Authors: Jay Giles
Time on the Wire (3 page)
Jens Beck was in the shower. Although he’d won his match and returned to his suite elated, the afternoon heat had sapped his energy. He let the brisk massage of cold water revive him.
At 67, Beck knew his skills as a tennis player were diminishing. He no longer had the big, booming serve of his youth. What remained was a finesse game. Still, when he was on, as he was today, he could dink and dunk any opponent into submission.
Tomorrow’s match concerned him. His opponent was young and agile, quicker to the net than the fellow he’d defeated today. Beck’s concentration would have to be flawless, his shots placed with pinpoint accuracy. He visualized the match, visualized himself winning. Once he won tomorrow, the large silver trophy would be his.
Trophies were important to Beck, in tennis and in everything else. They served as tangible proof he was still young and virile. Beck refused to surrender to aging even if he had to compromise. He knew he could no longer play semi-pro soccer, race automobiles, or dabble in rugby and ski jumping, as he had in his youth, but he rationalized his concentration on tennis and golf as more sophisticated sports, more befitting his station. Tennis and golf were no more or less enjoyable to him than car racing or rugby. What mattered was winning. The charity this tournament supported had been of no interest to him. Beck was playing in this particular tournament strictly because he thought he could win. Each year, he sought out four or five such events and pursued each vigorously.
He loved having a new trophy in his office. Loved the intimidation factor it provided. Guests would glance at it surreptitiously, aware Beck was a man of strength, talent, and, as evidenced by the trophy, accomplishment.
Beck sighed, turned off the water, opened the shower door, reached for his towel. He knew he had an hour’s worth of work to do before he could escape to cocktails and dinner. He dressed in khaki shorts and a dark-blue polo shirt, walked to the living room to meet with his assistant.
Beck wasn’t surprised to find Gerhardt on the phone, jotting notes on a pad, capturing a steady stream of communications from Stuttgart and New York.
Gerhardt saw him, smiled, mouthed the name, Conrad.
Beck nodded. Conrad Wendel, a Daimler finance director, handled most of the planning and budgeting for marketing expenditures. Beck, whose relationships with most of the people in finance were strained, liked Wendel. He was one of the few who understood marketing had to spend money for the company to make money.
Gerhardt sat ramrod straight. He was a pale, thin, nervous man, given to being overly formal. Beck knew that throughout the day he had prioritized the matters that required Beck’s attention. Gerhardt finished his call, looked to make sure Beck was ready, and began his report.
They worked for well over an hour on a variety of issues from media expenditures to creative briefs. Beck made three long-distance calls to Stuttgart and took one during that time. The last item Gerhardt brought up was the four phone calls to Beck from Miles Marin at the local Mercedes dealership. “Normally, I would not even mention something like this to you,” Gerhardt explained, “but when I spoke with Mr. Marin, he impressed on me that this woman from Belgravia & St. James had gone to great lengths to see you, which prompted a thought.”
Beck smiled. Gerhardt seldom offered a suggestion, unless he had something particularly tasty. “Yes.”
“Do you remember Kurt Kampe asked you to see about finding his daughter, Laura, a position with an advertising agency in New York?”
Beck nodded. He remembered. Barely. Which wasn’t good.
Kampe was a high-ranking director at Daimler AG, very influential.
“If Perlman’s firm were to hire Laura, it would be a good thing.
Yes?”
Beck nodded. “I could strike a deal. Let the agency into the review—no promises beyond that. In return, they agree to hire Laura.”
“Precisely.”
Beck considered it. Kampe was the kind of man who would remember a favor and who would remember a slight even longer.
“This woman from Belgravia & St. James? What does she want?”
“An hour of your time,” Gerhardt said, smiling for the first time.
“You’ll have to be on your guard, this woman is clever. Listen to what she did to get this Mercedes salesman to call for her.”
As Gerhardt related the story, Beck couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Can you fit her in?”
Gerhardt pulled out the planner in which he kept Beck’s master schedule. “The best time would be tomorrow for a late lunch, say 1:30. Or you could squeeze her in before your match at 9:00—”
“No. Not before the match. Anything else?”
Gerhardt ran his finger down the page. “Eight tomorrow evening. You could meet with her at the airport.”
Beck made a face. He couldn’t escape in the airport. At lunch, if this woman grew tiresome, he could claim another appointment and leave. “Lunch.” He decided.
“Here?”
Beck nodded. “Talk to the chef. Have him put together something I’ll like and a good wine.”
Gerhardt nervously added to his to-do list.
“Call and confirm the appointment with this woman and arrange a call with Kampe for tomorrow afternoon.”
Gerhardt scribbled hurriedly. Finished, Beck went to the kitchen and poured himself a bottle of mineral water. Gerhardt began returning phone calls, his eighth call was to Miles Marin.
As soon as Miles finished talking with Gerhardt, he dialed the Ritz Carlton and asked for Ms. Perlman’s room.
Three rings later, she was on the line. “Hello,” she said languidly.
