The Job (6 page)

“Maybe.”

“Well, I certainly know all about you.”

“Do you really?”

“Oh yes,” I said, trying to ignore the tinge of sarcasm.

“MicroManage: makers of the Disc Liberator. The no-sweat way to liberate your hard drive of unnecessary files.”

“Very impressive,” Lizzie said.

“In fact,” I continued on, “Disc Liberator is safer than any other Windows cleanup utility. More thorough than an application’s own de-installer. And faster than…”

“So, you really have read our advertising copy.”

“Part of my job. And it’s also my job to get you to advertise with CompuWorld.”

“But PC Globe is the main player in the market-and we already have a relationship with them.”

“You know, Lizzie, the problem with main players is that they always believe they’re the only game in town-that they don’t owe the customer a little respect….”

“Just respect?”

“And, of course, a discount.”

“What kind of a discount?”

“Put it this way, our rack rate for a full-pager, middle of the book, is thirty-five. But with a new customer like MicroManage, we’d be in a position to give it away at-” “Thirty,” she said.

“Wish I could, but I can’t shave twelve percent off the-”

“That’s still a ten percent shave. Thirty-two-five, on the other hand-” “Sold.”

“What?” I asked, taken aback.

“Sold,” she said.

“What’s, uh, ‘sold’?” I sputtered.

“The MicroManage ad. A full-pager. Your July issue, if that’s possible….”

“I’ll personally ensure that it runs then.”

“Good. Just one thing: Though we’re not after a premium position, if you bury us near Classified, we don’t talk again.”

“That won’t happen.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Because, uh… well, it would be nice to talk again.”

“Would it really?” she said, avoiding my gaze and straightening brochures.

“Yes. It would. If, uh, you were interested …”

“Maybe,” she said, handing me her card before returning to the business of tidying up the stand.

“Mosman and Keating Public Relations,” I said, studying the company name on the card.

“What’s your relationship with MicroManage?”

“I’m their PR representative.”

“But who handles their advertising?”

“Bruce Halpern at Ogilvy and Mather. But he usually authorizes any advertising recommendation I give him. Of course, if you want to speak with him directly …”

“No, no, I wasn’t suggesting-” “I mean, if you’re worried about dealing with a lowly press rep…”

“I’ve offended you, haven’t I?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“I’ll live.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted. You’re kind of new at this game, aren’t you?”

“Is it that obvious?” I said.

“Rule Number One: Never overplay your hand. Especially when the other nartv has sienaled that they’ve boueht your spiel.”

“So you will talk to me again?”

A slight arching of her eyebrows.

“Maybe.”

During the next week, I called her three times at her office. She was always “in a meeting.” The fourth time around, she deigned to answer.

“You’re kind of persistent, aren’t you?” she said after taking the call.

“And you’re very good at playing hard to get.”

“Oh, I get it. If a woman doesn’t call you right back, it must be some sort of flirty game she’s playing. It has nothing to do with the fact that she might just have a high-pressure job.”

“So I suppose dinner tomorrow is out of the question?”

“I guess I could spend an evening listening to your sales pitch.”

Now that’s what I call attitude-of the sort that most guys would find a little too hot to handle. But I was charmed by Lizzie’s self-assurance. Behind the flirtatious bravado, I sensed that she was a fellow urban hopeful-someone who was also trying to gain a foothold in the big bad city.

“You close. I influence.”

I remember the moment when she said that line and stroked my hand with her index finger. It was during that first dinner together. It was late, the plates had been cleared away, we’d polished off a martini each and a bottle of zinfandel, and had just asked the waiter for two more glasses of wine to keep the alcohol flowing. Maybe it was excess intake of booze, or maybe it was the soft lighting that made her seem even more radiant than when we first met. Or maybe it was the fact that, ever since sitting down together two hours earlier, there hadn’t been a nanosecond’s lull in the conversation. I knew that we had clicked. Whatever the reason, I suddenly looked up at her and blurted out:

“You know, I’m going to marry you.”

