All those years building the agency up into the marketing powerhouse it had become could so easily be destroyed if he continued to rock the boat by playing Clem against Fitz. The two princes could tear Frank’s playhouse down with their infighting if he wasn’t careful. But Frank knew exactly what he was doing. These were merely the chess moves playing in Frank’s head and he was enjoying every minute of it. Sure, Clem and Fitz were two smart cookies but not in
his
league. He could outwit the two of them together. This was Frank’s last little game of manipulation before putting himself out to pasture. He’d spent his entire career becoming a puppet master and he still knew how to pull all the strings.
Clem took a few practice swings with his Ping driver as Frank tugged his wooden tee out of the ground.
“I don’t like cell phones,” Frank grumbled. “They ban them at this club. They introduced a ‘no cell phone’ rule for all golfers. Doesn’t affect me, I don’t have one.”
“I didn’t plan on making any calls, Frank,” chuckled Clem.
“You’d better turn yours off, or I’ll have to report you for being an asshole.” Clem duly obliged with a wry smile.
“Very pleasant afternoon to be playing hooky,” Clem said, looking relaxed and not having one iota of a clue as to why his boss had suggested they play a round. In four years, Frank and never once invited Clem to join him on the links.
“All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,” Frank grinned.
Clem placed his ball on the tee and took a few more practice swings. “Can’t remember the last time I played.” He took an almighty swing and smacked his ball perfectly straight down the middle of the fairway. “Hmmm…not bad.”
“Doesn’t seem to have affected your game any,” said Frank as he admired Clem’s fine shot and shoved his Calloway driver back into his bag. Frank got in the driver’s seat of their banana colored golf cart. “You should get out and play more with our clients.”
Clem pulled a face. “Not enough hours in the day. Always seems like goofing off, to be honest. Then we bill the client for playing golf with them? Doesn’t seem fair.”
“Fair? We’re a business, not a charity.”
“Come on, Frank. Golfing is for fun, not business. You start playing with clients and then all the enjoyment goes out of the game. Anyway, I don’t like deliberately losing to massage their egos.”
“Jesus, Clem. You’re missing the point. The client gets to know you, then he trusts you, and when he trusts you, you become friends, then you keep his business for life.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
“What’s the other way?” Frank asked, steering their little cart down the fairway.
“Client gets to know you, you get to know him, then you start to understand him, then you end up thinking like him and then you’re useless to him. He’s hired us to
not
think like him.”
“Pah! Maybe I’m old school.” Frank huffed as he headed over to his ball hidden somewhere in the tall grass by a large oak tree. As they drove to where his shot had landed, Frank pulled a spare golf ball out of his pants pocket and dropped it cleanly on the fairway. Clem watched Frank blatantly cheat.
“Hey, there’s my ball! Not such a bad shot after all,” Frank exclaimed as he stopped the cart and got out to grab his five iron.
“Are you cheating, Frank?” Clem frowned at his boss.
“Hell, yeah. I’m seventy fucking four. If I didn’t cheat I’d lose. I don’t like losing, you know that, Clem.”
Clem rolled his eyes. “Why did you ask me to play out here today?”
“Because you need to lighten up. It’s not always about winning all the time.”
“Why are you cheating then?” Clem laughed.
Frank leaned into his shot and sliced it badly. “I’m probably going to cheat on every hole and you’re still going to beat me,” Frank shouted as he watched his ball fly across the fairway and land in a sand trap. “But I don’t care. I cheat because it’s fun. Sometimes playing by the rules is just too fucking hard.”
Clem was enjoying his time with Frank and being out on the golf course on such a beautiful day. But he knew this wasn’t about golf. Frank was a lousy golfer anyway. This was Frank’s way of apologizing and reassuring him that the job, which Clem coveted, was indeed going to be his. Maybe Hank Britney had done his part and got Frank’s ear.
Yes, that was it.
This was just part of Clem’s initiation. They got back in the banana golf cart and set off down the fairway towards Clem’s ball. “Yep, sure is a great day,” grinned Clem, feeling good about life.
Meanwhile, down in Kentucky, Kurt Fitzgerald and Charlie Knutson sat in the glass walled conference room at the Rebakor corporate headquarters. Young Charlie was Fitz’s protégé and was excited to be playing in the big league with an international client meeting about to take place. But he seemed perplexed by the wait.
