Freeze Frame (6 page)

I heard a soft groan and saw Bob Roy
Pickard’s eyes roll back in his head. If Windemere noticed he gave
no sign.

“I was putting in a little O.T. myself,” he
said, “and decided to drop by and see what you’ve come up
with.”

What we’d come up with? Was he joking? We’d
had the assignment less than four hours. The man clearly had no
perception of the creative process or the people involved in
it.

My group, on the other hand, knew exactly
what to think of a stuffed shirt who walked around the agency as if
he had a stick up his rear end. I sat back and watched as Matt
Carter pulled Windemere’s chain.

“You got here right on time,” Carter said.
“We were just finishing up the campaign.”

“You were?”

“Sure. We even decided on a name for the
car.”

“Ridiculous. If you’d listened to Ken
Cunningham’s briefing, you’d know they already have a name.
Ampere.”

“That’s what I mean,” Carter said. “AVC blew
it.”

Windemere stood with his arms folded. “I
suppose you have a better name for an electric car?”

“Sure,” Carter said. “Volts-wagon.”

The humor flew over Windemere’s head like an
F-16. “Volkswagen? You can’t be serious. That name’s already
taken.”

Bob Roy Pickard jumped in. “Lyle, I want your
opinion on a headline.”

“Hit me with it.”

“We want to convince people to take their
electric vehicles back to an AVC dealer when they need
service.”

“Yes?”

“How about ‘Let us look into your
shorts’?”

“Very funny. Don’t you creatives ever get
serious?”

“I tried it once,” Pickard said. “My ads all
sounded like they were written by account executives.”

More smiles, perhaps a chuckle or two. The
mood of the group lifted. Observing these writers and art directors
trading insults with Windemere was like watching a cat playing with
a chipmunk it was about to devour. I decided to save Windemere from
digging himself in any deeper.

“We appreciate your interest, Lyle,” I said,
smothering a laugh, “but the Ampere is a unique vehicle. Creating a
campaign that does it justice is going to take a lot more time than
we’ve had so far.”

Windemere left in a huff, hands shoved deep
in his pockets, shoulders hunched around his ears, completely
clueless to the positive contribution his appearance had
produced.

18

10:28 p.m.

As I drove to the two-story house in
Detroit’s Indian Village area the agency had provided as temporary
quarters, my thoughts washed back over the evening.

I pictured Will, Ginny, Glo-Jo, Matt Carter
and the others, and remembered how nervous they seemed at first
over the challenge facing them. I remembered how that fear had
disappeared, replaced by a determination to meet the challenge, to
create a campaign that would win the AVC business and save not only
their jobs, but the careers of their friends.

What about me? I thought. What about Jeff
Luden? He offered me a job, with a pay raise of twenty grand.

Until this moment, I hadn’t made time to
consider the offer. Maybe it sounds crazy, but if we weren’t in
such a horrible mess the decision would have been a whole lot
easier. A twenty thousand dollar pay raise was something even Ken
Cunningham and Sid Goldman would understand if I decided to bail
after one day on the job.

I hadn’t asked for this situation: caught in
an uphill fight with three agencies in a battle only one would
win.

But I could choose what I would do about
it.

I thought again of the looks on the faces in
my office, and the gutsy resolve of the people who wore them. I’d
never been a quitter, and no way could I justify running out on
people who trusted me with their futures as well as their jobs.

The clock on the instrument panel read
ten-thirty; nine-thirty in Chicago, early enough to call Jeff
Luden.

To tell him I intended to stay and fight.

19

11:18 p.m.

Hello?

Hi, Dad.

Dad? Who’s that calling me Dad? Do I have a
daughter?

Sorry I haven’t called till now, Dad. What
with moving all my belongings and then finally starting work, the
pace here has been absolutely unreal.

So you haven’t forgotten us?

I’ve been running from the time I got to
Detroit. And now we’re crashing on a top-secret project I can’t
talk about. Today lasted 14 hours.

Can’t talk about it, huh? Must be
important.

Maybe too important. We have to re-pitch one
of A & B’s oldest accounts. If we lose the business, the
agency’s going to lose jobs.

That doesn’t sound fair.

