[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.Noticed the little screen was blinking up apologetically at him: BATTERY NEEDS CHARGING.Well, he was going to be late for work, that was obvious.Not, he supposed, that it mattered a great deal.He’d hand trained his hand-picked staff to practically run the place without him.Wasn’t he, after all, the boss? Didn’t he own the most successful advertising agency in Chicago? Didn’t he still gross millions annually while the rest of the country wallowed in recession? Damn right he did.So a little stalled Boxter problem on a Wednesday morning of a slow work financial week was, in the scheme of things, hardly a crisis.He’d simply have to find a phone somewhere, call the Auto Club.Be on his way again before lunch.Meanwhile, Stan, his partner and right hand, could watch the store.Run the store if it came to that.Stan was a miracle.Stan was the greatest sales representative Mr.Conway had ever seen—ever hired.That was six years ago this month.In the interim months of remarkable growth, Stan had gotten out there in the field, dazzled and tap danced and secured clients like crazy, furnishing Conway and Associates with some of its highest paying accounts.Microsoft? Was it really true their company represented Microsoft now? Damn right it was.And wunderkind Stan Waterman was largely responsible.Had they made the cover of both Fortune and Time in the same week? Damn right they had, while continuing, in these economically challenged times, to run roughshod over the competition.Which is why Conway and Associates had gladly altered the logo on its company stationary to Conway and Waterman Associates, simultaneously cementing not only a new family member but a new family of blue chip accounts and Dow Jones averages.Oh, C.J.Conway knew how to pick ‘em, all right, where to find ‘em.Instinct, that was the answer.Like his father before him.He could find talent.He could find a panther eating licorice in a coal bin at midnight, as they laughed with him and patted his back at company parties.He could find anything.But he couldn’t find a phone.Not anywhere on the entire rundown, disheveled, freezing-ass block.Maybe because most of the block was boarded up or vanished under the wrecking ball.There was the greasy little Mexican grill way down on the corner; they had a phone, one of those old fashioned wall jobs with a rotary dial that was quaint as hell but kept spitting his quarters back indignantly.Two blocks he wandered through the slush and cold and still could not locate a phone.A pizza parlor he tried had one, but not for customer; a dry cleaner had one but the phone company had shut them down, business was bad.A Chinese restaurant certainly had one but they didn’t speak a word of English no matter how insistent his gestures.He wandered on through high drifts and crusted slush until his new $250.00 shoes were wet, his toes calcified and he was right back where he started beside his inert Boxter, which now had a ticket under the front wiper.He’d tried every store and shop in a three block radius.Except one.Funny thing was, he’d never been in one.No, wait, there was that time in the 70’s when Izzy Bickford and he had gotten faced in school and stumbled into that little joint south of Bridgeport, what was the name of that joint? Anyway, he’d been too out of it to remember much about the experience.And now…well, now what was the point? Any twelve year old kid with access to a computer could download more pink, slippery flesh and heaving chests than all the remaining little walk-in sex stores in North America put together.What was surprising was that the dun little shop was still here at all, even on this rundown street.It couldn’t even lay claim to being shabby chic anymore.By its sheer ubiquitous presence, porno had become sooo last year.That a specialty shop like this one could even exist was more eye-opening than anything within its grimy little walls.To say nothing of being an outdated eyesore to the community.Certainly not a place for a successful, well-known CEO like himself; there were certain standards to which he must adhere.Being caught in this dump wouldn’t be considered embarrassing; it would be considered feeble-minded.The place was an anachronism.So, naturally, they had a phone.“Sure, mister, help yourself! On the wall over there!”The man behind the scarred counter was grinning, for no reason apparent, like a Cheshire cat.Neanderthal.Mr.Conway regarded the hand-worn receiver of the old black rotary phone with a jaundiced eye; probably swimming with herpes viruses in a hole like this.Christ, what a way to start the week.But it worked.The filthy thing worked and the Auto Club would be glad to come out and peek at his car.Only thing was, everyone in the Windy City was having car troubles today in this inclement weather, it might take them a little while.Like two hours, actually.Fine.Great.He couldn’t go back to his car because the heater wouldn’t run.He couldn’t hang around the Chinese or Mexican places because it had begun to snow again and his feet were already freezing.He was going to have to stand around this little snatch-happy hellhole surrounded by rack upon rack of coagulated flesh and engorged orifices.It was that or call Stan at the office and Stan was always working a client at lunch hour.He could try a cab, but then he wouldn’t be around when the Auto Club finally got there.He looked up quickly as the shop door dinged and a woman in her twenties breezed in.A woman! In this clit pit! And she was actually scanning the merchandise! Mr.Conway couldn’t believe it.It was…it was……it was embarrassing.May as well admit it.Passé or not, porn could still be embarrassing, still had that going for it.Good for you, he thought, turning his back on the woman and pulling up his collar, power to the peter! He headed for the door.It only took one short blast of cutting, icy wind.In a moment, he was back inside the stuffy little shop, back to the embarrassing woman, back to staring out miserably at the blowing snow and struggling traffic.He dug his hands in his coat pockets, leaned hunched up against the jamb, and wiggled his toes, trying to reclaim some circulation there.Okay, fine.He’d stay right here in the doorway! He still had his brain! He could work anywhere! He could work on the Brewster account in his head, lay out the whole campaign! Filth and embarrassing lady at his back, clean white flakes at his front.Except he didn’t want to think about the Brewster account.It was…messy business, the Brewster account.Something he’d been putting off now for some time
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]