“Ms. Perlman, it’s Miles Marin from Mercedes. I’ve just talked with Mr. Beck’s assistant. Mr. Beck has agreed to meet with you tomorrow. He suggested The Gulf Beach restaurant at 1:30 for lunch. Will that work for you?”
“I’ll make it work. Tell me about this restaurant. Big? Small? Crowded? Have to walk a mile from your car? I’m trying to figure out how to tailor my presentation.”
“Hard to say. At 1:30, I would think the place wouldn’t be that crowded. Parking is anybody’s guess. I know there’s parking close to the restaurant, whether one of those spots will be open, I couldn’t say.”
“You mentioned Mr. Beck’s assistant. Will he be joining us for lunch?”
“I doubt it. I seems as if Gerhardt just handles his arrangements.” Miles shifted to the other topic he needed to discuss with her. “Ms. Perlman, what time would you like to pick up your car?”
There was a long pause before she said, “I’ll be there at 10:30.”
“Fine. I’ll have everything ready. See you in the morning.” Miles put down the phone, and strolled down to Larry Jarsman’s office to tell him the good news.
Miles was again watching at the window as Joanne Perlman arrived, this time in a taxi. At the door, she surprised him with a hug. “You did it. This is wonderful.”
“Glad to be of service,” Miles told her as he pulled away. “Your new car is over here.” He led her to the red 600CL, now on the showroom floor. “This is it.” He opened the driver’s door for her.
She slid in. Put her hands on the steering wheel. Glanced quickly around the interior.
Miles spent the next hour telling her about the car—everything from how to adjust the climate control to what octane gas to use for best mileage. She listened attentively, asked questions occasionally. As Miles demonstrated how the car ‘remembered’ different seat positions, she had him program in the one she found most comfortable. She also had him activate TeleAid.
“I’ll feel better knowing it’s working for the drive back to New York,” she said.
“It’s a great feature,” Miles explained as he initiated the communications link to Mercedes. “If you have a problem, all you have to do is press this button. Immediately, it puts you in touch with a specialist in the call center and uses GPS tracking to pinpoint your location for the nearest Mercedes service vehicle.”
“I’m not much of a long-distance driver. Heaven forbid anything should happen. It’s good to know TeleAid can find me and send help.”
Perlman didn’t strike Miles as the helpless type. Granted, New Yorkers often didn’t have or need cars and weren’t drivers. But her body English told him she was comfortable with an automobile. Her concern that something might happen on her drive back to New York struck him as odd. A buyer of new Mercedes generally expected it to operate flawlessly. The joke was: if a problem developed, the call wasn’t to TeleAid, it was to a lawyer.
Miles popped the hood. “There are a—”“I didn’t realize this would take so long,” Perlman said, stepping out of the car. “I have to be going. Let me sign the check over to you.”
Miles reluctantly lowered the hood. “I’m hitting you with a ton of information, I know, but we want you to be comfortable with all the features of your new automobile.” He looked around the showroom. “Let me have someone drive the car outside for you while we go to finance.”
Erin, in finance, was ready for them. She stepped Perlman through all the papers that needed signing—from certificate of title to odometer certification—dividing the signed documents into two tidy piles. One that went with Perlman, one that stayed with the dealership. The last item she had Perlman sign was the cashier’s check. Erin placed that with the dealership’s documents, used a settlement sheet to show all the figures, presented Perlman with a check for the difference.
The paperwork complete, Miles walked Perlman outside, again opened the door for her. “It’s a beautiful car. I know you’re going to enjoy it.”
She slid behind the wheel, gave Miles determined look. “I’m going to enjoy where this car takes me.”
As she entered the Gulf Beach restaurant, Perlman smiled. She knew everyone was watching her, the women searching for faults, the men undressing her with their eyes. Commanding attention was something Perlman had learned as a runway model. People looked at you if you had a wonderful body, but people had a hard time looking away if you knew how to use that body--how to stand, how to strut, how to provoke, how to seduce.
Dressed in a light-weight white silk blouse and black pencil skirt that showed off her long, shapely legs, Perlman put a hand on her hip, struck an attitude. She fiddled with the two gold chains she wore around her neck, scanned the room.
At a table by the window, Beck rose from his seat, grinning. She recognized him from the picture she’d seen of him in the advertising magazine. He held up his wine glass in a little salute. Her smile broadened. She gracefully made her way toward him through the jumble of restaurant tables, sizing him up as she walked.
He looked older than his picture. His face more lined, hair more sparse, thin frame more stooped. Age hadn’t diminished his vitality, however. He radiated energy.
“Ms. Perlman,” he said, extending his hand. “A pleasure to meet you.” They exchanged a brief handshake, more a touch really.
“Please have a seat.”
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” she said as she took her seat. “I know how busy your schedule must be.”
“I have to say you intrigued me.” He held up the wine bottle.
She nodded. He filled her glass. “Your gambit was ingenious. So much better than the usual agency new business mailer, filled with facts and figures for which I have no use. No one else has ever bought a car to see me.”
