Cynthia Manson (ed) (54 page)

With that reputation to uphold, the
French & Saunders Christmas party naturally had to be the biggest and
splashiest in the entire industry.

Year after year, that’s the way it
was. Back in the late Seventies, when discos were all the rage, the company
took over Numero Uno. the club people actually fought over to get in. Another
year, F&S hired half the New York Philharmonic to provide entertainment.
And in 1989, the guest bartenders were Mel Gibson. Madonna, and the cast of
LA.
Law.

There was one serious side to the
party. That’s when the president reviewed the year’s business, announced how
much the annual bonus would be, and then named the Board’s choices for People
of the Year, the five lucky employees who made the most significant
contributions to the agency’s success during the past twelve months.

The unwritten part to this latter
(although everyone knew it, anyway) was that each one of the five would receive
a very special individual bonus— some said as high as $50, 000 apiece.

Then French & Saunders bought
fifteen floors in the tallest, shiniest new office tower on Broadway, the one
that had actually been praised by the
N. Y. Times
architecture critic.

The original plan was to hold the
party in the brand-new offices that were to be ready just before Christmas. A
foolish idea, as it turned out, because nothing in New York is ever finished
when it’s promised. The delay meant the agency had to scramble and find a new
party site—either that, or make do in the half finished building itself.

Amazingly—cleverly? —enough, that
was the game plan the party committee decided to follow. Give the biggest,
glitziest party in agency history amid half finished offices in which paneless
windows looked out to the open skies, where debris and building supplies stood piled
up in every corner, and where doors opened on nothing but a web of steel
girders and the sidewalk seventy floors below.

Charlie Evanston, one of the
company’s senior vice-presidents (he had just reached the ripe old of age of
fifty), was chosen to be party chairman. He couldn’t have been happier. For
Charlie had a deepdown feeling that this was finally going to be his year.
After being passed over time and again for one of those five special Christmas
bonuses, he just knew he was going to go home a winner.

Poor Charlie.

In mid-November—the plans for the
party proceeding on schedule— the agency suddenly lost their
multi-million-dollar Daisy Fresh Soap account, no reason given. Charlie had
been the supervisor on the account for years, and although he couldn’t be held
personally responsible for the loss a few people (enemies!) shook their heads
and wondered if maybe someone else, someone a little stronger—and
younger—couldn’t have held on to the business.

Two weeks later, another showpiece
account—the prestigious Maximus Computer Systems—left the agency. Unheard of.

The trade papers gave away the
reason in the one dreaded word “kickbacks.” Two French & Saunders
television producers who had worked on the account had been skimming it for
years.

Again, Charlie’s name came up. Not
that he had anything remotely to do with the scandal. The trouble was that he
personally had hired both offenders. And people remembered.

There’s a superstition that events
like these happen in threes, so it was only a question of time before the next
blow. And, sure enough, two weeks before Christmas, it happened. A murder, no
less. A F&S writer shot his wife, her lover, and himself.

With that, French & Saunders
moved from front-page sidelines in the trade papers straight to screaming headlines
in every tabloid in town. In less than a month, it had been seriously
downgraded from one of New York’s proudest enterprises to that most dreaded of
advertising fates—an agency “in trouble.”

It was now a week before Christmas
and every F&S employee was carrying around his or her own personal lump of
cold, clammy fear. The telltale signs were everywhere. People making secret
telephone calls to headhunters and getting their resumes in order. Bitter jokes
about the cold winter and selling apples on street corners told in the
elevators and washrooms. Rumors that a buyout was in the making and
nobody
was safe.

And yet, strange as it sounds, there
were those who still thought there would be a happy ending. At the Christmas
party, perhaps. A last-minute announcement that everything was as before—the
agency was in good shape and, just like always, everyone would get that
Christmas bonus.

Charlie was one of the most
optimistic. He didn’t know why. Just a gut feeling that the world was still
full of Christmas miracles and, bad times or not, he was going to be one of
F&S’s five magical People of the Year.

Poor Charlie.

A few days before the party, his
phone rang. It was the voice of J. Stewart French, president and chairman of
the board.

“Hi, Charlie. Got a minute?”

“Sure.”

“I wonder if you’d mind coming up to
my office. I’ve got a couple of things I’d like to talk to you about.”

Nothing menacing about that, thought
Charlie. J probably wants to discuss the party. The food. The caterers. The
security measures that would be needed so that no one would be in any danger in
those half finished offices.

Very neatly, very efficiently,
Charlie got out his files and headed upstairs. When he arrived in the
president’s office—it was the only one that had been completely finished
(vulgar but expensive, thought Charlie)—J was on the phone, his face pale and
drawn, nothing like the way he usually looked, with that twelve-months-a-year
suntan he was so proud of. He nodded over the phone. “Sit down, Charlie, sit
down.”

Charlie sank into one of the
comfortable $12,000 chairs beside the desk and waited. After a minute the
conversation ended and J turned to give him his full attention. Charlie had
known J for fifteen years and had never seen him so nervous and ill at ease.

Then he spoke.

“Charlie, they tell me you’ve really
got the Christmas party all together. Looks like it’ll be a smash.”

“We’re hoping so, J.”

“Well, we can certainly use some
good times around here. I don’t have to tell you that. It’s been a bad,
bad
year.”

“Things’ll be better. I know it.”

“Do you really think so, Charlie? Do
you? I’d like to believe that, too. That’s why this party means so much to me.
To all of us. Morale—”

“I know.”

“Well, you’ve certainly done your
part. More than your part. That’s why I called you in.”

Here it comes, thought Charlie, here
comes my special Christmas bonus! Ahead of time, before anyone else hears about
it!

