entrance.
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"Yes, sir." He seemed dismayed I did not have an overcoat to hand over. "This way." I followed his bobbing, shorn blond head down the corridor.

I was late; the party had begun at seven, now it was almost eight. I entered the dining room (one of Bollicker's three – there was a Bra.s.s Room, read bar, and a Golden Room, read ordinary dining room, plus the Crystal Room, which was usually reserved by parties for parties). The last of my fellow workers were drifting away from a large sideboard littered with the debris of a.s.sorted appetizers, taking their seats at the small round dining tables. I felt a stab of dismay – I didn't know where I was supposed to sit. I scanned faces and heads perched atop unfamiliar evening costumes, looking for Tad's s.h.a.ggy head. I couldn't find him.

"You made it," a voice breathed into my left ear. I turned. Jim or John Robinson was grinning as usual, left hand discreetly adjusting the crotch of his pants. He was wearing a tuxedo. When you wear a suit every day to work, a tuxedo is the least you can do on special occasions.

"Yeah, Donna decided to stay and take care of Bonnie." Bonnie is the name of my imaginary daughter. "I have no idea where I'm supposed to sit." I glanced around the room and saw that most of the guys, not just the top bra.s.s and the perennially elegant Robinsons, were wearing tuxedos.

"The creatives are there, in the left corner." He extended a manicured finger, and turned away with a final flash of faultless teeth. I cut across the empty center of the room. No one looked up, no one shouted a greeting. Maybe they all were really hungry.

I slowed my step as I approached the group of maybe half a dozen tables in the indicated corner. Peter Haslam, Creative Director and king of the creative types, was there; his shaven head was bowed attentively as he listened to a whispering Paula Johnson, the departmental secretary. Kurt Kenner, a.s.sociate Creative Director, sat on Haslam's left, staring moodily at an empty winegla.s.s. There was an empty seat at their table, but I didn't think it was intended for me. I always sat next to Tad on those occasions.

Where was Tad? I stopped and swiveled on my heel, and caught Joan's eye. She was a senior art director that somehow seemed threatened by my presence from the day I was hired; now she smiled and waved, the puffy sleeve of her golden, shimmering blouse fluttering above her elbow, like a flag. She was seated with three junior types; there weren't free seats at her table, either. There weren't any free seats at any of the creative tables, except Haslam's and Kenner's. Where was Tad?

"Oscar." Haslam had actually got his two hundred and eighty pounds up; he was standing a few feet away, breathing through his mouth, big blue eyes glistening with belligerent worry. He gave me a come-hither wave, and retreated towards his table. I followed uncertainly.

"Sorry I'm late," I began, sitting down. "Bonnie – " Haslam silenced me with an upraised fat palm.

"Not to worry, not to worry," he said softly. His eyes said otherwise. Kenner and Paula Johnson were silent, looking at me with something akin to new appreciation. I noticed, with a small shock, that Paula Johnson wasn't smiling. I nervously checked out my suit with a couple of glances. No, there were no stains on the lapels, and my shirt collar felt correct. I fingered the knot of my tie; it seemed straight.

"Avocados with tiger shrimp," Kenner said luxuriously, licking his chops. I had lunch with him once, soon after joining the agency. I came over from Delta Communications, a small shop with a reputation for firecracker creative; Schutz, Bellamy, and Berger was a big place that was trying to spiff up its grey, solid image with an infusion of new blood. Kenner was the designated interrogator of new talent; he would take everyone to Swiss Chalet, where he would order an extra plate of fries in addition to the mound that came with his ribs. He would ask questions only after he had dealt with the primary plate, picking up the fries one by one, dipping them in sauce, and stuffing them thoughtfully into his round mouth as he listened to the answers. He and Haslam made a good pair; at one time, there had been a bet who wears larger pants, and it was meant very literally.

A white-sleeved arm deposited the advertised avocado in front of my nose. I picked up a spoon and started digging, trying to avoid looking at the others. Haslam and Kenner don't eat; they devour. I felt an unexpected tingle of dread pa.s.s along the back of my neck, and decided not to ask about Tad.

"Delicious," I said, instead. Haslam and Kenner agreed with enthusiastic grunts; Paula gave me a beautiful smile. I felt much relieved.

"Where's the wine?" Haslam asked plaintively. Kenner straightened in his chair as if he had received a small, not unpleasant electric jolt.

"Peter, you're a genius. A f.u.c.king genius. This is it. It's exactly what we need for Petouche." Petouche Wineries were one of SB&B's small but prestigious clients. "I can see it. It's right here. Same setting. Elegant couple gets served, pan of the beautiful food, CU of wine chilling in a bucket. Man looks at it, asks: 'Where's the wine?'"

"No. The woman looks and says, 'Where's the wine?'"

"f.u.c.king genius."

Haslam nodded slowly.

"It ain't totally bad," he said. "Give it to Greg tomorrow - no, tomorrow's half-day – s.h.i.t, give it to him anyway to storyboard it for the twenty eighth. When are we meeting those people, twenty eighth or ninth?"

"'Eighth. Want me to write the copy?"

"Why not – you did already."

"That's really brilliant," said Paula Johnson, smiling brilliantly. Her tone reminded me of a mother complimenting a slightly r.e.t.a.r.ded child.

"It's good," I said, with sincerity. Kenner beamed, and fell to his food with fresh enthusiasm.

I was still halfway through the avocado when, once again, I felt unexpected dread. You develop a kind of a sixth sense when working in advertising – after all, you're working in communications, with special emphasis on subtle insinuation, veiled suggestion, and innuendo. I looked up from my plate; there was a lone figure standing in the entrance to the Crystal Room. I quickly identified it as one John MacArthur, a freelancer occasionally hired to help with new business pitches. His gla.s.ses flashed as he looked around –

"John's here," Paula Johnson, ever the efficient secretary, said matter-of-factly. Haslam's spoon froze halfway to his mouth, dribbling Thousand Island sauce onto the white tablecloth. His eyes met mine, and they said I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, and suddenly I understood why Tad wasn't with us.

"You left early today," Kenner said softly. I stared at him – my cheeks and ears were starting to burn. "Berger came in at quarter to five. His wife works out at Sunnyside Spa, and she happened to run into yours just yesterday. She asked about the delicate health of your daughter." Kenner paused to cough, discreetly raising the back of his hand to his mouth.

"They told me to get rid of a team by New Year's," said Haslam. "I didn't want to. It was still up in the air, I think, but this – "

"It was very embarra.s.sing for old Penny Berger. There were all those people listening. She had to say she made a mistake, and she hates making mistakes." That was Kenner.

"She hates admitting she made one even more." Haslam.

"And then you left early – you weren't there when Berger wanted to talk to you."

"He just told me, Peter, either it's you and Kurt, today, or Hansen and Kornik." Me and Tad. "I tried to get him to let it be for a couple of weeks. I reminded him we're a writer short as it is. He picked up my phone and told MacArthur he was hired full-time, asked him to come to the do tonight. Then he went and fired Tad."

"The Robinsons said you weren't planning to come tonight, otherwise we would've at least set up an extra table." Kenner. Paula Johnson didn't say anything; she just kept on smiling.

I got up awkwardly. The chair legs made a hideous, screeching noise on the parquet floor.

"Good night, Peter," I said. "Good night, Kurt."

"I'll make sure you get a good package," said Haslam. Kenner said something too, but I didn't hear him – I was already walking to the door, concentrating hard so as not to trip over my own feet. I stopped by MacArthur.

"Your seat's there, John," I said, pointing. "Welcome to SB&B." His mouth moved soundlessly. I patted his tuxedoed arm, and walked out.