After this dumb revelation, there was a very long silence-during which I really did pray for the floor beneath my feet to open up and swallow me whole. But Lizzie didn’t seem even remotely nonplussed by my drunken proposal. Instead, she kept running her finger across the top of my hand, while working hard to control her

Finally she graced me with a tipsy smile and said, “You really do have a lot to learn about salesmanship.”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry. That was the all-time stupidest comment in recorded history….”

“Shut up and kiss me,” she said.

Much later that night, at her tiny studio apartment on Nineteenth and Second, she turned to me in bed and said, “You see, persistence does pay off.”

“So does playing hard to get.”

“Wise guy,” she said with a laugh.

“I give as good as I get.”

“You mean, just like me.”

“Old Irish saying: There’s a pair of us in it.”

“Oh, is there?”

I put my arms around her and drew her close.

“I think so,” I said.

She snuggled against me.

“Well see.”

It had been four and a half years since that first drunken night together, and there was still “a pair of us in it.” Don’t get me wrong-I’ve never been one of those smug clowns who waxes lyrical about how he has the “perfect partnership.” We are, after all, different people. Lizzie has a very black-and-white view of the world, a belief that the line between right and wrong is a clearly defined one. And though I also like to consider myself an ethical guy, I tend to see several angles lurking behind every situation.

So, though we’d been all but inseparable since that initial dinner (and were married in 1994), we had hit the inevitable bouts of turbulence… and just the month before we had negotiated our way through a rough passage that (had it been allowed to fester) could have swamped us. But what marriage hasn’t weathered bad weather, right? And, at heart, I knew we were in it for the long haul because… well, put it this way: Words like don’t or you can’t or I won’t allow it had never passed between us. We don’t compete professionally, or play mind-fuck games of one-upmanship. We actually like each other. More tellingly, we still have the capacity to amuse each other. And how many couples can say that after nearly five years together?

Of course, we do have differences of opinion. Like on the matter flan and Geena. I like Geena, and enjoy lan in small doses. Of course, I like to banter with him. But whereas Lizzie takes his name-dropping in stride, I always find myself competing with the guy. Maybe that’s because, at heart, I am secretly impressed by the fact that he went to the same school as John F. Kennedy, Jr.” had recently written a lengthy profile of Peter Jennings for Mirabella, and seemed to know everybody of journalistic and literary importance in New York.

That’s a fundamental difference between Lizzie and myself-she doesn’t get overawed by everything cutting edge-that world, according to New York magazine, that dictates what you should be eating, drinking, watching, reading, or talking about. Of course, she thrives on “being in the know” and occupying the inside metropolitan track, which is such an elemental part of public relations work. But unlike me, she never fears the loss of her power to convince. Nor does she feel the need to prove her credentials as a heavy-hitter by always flashing the AMEX Gold Card.

“We’ll take care of that,” I offered as the check arrived.

Lizzie’s lips tightened, but she said nothing.

“Ned, it’s a fortune here,” Geena said.

“At least let us split it.”

I fingered open the half-folded bill that the waiter had placed in front of me. Three hundred and eighteen dollars. Ouch.

“You guys can do the next one,” I said, tossing my American Express card down on the little tray and praying hard that it would be accepted (I’d gotten a letter from AMEX earlier in the week, all but threatening me with grievous bodily harm if I didn’t pay up my overdue bill).

“I must say,” Geena said, “for once, all the hype was true. Those ri sotto cakes were truly amazing.”

“And at least they didn’t charge us for the high celeb quotient,” Lizzie added.

“Speaking of which,” Ian said, “look who’s walking in right now.”

Along with everyone else in the main dining room, we all briefly craned our heads to watch the entrance of an exceptionally tall, powerfully built man in his early fifties. Everything about him exuded authoritative ease. At six foot four, he towered over the room. There was not an ounce of flab on his domineering frame. His face was Derma-tanned. His suit and shirt looked Savile Row. His blue gray eyes were clear and hard. But what really struck me were his hands. They were as immense as bear paws. The grab-all hands of a grab-all man.

“Well, well,” Ian said, “the Great Motivator arrives.”

The Great Motivator. Better known as Jack Ballantine. If you’ve been alive and cognizant for the past twenty years, you’ve undoubtedly read all about the Jack Ballantine story. How he grew up as a steelworker’s son in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, discovered a talent for football in high school, won a full scholarship to Michigan State, became the most renowned college quarterback of the mid-sixties, then led the Dallas Cowboys to three Super Bowl victories during his high-profile professional career.

