The Doll Brokers (18 page)

“Gerry,” Ann said flatly, “our policy hasn't changed. You get ten percent on Moonlight and everything else we do. Why should Baby Talk N Glow be any different?”

“She's more high profile.”

“You said she was too expensive.”

“Ah, Ann. Come on. That's an old buyer's ploy. Emphasize the negative. You've been around long enough.”

“Don't remind me.”

“I need an extra discount. Say … three.”

“Three,” she repeated.

“If it's now, on the early end, I'll settle for three. I'd just want to structure it so I'm not looking at it a year down the road.”

She frowned, looked at Jonathan, then shrugged.

“Okay,” she said finally.

Jonathan brought his hands down fast. What the hell? She gave a little shake of her head to keep him from interrupting.

“Okay?” McGuire sounded equally surprised.

“Brown's has been in business—what? Two years now?” she asked, seeming to change the subject.

“About that,” McGuire said cautiously.

“In that time, they've instituted a series of fines that's unprecedented in the toy industry. For God's sake, Gerry, you charged me a hundred dollars for sending one invoice through the mail instead of electronically!”

“Damn it, Ann, that's company policy. I can't—”

“Listen to me, Gerry. You got me for
five
hundred dollars for using the incorrect freight forwarder. You hit me for a thousand for shipping three days early. And when I was a day late, you nailed me for
another
five hundred.”

“Walmart does it.”

“Their volume is much higher than yours. They have cause to be demanding. And they're still not as bad as you.”

“What's your point?”

The guy sounded like he was whining. Jonathan thought.

“I'll give you three percent up front, paid to your company,” Ann continued. “But I want something in return.”

Jonathan sat up straight.

“I want you to reverse all those fines I just mentioned,” she
said, “and a guarantee that there won't be anything similar for the next two years.”

“I can't—”

“Then no deal. I've got to run, Gerry. Sorry, but that's the best I can do. The three percent has to come from somewhere.”

“Wait! Just wait.”

“I don't have time for this. Take it or leave it.”

The pause didn't last long. “All right! I'll fix the fines and go for seventy-five thousand pieces.”

“Duly noted.”

Jonathan watched Ann go limp in her chair after she disconnected.

“Now I have Brown's, Kmart, and Toys ‘R' Us,” she gloated. “The extra three percent will be negated somewhat by those fines. It'll come out in the wash.”

Jonathan thought about it. “That was good.”

“
That
,” she answered, standing, “was a girl from Newark.”

She was halfway to the door before Jonathan thought to stand as well.
Newark
? He'd known her for seventeen years and never figured out where she'd come from. Felicia had never told them, if she even knew herself.

Ann had just gambled and won. And she hadn't batted an eye while doing it. Tough streets there, he thought, in Newark.

“Where you going?” he asked.

“To brunch. Bring your credit card. I just worked up an appetite.”

By the time he got to the hallway, she was well ahead of him, knocking on Patrick's door. He watched her turn the knob. Jonathan stepped up behind and peered over her shoulder.

Patrick's secretary was sitting at his desk. Jonathan remembered her as a knockout—he'd met her at last year's company Christmas party. At the moment, however, she was wan and seemed out of sorts.

“Where's Patrick?” Ann asked.

“Um … oh, Ann. He's—uh—at a meeting.”

“Here? In the building?”

“No. Somewhere else.”

Jonathan felt renewed tension coming off Ann like something palpable.

“Look, Verna, when he gets in touch, could you tell him I'm looking for him?”

“Will do,” the girl promised.

Ann turned to face Jonathan. He was too close. She couldn't back up because the door was against her spine.

“You've made the girl nervous,” he said. “Is this the Newark thing again?”

“She was nervous before I walked in.” He was leaning close. What was he doing? Ann tried to ease around him. “Are you going to feed me, or what? There isn't a restaurant behind this door you're trying to push me through.”

“You're nervous yourself, Ann. Why is that?”

She was dying. She wanted him, and she was dying over it. “Back off.”

“It's never wise to bite the hand that intends to feed you, so stop snarling.”

He finally moved. He was five steps ahead before Ann got sufficient balance back to follow. Her pride wouldn't let her hurry to catch up.

V
erna waited a long time in the same position, afraid that Ann would return.

Then the shakes began to course through her body, making her flesh tingle and causing something unpleasant to catch in her throat. That had been close, too close for comfort.

That bastard, that …Vincent, or whoever the hell he was. From a chance meeting in a bar to this, whatever this is. She didn't know; didn't want to know.

She was in love with Patrick. She would never hurt him. But she had run out of options at midnight last night, when Vincent had showed up, pounding on her apartment door. Still fuzzy with sleep, she had peered out into the darkness at his hulking presence, recognizing him immediately, no matter how brief their encounter in the bar had been. It was his scar and a menace in him that was not easily forgotten.

Suddenly, he was inside and she was lying flat on her back, with Vincent on top, straddling her, pinning her down. She yelled for him to get off of her, to get out, that she would call the police. But he had laughed in her face.

When he rose to his feet and ordered her up, she obeyed, wrapping the housecoat she had hastily put on before answering
the door more tightly around her. He moved to the small table against the scarred kitchen wall and took a seat, motioning her to join him. Nervously, she pulled back one of the hardback wood chairs and sat down. Without uttering a word, he removed some eight-by-ten photographs from his briefcase and placed them on the table in front of her.

Verna hardly made a sound, but her eyes sped to the table top. He pushed the photographs closer. Her gaze dropped. They were photographs of her mother, the only person whose safety and wellbeing meant more to her than anything in the world. Her mother, who had carried on penniless after her father's sudden death in a car accident; after her brother's trouble with a series of drug arrests; and after Verna's own missteps through the years. Her dear mother, who had never failed to be there for her. Verna could not, would not, allow her to be harmed in any way. She stood abruptly, a stricken look on her face, and sent her chair flying to the floor with a thud.

