Formerly Fingerman (25 page)

By the end of the day, everyone had something to show for all their hard work. Except Stump. He had picked out a few more insignificant lies from Brad's testimony, but that wasn't the kind of thing you share during a creative gangbang.

Alan paced. He had called everyone together that morning and reminded them he was presenting the work to Jack the next day, which meant he needed to see something at the end of today. Tomorrow was all about revisions and tweaking for Jack.

Mike D. had been kind enough to come down to re-brief the teams and make sure everything sounded good. Everyone claimed to have understood their mission and scuttled off to get to work. Here it was eight hours later. They had better have gotten it goddamn right.

Alan's no-choking policy had served him well so far. A few close calls, but nothing serious. Certainly no behavior that would indicate Alan was about to squeeze the life out of someone he worked with. But he had never been tested during a time as stressful as this one. He stashed his letter openers and scissors in a desk drawer, just in case.

“You ready for us, Alan?”

Brad and Stump were the last to present. So far, über-cerebral-writer-guy and j-pop-retro-punk-look-art-director-girl were the frontrunners with a campaign featuring an anthemic flagship spot that played a gospel choir soundtrack while seniors participated in family activities tinged with a patriotic vibe. Occasionally, the old people would laugh at some unheard joke and high five. Their overarching theme for the effort was
Dry Is Why,
a chorus that answered various rhetorical, empowering questions asked by the stars of the ads.

Alan thought it spoke to the emotional connection consumers can have with a product. Also, it implied confidence to venture more than fifty feet from a toilet. People really responded to that. Mike D. had blessed it as well.

“Right on the money, brother. You're saying if they don't wear our product, they might crap themselves during church and then where would they be, right?”

Über-cerebral-writer-guy hadn't really über-thought of it like that, but sure, why not?

“Something like that.”

Mike D. slapped both hands on the work in a simian display of ownership.

“Dig it. Alan, I dig it!”

“Then I dig it, too.”

So the pressure was somewhat off by the time Brad and Stump made their way into Alan's office to show him what they had come up with. Alan already knew he had a safe campaign to show Jack that would at least fill the inside cover of
Parade
magazine and half a minute of airtime during
Jeopardy!
Everything else was gravy.

“All right, guys, what do you have?”

Brad had done a yeoman's job on the project, conceptualizing the campaign, laying it out, even writing all the lines. He had run them by Stump who had grunted an approval, but that was the extent of any outside influence. This was all Brad.

“Well, we've got five campaigns to show yo—”

“Five?! What the hell are you talking about?”

“Uh, we just wanted to make sure you were covered.”

Alan checked his watch. Always a good sign when you're presenting work.

“All right, let's see them.”

Brad took Alan and Mike D. through the campaigns. There was a wide variety of thought, ranging from surreal executions of metaphors to clever slice-of-life banter to straight-talking authority figures.

“So then he looks into camera and says, ‘We put the
Sure
in
Assure
.'”

“Go back to the other one.”

“
Full Load
?”

“No, the one before that.”

“
Code Brown
?”

“That's it.”

Yes! Brad had a winner. Maybe. Alan studied the campaign featuring wide-eyed seniors in crowded rooms.

“Mike D.?”

Mike D. squeezed his mouth to one side of his face, unimpressed.

“Meh. Back pocket.”

“Yeah, I agree. Not quite on target strategically. We've got
Dry Is Why
and the testimonial thing we saw earlier. Let's back pocket this one. Thanks, guys.”

Back pocket?! Fucking Mike D., as in Douche Nozzle, had torpedoed Brad's one shot at greatness with Assure with a simple
Meh
. Did he even get the bigger concept behind the campaign? Didn't he understand the subtext of the dialogue? Had he missed the whole joke? How dumb was this guy?

“Alan, don't you think you might want to present something a little more conceptual? To sort of round things—”

“Nope. Done.”

Alan stood up, completely satisfied with himself, and brushed some imaginary dirt off of his hands.

Brad's work wasn't even going to be presented unless some sort of disaster happened. Nothing short of the entire gospel-singing population of America getting struck by lightning during a volcanic earthquake would get any of Brad's campaigns presented to Jack. Nope. Done.

Yo was waiting for them when they got home, warming up the PlayStation. Brad spent the evening on the couch next to him, sulking his way through Madden. Three straight losses playing as the Cowboys didn't help matters much.

“This guy knows nothing about advertising. He couldn't creative direct a ham sandwich and
he's
telling
me
I was off strategy?”

“Seems like a lot of effort just to sell diapers.”

True. But this was the microcosm Brad had chosen to care about. He had woken up happy about it that very morning.

“I'm just saying.”

“If it makes you feel any better, he compulsively sniffs his armpits.”

It didn't.

Brad's sleep was fitful and if it's possible for sleep to be spiteful, it was that too. His psyche was saturated with disbelief and anger. By the time five thirty the next morning rolled around, he'd had enough of the battle and dragged himself out of bed.

Brad had an angry shower, followed by an angry shave, and considered a little angry masturbation, but, honestly, was just too tired from tossing and turning all night. Instead, he made some coffee and resumed his fuming about getting shut out of the Assure in-house advertising World Series. Did they have any idea who he was? Actually, no. He couldn't show them his résumé. He couldn't hype himself up by dropping the names of agencies he had worked at or the campaigns he had sort of worked on. All they had was the work that Alan and Mike D. had so politely passed on. And by end of business today, the whole thing would be a done deal. Jack would have all the work and would probably go with that hacky choir thing. Brad considered his options.

A bomb threat? It's been done. Stealing the work and burning it? Kind of baby-ish. Beating them by doing better work before five o'clock today? It was crazy but it just might work.