Jack Ballantine wasn’t just an ace quarterback, however. He was also a glitz-freak, someone who drove 150 miles per hour in the fast lane. During his decade with the Cowboys, he cultivated a reputation as a full-fledged convert to the Playboy worldview. A string of Ferraris. A string of Hollywood actress girlfriends. A string of designer bachelor pads in New York, the Hollywood Hills, Vail, and Dallas. And a propensity for trouble-for picking fights in bars, punching out nosy journalists, and allegedly hanging out with guys whose names were well known to federal law enforcement agencies.

Everyone expected Ballantine to end up as an archetypal screwed-up jock, someone who, upon retiring from the NFL, would blow most of his fortune on nose candy, rapacious women, and bad investments. Instead, he surprised the world by moving to New York in 1975 and becoming a self-styled real-estate developer. The cynics laughed-and predicted he’d be in bankruptcy court within twelve months. But Ballantine turned out to be a shrewd businessman. Starting with a series of small property acquisitions in the outer boroughs, he gradually moved into the Manhattan marketplace, cutting a series of big-news deals in the early ’80s that guaranteed him a multimillionaire lifestyle and the status of a player.

But Ballantine being Ballantine, he wasn’t satisfied with the humdrum role of multimillionaire developer. Rather, he had to transform himself into the Master Builder-Mr. High-rise, who, during the height of Reaganomics, imprinted his very own stamp on the Manhattan citvscaDe. Bie buildiners. Bier deals. Two heavilv publicized marriages. Two heavily publicized divorces. A man who sold himself to the public as the great entrepreneurial patriot of his time: Capitalism’s Great Quarterback.

Of course, there were endless rumors that much of Ballantine’s empire was built on sand-that he was constantly on the brink of financial collapse. Just as there were loud whispers that he played fast and loose in business-that he was a man with a flexible set of scruples.

Then, in 1991, it finally all went wrong. A casino deal in Atlantic City fell apart. A huge high-rise development in Battery Park City spiraled way over budget. Ballantine’s corporate cash flow dried up. He was $200 million in debt. His bankers decided that he was no longer worth the gamble. So they pulled the plug. And the Ballantine building empire crashed and burned.

It was a widely publicized downfall. And the public loved it. To many people, there was something deeply satisfying about watching the Waterloo of such a towering testament to self-admiration. We may worship success in America, but we are also riveted by failure. Especially when the individual in question has committed the sin of hubris. Pride goeth before a fall, after all. Particularly in the City of New York.

Though his business may have gone to the wall, Ballantine wasn’t exactly reduced to selling pencils in front of Bloomingdale’s, as he managed to hang on to most of his substantial personal assets. But after filing for bankruptcy, he did slip out of the public gaze for around three years. The man whose face once dominated the New York media simply vanished from view-and all sorts of gossip began to fly about how he’d had a nervous breakdown, and had become a Howard Hughes-type recluse on some obscure Caribbean island.

As it turned out, Ballantine used his three-year sabbatical to kick back and consider his next move. Because when he emerged during 1994 and again found the spotlight it was under the guise of his newfound persona. Mr. High-rise had become the Great Motivator-and he started cleaning up on the lecture circuit, giving uplifting, preachy talks about his win-win philosophy of life, and how it had given him the strength to reinvent himself after watching his

He also started churning out personal empowerment books. To date, he’d written three. They were all national best-sellers. They had titles like The Success Zone and The “You” Conquest. They were brimming with gridiron metaphors, and they all trumpeted Ballantine’s basic worldview: Though the skillful tactician may travel far down the playing field, the guy who hits hardest actually scores the touchdown.

So, having fallen from grace, Ballantine was now firmly back in the public eye-appearing regularly on talk shows, filling three-thousand-seat conference halls, his face staring out at you from every bookstore window you passed. Of course, there was still much derision among the metropolitan elite about his comeback. Regardless of his mixed press, the fact was, the guy could still walk into a heavy-hitting joint like Patroon and cause it to momentarily fall silent. And that, to me, was real power.