“Where are these guys? They knew we were coming, right?”
“Relax,” Fitz reassured him.
“I feel like a guppy in a fish bowl sitting here.”
Just at that moment, six casually dressed hip, young Rebakor executives walked in chatting amongst themselves. They took their seats around the large circular conference table without engaging Fitz or Charlie Knutson.
“Hi guys, Kurt Fitzgerald,” Fitz smiled across the table. There were a few cursory “hellos” and “hi’s” in Fitz and Charlie’s direction but there was a chill in the air. One seat remained empty.
As Fitz was about to get the conversation rolling, the tall, svelte figure of James Molinaire entered the room. Kurt Fitzgerald stood up and flashed his customary pearly white smile.
“So, you are Mr. Fitzgerald.”
“Yes, sir.” Fitz shook Molinaire’s hand and sat back down.
“Mr. Bergenson set this meeting up. He said he wanted us to be introduced.”
“Thank you for taking the time to see us at short notice, James. I’m very excited to be here and to meet you and the Rebakor team. This is Charlie Knutson, who is also now assigned to your business.”
Charlie smiled and nodded.
“Now before we get into the creative presentation I’m about to show you for the next campaign roll-out..…”
“Hold on one minute.” James Molinaire raised his right hand to halt proceedings. Fitz froze in mid-sentence. “Now excuse me, Mr. Fitzgerald. I’m confused. I agreed to meet with you this afternoon as I understand you are now going to be working on our business. But I really wasn’t under the impression you were going to be presenting creative executions today.”
“I thought Mr. Bergenson….”
“This is important. Clem should be here. Why isn’t he here? I believe I have a meeting set up next week with him.” Molinaire turned to one of his young executives. “Put in a call to Clem Drew.” The executive immediately left the conference room.
This wasn’t going to plan right off the bat. Fitz had to think fast.
“Clem thought this might be a good opportunity for you and I to touch base as we’ve not yet been formally been introduced,” Fitz fidgeted, seeing that James Molinaire was looking rather miffed.
“Yes, I get that. But he should be at this meeting. Why did he set up something for next week if you’re here presenting creative to me today?”
Molinaire shot Fitz a decidedly steely look. He didn’t like to be bamboozled like this. This was rapidly developing into an awkward situation. Fitz had to get proceedings back on track so he took the opportunity to twist the knife in Clem’s back before Molinaire had a chance to remove it.
“I believe Clem has other client commitments…so there was the possibility that he was going to have to cancel your meeting next week. Rather than risk that happening, we felt it was important to push forward ahead of schedule.” Fitz was so impressed with his own bullshit he actually started to believe it himself.
“No one cancels me. I do the canceling.”
The executive returned. “Voicemail,” he said, looking at his boss. Molinaire’s lips pursed. Fitz shrugged apologetically.
“Probably playing golf with Mr. Bergenson,” Charlie Knutson quipped under his breath, loud enough to be overheard by everyone. Charlie made a good wing man. Molinaire bought it. The wedge had been successfully driven. Fitz had played it well.
“An auspicious start to our working relationship, I must say. All right. Mr. Fitzgerald, show me what you’ve got inside that portfolio of yours.”
“Delighted to. And call me Fitz. Everyone does,” Fitz smiled.
Over the next two hours, Fitz and Charlie Knutson put on a dog and pony show for the Rebakor marketing department. Charlie held up the artwork for the print campaign that would run in magazines and newspapers as Fitz read out the headlines and body copy. They showed the outdoor campaign that would run on billboards, bus shelters and bus sides. Then they read three scripts for television and Internet commercials and radio spots that linked up with the TV message.
After a slick and impressive presentation of all the creative, James Molinaire seemed impressed. He shook Fitz’s hand as they walked out of the conference room. The meeting may have gotten off to a rocky start but Molinaire seemed in a much better mood now.
“Hmmm….
God Speed
. I like it. Compelling line. Compelling. Good work. Of course, the focus groups are what really count. If they responded as positively as you say they did, that’s really what matters. Those numbers were impressive.”