You taught me a long time ago that life isn’t
fair.

I read in the paper that a man was killed...
a video editor. Did you know him?

I didn’t, but some of the people I work with
did. And later today we heard that one of our producers here at A
& B was found dead.

Are you sure you’re okay? I worry about you,
Kitten.

I’ll be fine, Dad. I’m all grown up now.

Watch your step. Anything can happen in a big
city.

I’ll be careful.

Have you seen Ken Cunningham?

Seen him? He’s all over the place. He sends
his regards, by the way.

Tell him I said hello. And get some sleep
Kit. You sound tired.

I am Dad. I love you. And give my love to
Melanie. I’ll call soon.

I love you Kit. Goodnight.

20

Tuesday, Oct. 12 8:45 a.m.

I arrived at Adams & Benson surprised to
find my former husband in the parking lot. Between the non-descript
brown suit he wore and the non-descript blue Ford Taurus he emerged
from, you’d have him pegged him as a cop from across the River. He
saw me and nodded.

“What brings you back to Adams & Benson?”
I asked.

“How well do you know a guy by the name of
Sean Higgins?” Garry hadn’t changed. He considered small talk
something midgets engaged in.

“I met him yesterday. Why?”

“A couple people say Higgins and Cato were
oil and water.”

“So what? I thought the official report of
Cato’s death said suicide.”

“We’re treating it like homicide. The guy had
plans with his girl friend for that evening,” Garry said. “Not your
typical suicide candidate. And he had sunglasses on when they found
the body.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Whoever killed him had a weird sense of
humor. Sunglasses wouldn’t have stayed on if he’d been thrashing at
the end of a rope. The ME rushed through the autopsy and guess
what? Cato died of a heart attack.”

“From hanging?”

“He was dead before the rope touched his
neck.”

“But a heart attack...”

“There are poisons that can cause heart
failure. The ME’s looking into it.”

“What makes Higgins a suspect?”

“They didn’t get along, for one thing. And
wasn’t Higgins a football player?”

“He played for the University of
Michigan.”

“Cato wasn’t exactly a lightweight. Whoever
strung up his body after he died had to be strong.”

***

When I got to my desk, a voice mail message
said Higgins wanted to see me. I found him in his office, typing
away at his computer with all the skill and dexterity two fingers
could manage.

He kept his eyes on the keyboard as he spoke.
“Welcome back to the big time. I hear you built quite a reputation
here five years ago. Then ran away.”

“It was more walk than run. I had to get away
from Detroit for a while.”

“I saw you talking to that cop down in the
parking lot. Any more news on Cato?” Apparently Higgins shared
Kaminski’s distaste for chit-chat.

“That cop is my former husband; the reason I
had to get away from Detroit. He says Cato’s death was murder, not
suicide.”

“Murder, huh? I thought they found him
hanged.”

“Yeah. Wearing sunglasses. The police figure
they would’ve fallen off if he’d actually hanged himself. But the
clincher is, the Medical Examiner’s report says he died of a heart
attack. Someone strung him up to make it look like suicide.”

Higgins stopped typing and looked up. “Is
that it?”

“Not quite. He asked if I knew you.”

“So I’m a suspect?”

“For what it’s worth, I told him I didn’t
think you did it. But he heard you and Cato didn’t get along.”

“If I had killed him, they would have found
those sunglasses in his rear end.”

“The man’s dead. Remind me to nominate you
for the Mr. Sensitivity Award.”

***

Higgins apologized. Not for the crass remark,
but for interfering with work on the Ampere. He said we had to
divert at least one team to create an Avion print ad for the first
issue of Self magazine we could make. He gave me the input, and I
called Glo-Jo and Bob Roy.

They were waiting in my office when I got
there. After passing on Higgins’ apology, I relayed the information
he’d provided.

"So the object is to convey a younger, racier
image for the Avion," Glo-Jo said as I finished.

"Yep. Not exactly a snap. Research says most
people consider Avion a car for the geriatric set.”

"No problem. I know just what to do," said
Pickard.

"Great," said Glo-Jo. "What is it?”

"Simple. We use subliminal persuasion."

Glo-Jo raised an eyebrow. "We use what?"