Quality ideas that did a better job of selling diapers than a nondenominational singing group and preternaturally happy seniors. Sneaky. But that was the kind of renegade thinking that sometimes birthed miracles.

Brad sipped his coffee and thought of the implications. That would mean working his second full day in a row. It would involve the distinct possibility that Alan, and worse yet, Mike D., would once again dismiss him out of hand and move forward with what they had already approved. It could result in further rejection from an even greater authority, and tattoo him with the stigma of the high-rolling loser. Or it could mean some redemption.

Fuck it. Brad didn't like the vine he had been given so he would make his own. And he would tell it where to go. Right back to I-Deserve-This-Success-Ville. Oh yes, today would be a big day. Forget being happy or unhappy. Brad was going to be the motherfucking man. This day would set the tone for the rest of Brad's life. He would dig deep. He would zig and zag and give one hundred and ten percent and all sorts of other clichés it was too early to think of. He would own this fucker.

So he had to reinvent himself. So what? Hadn't people weaker than him done it? Al Sharpton used to wear track suits to court! Of course Brad could do this.

He stared at himself in the mirror and looked deep into his own eyes. If only someone was there to play some heroic montage music as he promised himself a new and better Brad. He would stand tall. He would make the world take notice professionally. He would rebuild himself in the manner he chose. Brad Pitt, advertising giant. And once this trial worked out, assuming it ended favorably in terms of Brad's primary goal of staying alive, maybe he could find his way back into real advertising with his new name and some sparkling new Assure work as his calling card.
Brad Pitt Saves Major Diaper Account!
It was no vodka job, but it definitely merited attention. Between the new name, the new work, and perhaps some strategic facial hair, maybe Brad could even reintegrate himself back into New York advertising. Start over. Take over. God, it would make a great anonymous Twitter feed. He just needed some brilliant work.

But first, he would check his horoscope on the crapper. Why not start the day off right?

On his way to the front of the house to grab the paper, he passed Stump's open door. Brad never woke up before eight on any given day, which meant normally Stump was up well before Brad stirred. But today, he lay stiff as a board on his practically undisturbed bed as Brad tiptoed past and quietly guided the front door open.

The sun was creeping up over the horizon, adding a sort of surreal light of optimism to Brad as he greeted the day. Unfortunately, that light didn't do much for his stunned face as he read the front page headline: A
ND
T
HEN
T
HERE
W
AS
O
NE
.

Holy eff-ing Jesus-on-a-corn-dog shit. This was not the throne reading Brad was hoping for.

According to the article, an agent by the name of Thomas Henry Lewis (also known as the guy who walked Frank down the stairs of 1635 Broadway on a certain fateful day) was not only garroted in a parking garage, but the entire event had been captured on video and put online as a warning to the one remaining witness in the Frank Fortunato case.

And he wasn't the first one this had happened to. According to leaks from inside sources (leaks!), there were four key witnesses—three minor players who were now dead and one major eyewitness who would be delivering the most damning testimony of all. According to the blabbermouths from inside the Justice Department, the eyewitness was in hiding, although authorities claimed to be “concerned” about the situation.

Vast network? Where was the vast network when newspaper-guy, hot-dog-guy, and three-card-Monte-guy were killed? Did they have their own Stumps? Weren't they supposed to
be
their own Stumps? If they couldn't defend themselves, what was
Brad
supposed to do? And by the way, this had to happen on the day he decided to take control of his life? Thanks a fucking lot, universe.

Okay. Brad could now officially check Experience Relentless White-Hot Fear off of his bucket list. He took a deep breath. There were a few alternatives to consider.

He could run. Stump was still asleep. Brad had Brad Pitt's credit cards and driver's license. He could just disappear. Of course, that wouldn't be that much different from what he was doing right now, only without the help of a professional bodyguard protecting him. Meh. Back pocket that one.

He could refuse to testify. And then what? No more killers after him. Probably. Maybe. And no more help from the marshals. No more job at Assure. And no job anywhere in New York. Not much of a future. His back pocket was filling up quickly.

He could man up.

Wait. What? Keep going with the morning's plan?

Yes. He could just pretend he never saw this paper. If they kill him, they kill him, and would that really be so terrible? He had lived a reasonably long, mildly interesting life. Maybe someone would find those half-finished still-life sketches he left in his old apartment and think they were brilliant, and he would get some sort of recognition posthumously. At least that would be something.

Yes, Brad had chosen this path and there was no turning back now. Plus, why let a perfectly good self-generated pep talk go to waste? Whether or not there were Italian-surnamed boogiemen hiding behind every corner, he still had the opportunity to re-create himself in the mold of his choosing. If it helped to flavor that mission statement with the notion that he was the bravest coward ever, soldiering on through life like some tragically flawed, but epically noble, Nicholas Sparks contrivance, then so be it. In his mind, it gave his character depth. Brad imagined the movie poster of his life. A shot of him looking off into the distance. A woman, clearly mourning his tragic demise, superimposed over him. Some sort of female-friendly prop down below, a diary maybe. All set against the beach. Or snow. In sepia. Mmmm, yes. That helped.

He dropped the paper back on the front porch as if he'd never touched it and went back inside to rethink his approach for today.

Stump's eyes popped open exactly twenty minutes after he closed them. He quickly surveyed his surroundings, checked the placement of his gun (still under the small of his back), and listened for anything out of the ordinary.

Brad was up before him. Odd. Probably had a tough night after that massive fail yesterday in Alan's office. But, things could be worse. Let him sweat the little stuff like office politics. Stump would focus on the big stuff like making sure there weren't any red laser-sighting dots on Brad's forehead. The trial was coming quickly and things were heating up.

He brushed his teeth and, when he came out of the bathroom, found Brad dressed and ready for work.

“I thought we could go in a little early today.”