Molinaire walked Fitz and Charlie Knutson towards the entrance of the Rebakor building. The six executives had scattered back to their cubicles and Fitz was now in bullshit overdrive.
“Focus groups were 93% positive. The other 7% is pretty much wiggle room anyway. One group even stood up and applauded after we presented to them,” Fitz beamed.
Charlie Knutson flashed a confident smile for added credence to reassure the Rebakor marketing chief.
“Absolutely loved it,” Charlie gushed.
Fitz and Charlie knew damn well there had been no time for any focus groups. Setting up qualitative and quantative research like that took weeks to organize and process. His team had thrown together the campaign at the last minute with no time to spare. Fitz was walking a tightrope now. And Molinaire was now behind a campaign that Clem Drew knew nothing about and with only bullshit numbers to support it. This could cause some serious repercussions back at the agency.
Molinaire checked his watch. “So what if I hadn’t bought into the campaign?” he asked the two Bergenson men. “You would’ve wasted your time and my money on focus groups.”
Fitz’s expression turned serious. That was a very good question.
“The agency felt very strongly about this campaign. We’re all behind it one hundred percent so we took the precaution of testing it before presenting it. If the numbers hadn’t supported it, we wouldn’t have shown it to you.”
“And what if I had shot it down in there? You would’ve wasted my ad dollars on unnecessary testing.”
“Not at all. Valuable insight into your demographic and how your brand is perceived by your users and non-users is never a waste of money.”
Molinaire nodded approvingly. It seemed he had warmed to Fitz’s directness.
“I’ll be straight with you, I’m disappointed Clem wasn’t here today, whatever his reasons. I know you and Clem are probably close friends but I like consistency.”
“Absolutely,” Fitz nodded.
“I don’t want you guys flipping point person on this. I don’t like voicemail. I don’t leave messages. I like to know the person handling my account is always available whenever I might need to speak with them. Understand?”
“Here.” Fitz handed Molinaire his business card. “Call me, text me, email me, 24/7 I’m always available.”
“I don’t email and I don’t text.”
“Got it.” Fitz grinned.
The three of them walked outside where the Rebakor limo was waiting to take Fitz and Charlie Knutson back to the airport.
“Good meeting. Good job.”
“It’s gonna be epic! I’ll get back to you with our director and photographer recommendations.”
Molinaire glanced again at his watch. “Sounds good. Tell Clem to call me.”
“Will do.” Fitz shook James Molinaire’s hand, with absolutely no intention of passing on his message. Fitz had done his homework on the Rebakor boss. He now knew something about James Molinaire that Clem didn’t; Molinaire was a deeply religious man. The campaign appealed to Molinaire’s sensibilities. The tagline
‘God Speed’
that ran on all the ads, billboards, TV and radio had hit a perfect bulls eye on Molinaire’s religious bent.
It wasn’t a particularly brilliant or original tagline but James Molinaire bought it and that was really all that mattered. In reality, it was a corny old line and one of the most over-used in the business and certainly lacked the creative originality for which Bergenson & Adler was renowned. If there was a golden rule in advertising creative departments at every agency it was to be original. Innovative thinking won awards, awards got an agency recognition and recognition got business walking in off the street. Unoriginal concepts were a dime a dozen and usually the result of interfering clients who wanted to be part of the creative process. Of course, the easier option was letting the client dictate the creative. That way an agency could keep meddling clients happy and simply take the money and run. And there were big agencies that did that. Bergenson & Adler had built its reputation for innovative creative – up until now.
Clem and Frank wound up their game by 5.15 p.m. and the two of them headed back to the clubhouse. Frank had cheated on almost every hole but Clem had still finished way ahead and only just over par for the course. It had been a long five hours in the sun and Clem had been waiting all afternoon for Frank to bring up the subject of the impending changing of the guard but it hadn’t been broached yet. Instead, Frank had kept the conversation flippant asking all those small talk questions:
“How’s the wife doing? - Where you two going on vacation?”
Mindless chit-chat stuff. But no word on the only topic of conversation Clem cared about.
“Join me on the nineteenth,” Frank suggested, as they parked their little banana boat and unloaded their golf bags. Maybe this was the moment Clem had been waiting for.