“I wanted you to be one of the first
to know. The Board and I have agreed that, even with all our troubles, there’ll
be something extra in everybody’s paycheck again this year. Nothing like
before, of course, but it will be something.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“Yeah. Wonderful. We monkeyed around
with the budget and found we could come up with a few bucks. The
problem
is, we’ll have to make some cuts here and there.”

“Cuts?”

“Well, for one thing, I’m afraid
there won’t be any of those special bonuses this year, Charlie. And I’ll level
with you—you were down for one. After all these years, you had really earned
it. I can’t tell you how sorry—”

Sure, thought Charlie. “It’s not the
end of the world, J,” he said. “Maybe next year.”

“No, Charlie, that’s not all. With
our losses and the cost of moving—I don’t know how to tell you this, but we’re
doing something else. We’re cutting back—some of our best people. I’ve never
had to do anything like that in my life.”

You bastard, Charlie thought. “Go
on, J,” he said. “I think I know what you’re going to say.”

J looked at him miserably. “You’re
one of the people we’ll have to lose, Charlie. Wait a minute, please hear me
out—it’s nothing personal. I wanted to save you. After all, we’ve been together
fifteen years. I talked and talked. I even threatened to resign myself. But no
one wanted to listen.”

Sure, Charlie thought.

“They said you hadn’t produced
anything worthwhile in years. And there was the business of those two crazies
you hired. And—”

“Is that it?” Charlie asked.

“Don’t get me wrong, Charlie.
Please, let’s do the Christmas party as we planned, just as if nothing
happened. As for leaving, take your time. I got you a year’s severance. And you
can use your office to make calls, look around, and—”

“No problem, J.” Charlie was moving
to the door. “I understand. And don’t worry about the party. Everything’s all
taken care of.”

Not even a handshake.

Many people at some time or other
have fantasized about killing the boss. In Charlie’s case, it was different.
From the minute he heard the bad news from J, he became a changed man. Not
outwardly, of course. He wasn’t about to become an overnight monster, buy a
gun, make a bomb, sharpen an axe. No, he would be the same Charlie Evanston.
Friendly. Smiling. Efficient. But now that he knew the worst, he began piling
up all the long-suppressed injustices he had collected from J for fifteen years.
The conversations that stopped abruptly when he entered an executive meeting.
The intimate dinners at J’s that he and his wife were never invited to. The
countless other little slights. And. finally, this.

December 20. Party time! Everyone
agreed it was the best bash French & Saunders had ever thrown.

The day was fair and warm. The
milling crowds that drifted from the well stocked bars and refreshment tables
didn’t even notice there wasn’t a heating system. The lack of carpets, the
wide-open window spaces, the empty offices—it all added to the fun.

Carefully groomed waiters in white
gloves and hard hats pressed their way from room to room, carrying silver trays
laden with drinks and hors d’oeuvres. A heavy metal band blared somewhere. A
troupe of strolling violinists pressed in and out. From the happy faces,
laughter, and noise, you’d never know the agency had a care in the world.

But Charlie Evanston knew. He pushed
his way over to a small crowd pressing around J. All of them were drunk, or on
the way, and J. drink in hand, was swaying slightly. His laugh was louder than
anybody’s whenever one of the clients told a funny story. He spotted Charlie
and shouted to him. “Charlie, c’mere a minute! Folks, you all know my old pal
Charlie Evanston. We’ve been together since this place opened its doors. He’s
the guy who put this whole great party together.”

There were murmurs of approval as J
drew Charlie into his embrace.

“J.” Charlie said, “I just came to
ask you to come over here and let me show you something.”

“Oh, Charlie, always business. Can’t
it wait till next week? After the holidays?”

“No, I think it’s important. Please
come over here. Let me show you.”

“Oh, for Chrissakes, Charlie. What
is
it?”

“Just follow me. Won’t take long.”

J pulled away from the group with a
back-in-a-minute wave of his hand and followed Charlie down a narrow hall to a
room that would one day become the heart of the agency’s computer operation.

It was empty. Even the floors hadn’t
been finished. Just some wooden planks, a few steel beams—and the sidewalk
below. J glanced around the room and turned to Charlie. “So? What’s the
problem?”

“Don’t you get it, J? There isn’t a
single Keep Out sign on that outside door. The workmen even forgot to lock it.
Someone could walk in here and fall straight down to Broadway!”

“Oh, come on, Charlie, this place is
off the beaten path—no one’s going to be coming this way. Stop worrying.”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts, Charlie. Just tell one of
the security guards. My God, you drag me all the way out here just to see this.
Jesus Christ, I’ll bet I could even
walk
across one of these steel
beams. The workmen do it every day.”

It was uncanny. Charlie knew that
was exactly what J would say. It was part of the macho, daredevil reputation he
had cultivated so carefully. “Hey, wait a minute, J,” he said.

“No. Serious. Watch me walk across
this beam right here. It can’t be more than twenty feet long. And I’ll do it
with a drink in each hand.”

“Come on, J, don’t be crazy.”

But J had already taken his first
tentative step on the beam—with Charlie directly behind him.

It was all so simple. Now all
Charlie had to do was give J the tiniest of shoves in the back, watch him
stagger and plunge over the side, and it would be all over.

As J continued to move along the
beam, he seemed to grow more confident. Charlie continued to follow a few steps
behind, his right arm outstretched. It was now or never. Suddenly he made his
move. But J moved a couple of quick steps faster and Charlie missed J’s back by
an inch. Instead, he felt himself slipping over the side. He gasped. Then all
he remembered was falling.