Time on the Wire (2 page)

CHAPTER 1

AUGUST. SARASOTA,
FLORIDA

Waiting was how Miles thought of his work at Mercedes Benz of Sarasota. Sales was what he had to do to earn money to pay for his next adventure. Mercedes happened to be the place he did it. He wasn’t there because he’d bought into the Mercedes mystique or had the typical male fascination with cars. He worked there because of all the jobs he’d had over the years this one paid the best and Larry Jarsman, who owned the dealership, allowed Miles to take as much time off as he wanted.

Of course, it helped that Miles was good at what he did—people liked him, trusted him, asked for him. Most importantly, they bought from him. Jarsman accepted Miles’ eccentricities and accommodated his absences as the cost of keeping him.

That morning, Miles was waiting for his first customer of the day. Standing at the showroom’s front window, he watched a beige Ford turn into the lot, slowly glide into one of the visitor’s spaces. A plain-jane Ford like that could be only one thing—an airport rental. The driver turned off the engine, opened the door, stepped out of the car.

A tall, slender woman with shoulder-length blond hair, dressed in an expensive black suit--likely Vera Wang or Armani--she carried a black leather briefcase. She glanced briefly at the showroom, closed the car door, walked quickly to the dealership’s main entrance.

Miles moved quickly, too. He was there to hold the door open for her when she arrived. “Welcome to Mercedes,” he said easily. “May I help you?”

She strode past him without answering, finally executed a smart pivot, favored him with an amused look. “Which is your office?”

“I’m over this way,” Miles said, catching up with her and extending his hand. “Miles Marin. Would you like to look at some of the models on the floor?”

She shook her head, not his hand. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Already, have a model in mind?” Miles asked as they reached his office. He indicated a leather visitors chair, “Please, have a seat.” He took his seat, studied her as he handed her his card.

Her suit could have easily cost two thousand dollars. Her diamond stud earrings looked like two carats each. On her wrist was a gold Rolex. Her naturally blond hair had been expertly cut and styled. She reeked of money and she had the looks to go with it, too. Flawless alabaster complexion. Large azure green eyes under carefully arched brows. High cheekbones. Slender, sculpted nose. Pouty lips painted a vivid pink. She was stunning.

Yet, there was something unsettling about her—a hardness to her face. A calculated coolness in those green eyes. A set to the jaw. An etching of that alabaster skin with lines and creases that told of experience far beyond her calendar age. Rich, beautiful and experienced. Definitely not a woman to be trifled with.

She reached into her briefcase, pulled out a piece of paper, and set it on the desk directly in front of him. It was a cashier’s check in the amount of $150,000.

“I want to buy the most expensive car on the lot. There’s just one thing you have to do for me first.”

Miles forced a smile. “And what might that be?”

She reached back into her briefcase, pulled out a magazine, opened it to a yellow post-it note marker, placed it on the desk facing him. The cover said ADWEEK. The article was headed: “Mercedes Test Drives Three Agencies.”

“Read that,” she told him.

“That’s it? All I have to do is read this?”

Her look said simpleton.

Miles picked up the magazine, read: “Daimler AG confirms that Jens Beck, Senior Vice President and Global Head of Marketing, has interviewed three New York agencies for a spot on the Mercedes roster.

“We’re very pleased with our current agencies, Beck told ADWEEK, but we also wish to stay current on the agency community. It would be premature to say that we will add another agency to the roster, but we are interested in talks to see if there are additional capabilities that would benefit the brand.

“Sources estimate the billings, if another agency is added, could be as much as $100-million. Not to mention the prestige the Mercedes name would add to an agency roster.

“TH&W principal and creative director Tom Westerkamp confirmed his shop was one of the three interviewed. Westerkamp and two of his associates played golf with Beck at the exclusive Druwood Country Club championship course. ‘Mercedes is a great brand. They’d be a wonderful client. We’ve had good meetings with Jens and look forward to continuing—’”

“Did you get to the part about the money?”

Miles looked up from the article, met her gaze. “Oh yeah, big bucks.”