She raised her glass. “Oh, that’s just the start of what we can do for each other.”
The boldness of her statement surprised him. He recovered quickly, clinked glasses with her. “I like your attitude. You play to win. It’s the only way.”
She leaned forward, rested her arms on the table. “Good. Then you understand I’m not about to take no for an answer. I’m going to do whatever it takes to win this business.”
Beck smiled, raised his hand, signaled to the waiter. “I’ve taken the liberty of asking the chef to prepare something special.”
The young Pakistani man with gelled black hair and a neatly trimmed goatee, wearing a tux arrived at their table with a flourish.
“The wine is good, sir?”
“Quite good, Sanjay,” Beck said. He raised his hand, acknowledged his guest.
“Share with Ms. Perlman what the chef’s preparing.”
“Certainly, sir.” He gave them his most dazzling smile. “To start, Chef is creating a salad of field greens with feta cheese, roasted pecans, and tropical fruit served with raspberry vinaigrette dressing.
This to be followed by Grouper and white asparagus prepared in a wine sauce. For des—"
Beck held up a hand. “I hope you’ll join me in a celebratory indulgence,” he said to Perlman, his smile broadening. “Green tea cheesecake.”
Perlman didn’t want dessert. It would cost her an extra hour on the treadmill. Nonetheless, her smile didn’t falter. “Sounds delicious.”
Beck seemed pleased with himself. “Good.” His gaze shifted to the waiter. “We’ll have our salads now, Sanjay.”
“Very good, sir,” he murmured in parting.
Perlman held up her wine glass. “I understand congratulations are in order.”
“I was fortunate to have a good match this morning,” Beck said modestly, lifting his glass, as well. “Do you play?”
“Yes. But not at your level.”
“Do you have a coach? A mentor?”
“I’m afraid not,” she said as their salads arrived.
“See. There is your problem. A good mentor and you could play competitively.”
“I doubt it. I put all my energy into my work. That’s where I have to be competitive.”
Beck finished a bite of salad, blotted his lips with his napkin.
“Belgravia and St. James is fortunate to have someone with your dedication and style. I know a few people at the agency--Alan Clarke.”
“Wonderful man. Unfortunately, his wife Sharon has been diagnosed with cancer. Alan’s taken it hard. Such a shame.”
“Sorry to hear that. I’ll have to drop him a note. Do you know Stan Mentes?”
“Oh, yes. I work with Stan, incorporating account planning into our new business presentations.”
“What about Mary Lynn Dryer?”
“Mary Lynn’s a dear. She was one of the people who brought me into the company—”“Where were you before?”
Perlman smiled, put down her salad fork, met his gaze. “Why Mr. Beck, I believe you’re testing me—”
“If I gave that impression, I apologize. And please, call me Jens.”
“Thank you, Jens. Please call me Joanne. It’s really not important where I’ve been. I’m here now. What we should be discussing is our future together.”
Beck pushed his salad plate to the side of the table. A member of the wait staff immediately removed it. “Our future. Isn’t that a bit presumptuous?”
“I hope not.” Perlman finished her wine. Beck poured more.
“Well,” he said, “there is something you could do for me that would insure your agency a place in the review.” He paused while the waiter brought the fish, removed her salad plate, refilled the water glasses. “I have a friend’s daughter who is interested in advertising. If you could find a spot in account service for her, I could include you in the review.” He stopped, cut a bite of fish, waited for her reaction.
“Did you have a salary figure in mind?”
“Fifty-five, sixty, thereabouts. The young lady I mention, Laura Kampe, is the daughter of a Daimler AG director. For that reason alone, she would be an attractive hire.”
“We’ll start her at sixty-five,” Perlman said cutting a bite of asparagus. “The offer letter will go out as soon as we receive an RFP from you.”
Beck nodded. “I’m returning to Stuttgart tomorrow, the letter confirming your inclusion in the review will go out to you then.” He smiled. “So much for business. Tell me about yourself, Joanna; all I know is that you dabble at tennis. Do you live in Manhattan, like to travel?”
She spoon fed him bits of personal information while they finished their fish.
Over cheesecake and coffee, she switched the conversation back to business. “You are kind to agree to include us in your review. Wouldn’t you like to see some of our work?”
Beck sipped his coffee. “I am somewhat familiar with Belgravia & St. James’s creative work.” He pretended to look around the table. “Since I don’t see a portfolio, that will have to do.”
“I have some things I’d like to show you that could be the start of a long-term relationship. They’re in my room at the Ritz Carlton.”
Her boldness didn’t surprise him this time; it drew a smile. “It might be good to see what you have.”
“You’re sure? We’re almost at the end of our hour, and I don’t want to have to rush.”
“I can make the time.” Beck raised his hand for the waiter, hovering nearby. “Sanjay, add this to my bill and add a handsome gratuity for yourself.” He stood, took Perlman’s hand to help her up. “Perhaps, we can drive in your wonderful new Mercedes.”