"Subliminal. Remember that movie theatre
experiment where that guy flashed ‘you’re thirsty’ on the screen
too fast for the conscious mind to see and soda pop sales shot
through the roof? And where some art director retouched s-e-x in
the ice cubes in a liquor ad to attract readers."

Glo-Jo tried to decide whether to take him
seriously. "Yeah, so what?"

"Don't you get it? We retouch the words 'buy
an Avion' lightly in the paint of the car in our ad. Readers see
the words subliminally and buy an Avion without ever having a
conscious thought about it."

"I don't think anyone who believes that BS
would ever have a conscious thought about anything," Glo-Jo
sniffed.

"Some people fall for it, Darlin'. Hey, the
guy who wrote the book about that liquor ad made a fortune."

Glo-Jo turned to me. "What's your take on
that subliminal stuff, Darcy?"

"I’m with you, Glo-Jo. I read where someone
challenged the man to repeat the movie theatre experiment and he
came up empty-handed. But whether you believe in it or not, it's
still illegal. "So you'd better get to work on the real thing.
Higgins is expecting an Avion ad by five o'clock."

21

4:58 p.m.

Higgins lined up a putt into the electronic
ball return as I strolled into his office carrying Glo-Jo’s ad
layout.

I handed Higgins the layout and he stood
motionless, staring at it. Finally he looked up.

“The headline: This pedal will test your
mettle. I just don't know."

"You wanted a headline that grabbed
attention," I said.

"Yes, but..."

"This pedal will test your mettle. Don't you
get it?"

“I get it," Higgins said. "But I think it
goes a little

too far."

"Too far?" How could the man back down from
the direction he had given me just that morning? "What kind of
headline would you suggest?"

"The headline on our last ad was: The family
car that didn't forget the family."

"The family car that didn't forget the
family? What the hell kind of headline is that?"

"You think it's dull?"

"Dull? That ad should carry a warning label
against operating heavy machinery while reading it."

Higgins looked at the layout again. "I just
think this ad is too strong."

"How about letting the client judge?"

"Okay, but give me an alternate. When this
one goes up in flames, I want something to fall back on besides my
ass."

"I'll write one. If you stick around, I’ll
have it for you by six. But promise me you'll show him this ad
first."

Higgins gave the layout one more look. "Yeah,
sure."

I walked out hoping Higgins was a man of his
word.

***

Next morning, I found Higgins at his office
closet, carefully placing a blue blazer on a hanger.

"Just got back from the breakfast meeting."
He smoothed the blazer with his free hand. "Your pedal, mettle ad
hit the rocks."

"Don't tell me," I said, "Murphy didn't get
it."

"He got it. He just doesn't think the public
will."

"Apparently Murphy doesn’t give the public
credit for having intelligence. He wants to spoon feed
information...and that makes for dull ads."

"Don’t get upset. He loved the other ad you
wrote."

"That's not the point. I wrote that ad to
give Murphy a choice. It's nowhere near as good as the one Bob Roy
wrote."

"Well that's the one the client's going
with."

"Let me see that ad...the second one."

Higgins reached into the briefcase on his
desk and retrieved the layout. I took it and scanned the copy.

"What's the matter?" Higgins asked.

"I wrote this last night with one eye on the
clock. Maybe I can't change the headline, but I can make damn sure
the copy is the best I can write. Let me brighten it up. I promise
not to make any drastic changes that'll give Murphy a
coronary."

“Let me get this straight. Murphy bought your
ad...and you’re unhappy?”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t get it.”

I left Higgins scratching his head.

22

Wednesday, Oct. 13 -- Noon

No one needed a watch to pinpoint high noon
at Big Norm’s. The crowded dining area and the line at Willis’
maitre’d stand were as telling as any timepiece.

Ken Cunningham had suggested the lunch. When
he heard of our mild disagreement over the Avion ad, he called
Higgins and me into his office like a couple of quarreling school
kids. He explained we had to work together now more than ever; he
would be out of town frequently during the coming weeks. The
agency’s major accounts needed assurance that the Adams &
Benson Advertising Agency was solid enough to withstand the loss of
the American Vehicle Corporation business, if it came. He
recommended a peace-making lunch, on him.