She handed him a business card:

Joanne Perlman

VicePresident,NewBusinessDevelopment

Belgravia & St. James Advertising

1011 Madison Ave.

New York, New York 10019

CHAPTER 2

Miles sat back in his chair, looked at her, looked at the check. He wanted to believe what she was telling him. The article she’d shown him about Mercedes reviewing agencies gave it a ring of truth. Miles knew her check was authentic; he’d handled enough certified checks to know the real thing. On the other hand, who bought a car just to get an audience with someone? Who dropped that kind of money unless there were problems? And what if those problems were unsavory? Would he become an accessory to some kind of scam?

He looked at all those zeros on the check, netted out on taking the risk. The potential commission made it worth it to him. That decided, he knew it really wasn’t his decision to make. Larry Jarsman, the owner of the dealership, would have to make the call. Miles smiled, gathered up the check and business card, stood. “Give me just a moment.”

She smiled condescendingly. “Of course.”

Miles walked quickly to Jarsman’s corner office, saw Jarsman had one of the service managers with him, interrupted. “Sorry Luis. This is urgent. Got to talk to Larry.”

Luis Sanchez, older than Miles, with more seniority in the organization, didn’t appreciate being interrupted. He stiffened, gave Miles a withering look, started to protest.

Jarsman, a big, beefy man with thinning black hair and an acne-pocked face, held up a hand that could easily palm a basketball. “We’ll finish this later, Luis,” he said in a tinny voice that sounded odd coming from such a big a body. “What’s going on, Miles?”

Luis stomped out of the office, and Miles let it all pour out as he paced hurriedly back and forth in front of Jarsman’s desk. Jarsman listened without interruption, nodding, jowls bouncing.

Miles reached the end of the story, stopped in his tracks. “How do you want to handle this?”

Jarsman held out his hand, wiggled his fingers. “Let me see the check.”

Miles handed it to him.

He studied it intently before his face erupted in a smile. “Did she say anything about what car she wanted?”

“No,” Miles said with a shake of the head. “She just—”

Jarsman was grinning now, pleased with himself. “We could sell her that red 600CL Dr. Schwartz stiffed us on.” He swung his chair around to face his computer, called up the dealership’s inventory screen.

“The car’s not the issue,” Miles protested. “The question is whether this woman’s on the level? Is she trying to pull something? I don’t want me...us...to get—”

“Here it is.” Jarsman pointed at the screen. “36679AT3445. Red with the white leather interior. Yuck. Not a good combination on that car. Sticker’s $137,350. We’ve been carrying that car, let’s see, eight months now.”

“What if—”

Jarsman held up the check, waved it in the air. “Listen to me, Miles. Take her money. I want to unload that butt ugly car.” He rose from his desk chair, walked over to Miles, put his arm in fatherly fashion around Miles’ shoulder. “If that marketing bozo doesn’t take your call, come back and see me. I’ll raise hell. Those guys at corporate damn well better be responsive to us dealers.” He walked Miles to the doorway, handed him the check, gave him what could be interpreted as a pat on the back or a push out the door.

Miles left Jarsman’s office disappointed. He’d been looking for some guidance on the correct thing to do. What he’d gotten was an ultimatum to unload a lemon. Jarsman hadn’t been thinking about the dealership’s overall best interests in this matter, just the next quarter bottom line.

Miffed, he nonetheless forced a smile as he returned to his office. “I’ve just spoken with Mr. Jarsman, the owner,” he explained quickly. “He’s authorized me to call Mr. Beck and also selected a car for you. It’s a—"

She stood. “Good. When you reach Beck and schedule something, call me. I’ll be at the Ritz Carlton.” She turned, started to walk away.

“I was going to try him now. Don’t you want to be here while I call?”

“Not particularly,” she said over her shoulder.

Miles held up her check. “Wait, don’t you want your check?”

She stopped, turned to look at him. “No. Keep it in front of you for motivation.” She smiled, turned on her heel, went out the door.

CHAPTER 3

It was little more than a twenty-minute drive to the Ritz Carlton. Joanne Perlman drove it effortlessly, comparing what she’d anticipated happening at the Mercedes dealership with what had taken place. She’d been worried they wouldn’t go along with it. Afraid they’d dismiss her, saying they sold plenty of cars and didn’t need or want to make her phone call. But they hadn’t. She’d had them from the moment she’d placed the check on the desk. After that, it had all fallen into place. The article. The business card. Beck’s local address and phone number. She smiled. She’d manipulated that salesman, Marin, rather well. She’d expected Mercedes salespeople to be snooty--more distinguished, more sophisticated, more, well, European. This Miles fellow was young, eager. He’d happily make however many phone calls it took to reach Beck, say whatever he needed to say to book the appointment. He was probably already calling, his eyes on that check, knowing exactly how much was going to come his way as commission.