“Relax,” Vincent said. “Nothing's going to happen to her. You just have to listen to me. And do as I say…”

Verna remained standing, trying to envision an escape route from her apartment.

“Sit down,” he demanded.

When she failed to respond, he jumped to his feet, gripped her shoulders tightly, and turned her towards the table, forcing her back into the chair. Then the tears came. As the minutes passed, she made no move to dry her eyes.

Vincent began to speak. Although she was only half listening, she heard his message loud and clear. She was to take the envelope and pouch he was about to give her and place them in Patrick's briefcase. Then she would be contacted with further instructions. Once it was done, she would never hear from him again. “I assure you this will be over in a matter of a day or two,” Vincent said as he stood and made his way to the door. Then he turned back and
issued his final warning. “But if you go to the police, or anyone else for help, don't count on seeing your mother again.” With that, he turned on his heel and left.

Seated alone in Patrick's office now, the memory of Vincent's threat caused Verna's shaking to intensify yet again. Too numb to contemplate the contents of the envelope and pouch, she forced herself into action, opening Patrick's briefcase and dropping them both inside.

Verna was about to leave the office, when her cell phone rang. Suspecting who it would be, she reluctantly placed the phone to her ear.

“I want you to get Patrick to take you home at the end of the day,” Vincent said without a greeting.

“What do you mean?” she responded. “He has an appointment this afternoon at the warehouse.”

“Then you'll get him to take you with him.”

“To the
warehouse
?”

“To a bar,” Vincent said. “Get him drunk. As drunk as he's ever been in his life.”

Verna listened without saying a word.

“Then send him on his way. Once he drives off, call the cops and report him, give them the license plate and description of Patrick's car, then tell them that unless they do something he won't make it home in one piece.”

She cocked her head to the side and realized all too clearly that when the police pulled Patrick over, they would find what she had put in the briefcase. “I can't,” she muttered. “I can't do this to him.”

“Fine,” came the bloodless voice over the phone, “then call your mother and say goodbye.”

B
y twenty past seven, Ann was feeling good enough to toe her shoes off and put her feet up on the desk. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the chair.

“Ah.” Her voice hummed. With relief and yes, she thought, with pride. An acceptable reaction when you went to war with all your guns blazing—and won. But she was too drained to appreciate the full scope of the emotion when there was still one more thing she had to do.

She leaned forward to press the speed dial on the phone.

“Are you now ready to tell me the whole truth?” Felicia asked when she picked up the phone and heard Ann's voice.

Ann winced. So much for keeping her in the dark. “Of course.”

“Good. Then how
are
my boys doing?”

Ann blinked in confusion. She'd thought Felicia was asking about Baby Talk N Glow. “They're fine, to the best of my knowledge. But we all know that my knowledge is limited where they're concerned.”

“Pat?” Felicia persisted.

“He was in meetings all day. I didn't see him.”

“Jonathan?”

Ann opened her mouth and closed it again.

“Are you still there, dear?” Felicia asked.

“I'm here. The last time I saw him he was pretty absorbed in the welfare of his favorite sweater.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind. I called to give you an update on Baby Talk N Glow. Kmart is in for a hundred and fifty thousand, and Brown's gave us seventy-five.”

Ann got off the subject of Jonathan fast. Everything was changing with him and she didn't know what to do about it. She didn't know what she
wanted
to do about it. Every instinct she possessed told her that he wasn't going to go away long enough for her to figure it out.

“That's high for Jerry McGuire,” Felicia said, bringing her back.

“He was motivated.”

“Ah, Ann.” There was amusement in Felicia's voice as she read between the lines.

“I got him to eradicate those fines.”

There was a pause, then Felicia laughed. “There's my girl. What about the other chains?”

“I'm still waiting to hear from Target, but they should come in for a hundred and fifty, if management doesn't interfere.”

“And Walmart? No change there?” Ann had finally had to tell her the truth.

“You know how they are. If we were Mattel, we'd have an order in our hands for two hundred and fifty thousand pieces.”

“But we're not Mattel,” Felicia said.

“So we'll have to wait. But they'll come around.”

“Toys ‘R' Us?”

“Hedging their bets, but they're in. By the time I wrap up Meijer and some of the other regional chains, we ought to have at least another couple hundred thousand.”

“Our breakeven point is just over six hundred thousand pieces.”

Ann rubbed her stomach. Anything less, and they'd show a loss. Felicia was sick, but she was still sharp as a tack. “I know. The numbers dance through my dreams.”

“One would think we'd have buyers falling over themselves to get their commitments in,” Felicia fretted.

“You know how it is. Most of them just don't care anymore. One product is the same as any other. The buyers who are experienced and old enough to know better are being shipped out.” It was the only way she could justify how spectacularly bad their trip to the American retailers had been. Nothing else made sense. Their doll was just too special.

“Well, Ann,” Felicia said, “I have one more question before I let you go.”

“Shoot.”

“Are you seeing Jonathan?”

“Am I
what
?” Ann's feet hit the floor hard.

“I'm just wondering about all these trips the two of you have been taking.”

“That's business.”

“Of course it is, dear. And it's explained perfectly by his avid interest in toys.” She disconnected.

Ann stared at the telephone. Wiley old coot. She'd been gearing up for that question through their entire conversation.

A knock came at her office door. It was late and the sound made her jump. She padded barefoot to answer it. Could it possibly be Jonathan, twice in one day? Who knew with him? He was the most contrary, unpredictable individual she'd ever gotten tangled up with. She flung the door open expecting to see his face.