This Little Piggy. M.G. Crisci
— seventeen years of marriage had taught him a few things. “To be fair, let’s discuss this tomorrow morning. Let’s chaperone tonight’s party with a good bottle of wine.”
~
Matt’s party was not exactly as billed. The invitation had been photocopied and “accidentally” passed around school. A long line of kids lined up at an entrance table; Victor grabbed Matt. “Young man, what the hell is going on? I thought this was a party for your close friends.”
Matt grinned. “Dad,” he said in his best Madison Avenue-speak, “I’m as surprised as you.”
Victor knew his son was blowing smoke. “Yeah, then who is that guy collecting money at the entrance table?”
“Dad,” smiled Matt, “You should be happy; I’m an evolving entrepreneur. Word got around that we were having a party with live music. I just decided to capitalize on the opportunity. My research suggested that kids would pay ten bucks a head. Look at it this way: I should make enough after expenses to pay for schoolbooks and gas when you lend me a car. How bad is that?”
Victor cracked up. “Just keep this damn thing under control. The last thing we need is a neighbor calling the cops, and your mother getting all over my case.”
“Dad, no sweat. Matt’s got your back.” Victor shook his head as he headed back to the main house. Matt waved to the black pick-up truck filled with beer kegs sitting in the darkness on the side of the house to head down the service road to the pool area.
~
Two policemen approached the patio, clubs in tow. “Who the hell is running this shindig?”
Victor, sensing he was in big doo-doo, responded sheepishly, “I am, Officer Mathias.”
“We were patrolling the area and noticed cars everywhere. Looks like 300 kids, maybe more.” The party had grown enormously since the father-son chat earlier. What could Victor say? More damaging than the sheer numbers was the presence of a generous number of beer kegs. Underage party drinking had become a real no-no. Victor was certain he was about to meet the citation pad, have the party shut down, and maybe worse.
“Sir, do you have any idea how many cars are on this block?”
“Not exactly, officer. I didn’t realize the party would be….”
“Sir,” said the officer. “My partner and I have called for help. We’re going to place roadblocks at both ends of the street so that no else enters unless they live on the street or are coming to the party. Our captain will give us hell if we don’t keep some order. This is supposed to be a pretty ritzy neighborhood.”
Chapter 5
Naye’s Decision
MADISON AVENUE, NYC.
Not just anybody gets a private audience with the reigning king of Madison Avenue.
“Victor,” said A&J Chairman Gordon Naye graciously, as they shared a cup of freshly brewed Kona coffee in Naye’s private library adjacent to his office. “Thanks for stopping by.”
“When the king summons, his loyal subject responds.”
Naye smiled playfully. “Victor, where do you get that stuff?” He didn’t realize Victor was damn serious. He adored Naye.
The silver-haired, nattily-attired Naye looked like something out of central casting: witty, articulate, slender, athletic, and in possession of a raspy voice that somehow was both authoritative and warmly engaging.
“By now, you must know how fond I am of you and your wonderful Sandra. Personally and professionally.” Naye leaned back in his flame-stitch wingback. “You’re a smart guy…I’m sure you realize I’m not planning to run this company forever. The clock waits for no man.”
Victor figured this was it. A little earlier than he expected, but what the hell, why not sooner than later? He could grow into the role. “But, Gordon, you’re still a young man,” said Victor, blowing a little extra smoke in Naye’s ear.
“Victor, it’s not up for discussion. I’ve decided to retire in three years at age sixty. Elizabeth (Naye’s wife of thirty years) and I have already begun making plans. But I want to lead us through this dreadful economy first. It doesn’t seem fair to leave the new team with a pile of dung.”
“Well, I guess congratulations are in order.”
“Thanks. And, congratulations to you also. I’m promoting you to Executive Vice President and Chairman of the A&J Steering Committee. There will be a handsome bump and some other perks; Matt McLain will talk to you about them.” (McLain was the director of executive resources). Naye shocked Marttini with his next sentence. “From now on, you’ll be reporting directly to Rhoda Barbuto.”
“I don’t understand; why Rhoda?”
“I plan to name her my heir apparent. I want you to work closely over the next few years so that you can anticipate her every move. Carry out her vision. You’ll be her sounding board. Her backstop. Her confidant. I’ve convinced her that, as a team, you’ll take A&J to the next level.”
At that moment, a devastated Victor had but one thought. I don’t believe it; fucking Rhoda Barbuto, fucking Rhoda Barbuto!
~
There was a knock on Naye’s door. He pressed a button on the side of his chair. In walked Ms. Barbuto, a drop-dead gorgeous blonde with dark brown eyebrows and just the right number of streaked brunette highlights to top off her New York power broker look.
She had joined the agency about four years before from Richardson, Dobbins, & Kline, one of the world’s leading direct response agencies. Using her charm, guile, and good looks, she had convinced Naye, and other top managers, that the future depended upon accountability. A&J’s roster of sophisticated clients would no longer spend millions on branding without tangible metric responses. That calling advertising just one tool, albeit an expensive one, in a brand’s performance was too soft, too squishy for the new client generation. Cleverly, she positioned herself as uniquely qualified to lead that agency transformation. Naye had bought the act lock, stock, and barrel.
Rhoda and Victor had bumped heads on a few internal strategic boards. To say Victor was not a fan would be an understatement. He saw Barbuto as a contradiction to everything Sandra was and stood for. Barbuto smiled and extended her hand. “I look forward to working with you, partner.” Silently Victor returned the accolade. Naye beamed.
~
Minutes later, the two were walking down the hall to their respective offices. Barbuto stopped. “There is one thing,” she said, not losing any time. “I heard you walked out of a big Piedmont meeting the other day.”
“Who said that?” asked a surprised Victor.
“That’s none of your goddamn business. You work for me, don’t ever forget that!”
“No disrespect, but my wife had a genuine emergency.”
Barbuto brought new meaning to the phrase 'if looks could kill.' “Don’t give me that bullshit. No man jumps like that for a woman!”
Victor wanted to smack the bitch in the mouth because of her condescending demeanor. But, as Naye said, they were a team. Destined to be best buddies. As he had done so many times climbing the ladder, he kept his mouth shut and stuffed his dignity in his pocket. He had to play the game. There were private school tuitions, country club fees, mortgages, and mega real estate taxes to pay, and all the other mandatory trappings of living beyond one’s means.
~
Victor toyed with the idea of saying nothing to Sandra about the Katz call and the Ryman breakfast. But they had shared everything for seventeen years. Why stop now? He prepared his pitch like a client meeting. He reviewed the potential objections, rehearsed his responses. He went over them again and again, so that his responses would appear spontaneous