She turned into the driveway leading to Ritz Carlton. She’d probably hear from him tonight. If she didn’t hear from him by 1:00 tomorrow afternoon, she’d call him.

She pulled the Ford to the curb in front of the Ritz Carlton’s main entrance. A uniformed doorman opened her door and greeted her. She forgot all about Mercedes and Marin. Joanne Perlman loved hotels and was ready to let the Ritz Carlton pamper her.

At the front desk, she gave them her name.

“Yes, Ms. Perlman,” said the staffer whose name tag identified her as Diane, “your suite is ready. The champagne you specified is chilled and waiting for you.” She looked up from the reservations computer, smiled, “If I could just get an imprint of your credit card.”

Joanne Perlman reached into her bag, took out her wallet, slipped out a Gold American Express Card. She started to hand it to Diane, then appeared to change her mind. “I wonder,” Perlman asked, “would you mind taking cash? I have all this per diem from my company and I’m uncomfortable carrying it around with me.”

“Be glad to,” Diane said.

Perlman took a sheaf of bills--all hundreds--from her wallet, counted out a thousand dollars while Diane watched, pushed the stack over to her. “Will that do?”

“Certainly. I’ll write you a receipt.” In a moment, she placed receipt and room key on the counter between them.

Perlman took the key, put the receipt in her purse. “One more thing. Where are your workout facilities located?”

Diane gave her directions to the gym then directions to the bank of elevators that would whisk her to her room.

Perlman took the elevator up, found the door open, the bellman just placing her bags on the bed. She handed him a twenty. He was still smiling as he exited.

She glanced around the room. Spacious. Sophisticated. This was what she deserved. She walked over to the window, opened the sheers, admired the view of the Gulf of Mexico. On sun-lit turquoise water, yachts bobbed like so many toys in her own private bathtub. Farther out, she could see the barrier islands. She stood at the window a long time, letting the sun stream in on her. Maybe when this was over and she had money she’d return here to live. She knew they had condos for sale: she’d seen signs promoting The Residences at Ritz Carlton. Each of those condos probably had views like this, possibly better. Soon, she promised herself.

Perlman took her cell phone from her purse, entered a number from memory, lifted the phone to her ear.

“How did it go?” It was a man’s voice. In the background, she heard a sound--a soft Ping.

“Surprisingly well, actually. The person I dealt with didn’t question the premise, he seemed to take everything at face value.”

“He didn’t want to Ping call the agency, verify you were who you claimed to be?”

“No. His only concern seemed to be where he could reach Beck. Ping I gave him the Gulf Beach telephone number, and that seemed to calm any fears he had.”

“Good. In your estimation does this guy have the balls Ping to get through?”

“He’s a guy in his middle thirties, dead ringer for that actor, John Cusack. Ping He was probably on the phone calling Beck before I left the dealership. He looked hungry. Ping So yeah, I think he’ll get through. I left him the check, told him to call me here as soon as he had.”

“Good. Ping Call me when hear from him.” The line went dead.

She put the phone back in her purse, walked over to her suitcases on the bed, began unpacking. When her clothes were hung up and the suitcases stowed in the closet, she changed into her workout clothes, took a small towel from the bathroom, and headed for the gym.

She knew she’d feel better after she worked out. Her body felt stiff from the airplane flights. Worse, she was sure her absence from the gym showed. Her body wasn’t as sleek and taut as she would have liked. When she had been modeling and working out regularly, her optimum weight had been 120 pounds. She’d see what the Ritz Carlton’s scale told her.

She rode the elevator down to the correct floor, a sign directed her the rest of the way. She found she had the gym to virtually to herself, only two other men. Both tried to talk to her. Both were rebuffed. Neither was actually hitting on her, but she wanted to make sure things didn’t escalate. She used the Precor machine for an hour, lifted weights for forty minutes more. Only after she was finished did she step on the scale—129 lbs. Still a ways to go.

She returned to her room, ran a hot bath, stripped off her workout clothes, popped the cork on the champagne. She sipped as she soaked. Looked over the room service menu. This was the life.